The public-address system succeeds in distracting me. “Not done putting up your holiday décor?” the teenager inquires. “Then check out our Shotgun Shell Christmas Wreath in aisle nine! Less than thirty bucks when you mail in the ten-dollar rebate!”
“My wreath at home has red twigs and rhinestones,” Trixie whispers. “Rhett thinks that’s tacky.”
I’m about to make an uncharitable observation about the Giant W’s merchandise when Ingrid bustles up to our trio. She’s one of those women who look wispy and ultra feminine but in fact are totally take-charge. She’s got platinum blond hair styled in a sleek bob and a svelte build she’s showcasing in a red satin dress with jewel detailing. Unlike her sister, she has enough sense not to sport pine-needle headgear.
She homes in on Trixie and extends her hand. “You must be the third beauty queen. I’m Ingrid Svendsen.”
“So nice to meet you!” Trixie says. “I’m—”
Ingrid swings her head toward me, brandishing the opening-ceremony schedule. “You’re clear on your marching orders? Why aren’t you in the sleigh yet?”
“We were just about to—”
“Remember to be quiet while the mayor is speaking. I don’t want you drawing attention to yourselves during his speech.”
Behind Ingrid, Shanelle shoots me a look. I know what she’s thinking. Ingrid doesn’t want us drawing attention to ourselves during her speech. Not to be immodest but I don’t think you should invite beauty queens to an event if you don’t want heads to turn. Just saying.
Ingrid resumes her instructions. “And keep quiet when the lights go off for the Christmas tree lighting. Don’t ruin the drama of the moment.”
“You won’t hear a peep out of us,” Trixie assures her.
I steel myself before I speak again. “I think only two of us should ride in the sleigh.” I watch Ingrid’s brow lower. “Shanelle and I did a trial run earlier and I’m not sure it can handle—”
“Nonsense! Three is what we planned.” Ingrid spins away.
Our trio has a moment of silence. Then, “She’s not the nicest person I’ve met so far in Minnesota,” Trixie observes.
Shanelle harrumphs. “Just you wait till you get to know her better. You ask me, it’s no accident she’s got two husbands in the grave. If I were married to her I’d probably want to punch out, too.”
“I hope for your dad’s sake Maggie’s nicer than her sister,” Trixie says to me.
“She is.” That doesn’t mean I want her as a member of the family.
Shanelle pokes my arm. “Girl, you really worried about that sleigh? I want to survive this holiday season.”
“I never even heard about a sleigh until now,” Trixie says.
“They put it in special for the opening ceremony. I’m only a tiny bit worried about it. It’s on an elevated track,” I explain to Trixie, though by now she can see that for herself. I lead us toward the sleigh, lying in wait at the rear of the store. Here and at the front, just behind the dais, are the two locales where the track is at floor level. It’s like an in-store rollercoaster. “It just seemed so herky-jerky when we were in it this morning that I got scared it might not take all our weight.”
Trixie eyes the sleigh with suspicion. “Tell me again when I sing my song?” Since Trixie’s the only one of us with any voice to speak of, she has the dubious honor of belting out the Giant W holiday song, set to the tune of “Jingle Bells.”
“Your music is supposed to start when the sleigh does,” I tell her. “When we stop at the dais, jump out and sing. Shanelle and I will be right behind you.” I climb into the sleigh. “Come on, let’s get into this thing so it doesn’t take off without us.” Ingrid would really read us the riot act then. I’m halfway in when I hear the P.A. system’s latest 411 and freeze in place.
“Smoked chunky kielbasa only four dollars and ninety-nine cents a pound!” the teenager announces. “Aisle thirteen!”
“That’s a good price!” I cry. “Especially for smoked chunky.”
“You can get it when the festivities are over.” Shanelle gives my backside an encouraging push.
We settle ourselves in the sleigh with Trixie in position to jump out first. The Giant W’s overhead fluorescents blink to signal that the festivities are about to begin. Trixie takes a few deep breaths. “I’m always nervous before a performance.”
Shanelle pats Trixie’s leg as I assure her she’ll do great. Though that’s easy for me to say. I don’t even have a speaking part. All I have to do is cut a ribbon.
As the hush of a deep winter’s night settles over the Giant W, the cheerful opening notes of “Jingle Bells” blast from the sound system. Before I can get the words “Brace yourself” past my lips, the sleigh takes off.
“Whoa!” Shanelle yelps.
“This thing should have seat belts!” Trixie cries as the sleigh zooms heavenward and we three are slammed back.
Just that suddenly the sleigh jerks to a stop. I catapult forward, barely able to prevent myself from launching. I have a devil of a time keeping my Santa cap on my head, my meta-grip bobby pins, which perform so well on pageant night, stretched to their limit by this monster of a ride.
“Happy!” Trixie cries. I’m sure her panicked vibrato carries to the front of the store. It might have carried all the way to Lake Winona. Ingrid will not be amused.
I manage to return my butt to the bench a nanosecond before the sleigh takes off again. We three queens clutch one another for dear life. I knew I was right to be worried about this thing!
Finally the abominable conveyance plummets to floor level and lurches to a stop behind the dais, just past the 30-foot-tall silver Christmas tree that soon will be ceremoniously lit. Trixie doesn’t so much jump out of the sleigh as pitch out. Shanelle and I follow on unsteady legs, her elf and my Santa cap seriously awry. Ingrid glares at us but my whiplashed neck and I are past caring.
Seconds later Trixie bursts into the Giant W holiday song:
W, W, bargains every day!
Oh, what fun it is to fill my shopping cart this way, hey!
W, W, discounts every day!
Oh, what fun it is to bring a bargain home today!
Dashing through the aisles,
A coupon in my hand …
As Trixie masterfully whips through the refrain, Shanelle and I clap to the beat. A photog from the Winona Post captures the moment for posterity. I catch my breath and Pop’s eye. Like everybody else in the crowd he’s bundled in his winter coat. I note that both his and Maggie’s Christmas tree hats are now unlit. Ingrid probably made them turn them off so they wouldn’t draw attention from her speech. Pop winks at me like he’s done a million times before as I stood on one Ohio stage or another competing in some rinky-dink pageant. He’s been such a good dad. I just wish he and Mom were still together. Their divorce is this year’s lousiest development. Heck, I’d give back my Ms. America title to see them reunited.
Trixie sings the chorus one last time, giving the final phrase “bargain home today” a special flourish. Shanelle and I cheer along with the crowd and then our trio relocates to the back of the dais, right in front of the Christmas tree.
No surprise, Ingrid kicks off the proceedings. “Happy holidays, fellow citizens of Winona!” she brays. “I’m so glad you could join us this evening to celebrate the opening of the Giant W in our fair city! Of course as soon as I heard— ”
As Shanelle predicted, Ingrid takes credit for luring Giant W to Winona. There are two men on the dais with her—the mayor and a store executive—but it takes forever for her to cede the mic and retreat to the rear of the dais to stand in front of the sleigh. The suit kicks off with a lame joke about a reindeer in a bar before detailing the Giant W’s many charms.
Finally the mayor takes control. “What do you say we light the Christmas tree?” he calls, and as the crowd roars its approval the overhead fluorescents switch off and the Giant W is plunged into darkness. Indeed it is a dramatic moment, and as Ingrid ordained I
remain as silent as Santa creeping down a chimney.
I keep expecting the tree’s lights to blaze on—I know from this morning’s run-through it’s decorated with about a thousand strings of multicolored W’s—but they never do. In the distance a train’s lonely horn pierces the evening quiet. The crowd inside the Giant W begins to shuffle and murmur. Then several feet to my right, where Ingrid is standing, I hear a sharp popping sound.
I gasp. Trixie clutches my arm. “What in the world is that?” she whimpers. I’m afraid I know but I don’t dare say it aloud. A few screams rise to the ceiling while I hear a thump, like a heavy sack dropping. Then the sleigh noisily whirrs into life.
“Turn on the lights!” the mayor hollers and none too soon we are once again bathed in their fluorescent glow.
Now it’s Shanelle grabbing me. “Where the heck is Ingrid?”
She’s not on the dais with us anymore. The mayor and the suit still are, but not her.
Overhead, near the furthest cash registers, the fast-moving sleigh jerks to one of its famous stops. To my astonishment I see that it’s not empty. Nor does its cargo remain inside.
Ingrid Svendsen, snazzy red holiday dress and all, pitches headfirst from the sleigh like a duffel bag being tossed onto an airplane’s conveyor belt. I thought I heard a gunshot and now I know I did, because there’s no mistaking the bloody wound on Ingrid’s chest. The crowd shrieks in horror. We all watch in morbid fascination as the hostess of the evening’s festivities belly flops onto the linoleum floor of Winona’s brand-new Giant W, narrowly missing a register and upending a display of Christmas sweater wine-bottle covers.
On cranks the P.A. system one last time. “Ceremony’s over! Clean-up at register five!”
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Continue reading for an excerpt from Diana’s novel Chasing Venus, which readers have called “a spot-on blend of romance and suspense.”
CHASING VENUS
Known for page-turning romantic novels that keep you reading late into the night, Diana Dempsey delivers a suspenseful tale about a man and a woman who must shed the past to embrace the future …
Annette Rowell’s latest novel is leapfrogging up the bestseller lists, and with every surge in sales she’s becoming more of a household name. The literary success she’s struggled so hard for would be a dream come true were it not for the killer preying on bestselling authors.
Reid Gardner hosts a syndicated crime show dedicated to capturing dangerous fugitives. The former LAPD cop knows only too well how violence can shatter lives. No victim arouses his ardor more than the pretty author who’s become the target of a psychopath. Yet falling in love with her could cost him not only the reputation he’s spent years building, but the one killer who’s eluded him for years …
PROLOGUE
Death was not on the guest list, but it appeared all the same.
Maggie Boswell, reigning queen of mystery fiction, sat at the signing table as if she were royalty on a throne. Around her, in teetering piles, was her latest bestseller. Grabbing at the books were members of the literary elite—authors, editors, agents. It was a huge irony that Maggie had invited them into her home for this book party. Most of them she disliked. Now all of them she distrusted.
For any one of them might try to kill her.
Someone handed her a book. She scribbled the inscription, struggling to rise above her fear. In the shifting terror of her worst imaginings, even her beloved home unnerved her. Its enormity was no longer a joy, but a threat. It had too many corners, too many shadows. And outside its stucco walls the night was moonless, and the silver-gray Pacific beyond the terraced garden unnaturally still.
A breeze from the open French doors behind her wafted over the back of her neck, chilling her skin like a spectral caress. She shivered, turned to look. Yet there was nothing there, nothing but the unrelieved blackness of her garden.
“Ms. Boswell?”
She spun at the woman’s voice, and pursed her lips. A pretender to her throne, in the form of a brunette wisp with—in Maggie’s opinion—dubious talent.
The woman held a book toward her and smiled. "I’m Annette Rowell. I’m a huge admirer of your work."
Maggie took the book but didn’t care to smile back. “Are you?”
"I’ve really been looking forward to this one."
Read it and weep. “Shall I sign the book to you?”
“Please.”
Maggie scrawled To Annette and then her signature in expansive script. She slapped the hardcover shut and held out the volume.
"You may remember that I have a mystery series of my own," the woman said.
Maggie was well aware of it. "Is that so?"
Again the woman smiled. “Thank you so much for including me tonight."
Maggie wondered how this upstart had made it onto the guest list. She averted her head in silent dismissal and the woman moved along.
The books kept coming, endlessly. Greet, open, sign, hand back, smile, over and over again. At one point, Maggie jolted upright. She’d felt something, sudden and swift, in the nape of her neck. A piercing, like a bee sting, or a needle making an entry into flesh. Deeply and with purpose. Then, just as quickly, gone.
She frowned, twisted to look behind her out the French doors. Again, nothing. Just the yards of flagstone terrace and the lawn sweeping to the sea. With some trepidation she touched the back of her neck, then stared aghast at the unmistakable crimson smear on her finger.
My God. A thought came, a terrifying idea she immediately banished. It can't be.
Someone held another book toward her. Mechanically she signed it, her mind whirling. As she returned the volume to its owner, she grimaced again.
An unnatural tingling sensation had begun in her body. Maggie stilled, gave it her full attention. Yet the feeling didn’t disappear, but grew, strengthened.
She shivered. Coldness writhed within her. The hideous thought returned, taunted her. Just like in my second book.
No. She wouldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be so easy, that what she feared most would simply come to pass. Just like that. All the while the iciness intensified, knifing through her body. A harbinger of doom.
This cannot be happening.
Yet, she knew, it could.
The people around her seemed to grow distant, as if a veil had dropped between her and the living world. She saw their faces, she heard their voices, but she was alone among them in a way she never had been before. She tried to move her mouth to speak but her lips failed to respond.
So fast. It really is so fast.
She was almost admiring of the poison's power. Just as she had written about it, so it was.
"Darling?" Her husband bent over her. Voices echoed, concerned faces loomed. Someone held up something thin and shiny and silver. Maggie didn’t need to see it clearly to know what it was. A dart, tipped with poison.
Terror gripped her then, spun in her mind like a grotesque dervish. Her imagination, always vivid, conjured an image of her last breath. Not so far off now, she knew. And, oh, how she would gasp, strain, seek air she could never more find ...
Panic ballooned in the gorgeous living room, an acid cloud only she could see. People were jostling now, bumping into one another, seeking escape. A lone scream rent the air. She tried to turn her head to see who had made the shrill sound but wasn’t able. Already that was beyond her rapidly dwindling capabilities.
So fast, so fast …
Her body slumped to the table. She was powerless to keep her head from slamming onto the book she had been preparing to sign.
My last book. It's over. I'm dead.
Another scream, not her own, for she could no longer draw breath. She knew. She had tried. Nothing came.
Death made its exit, leaving its grim calling c
ard behind.
CHAPTER ONE
Annie Rowell snagged a deep breath of air, her heart pumping, her feet in their worn running shoes pounding the graveled shoulder of the two-lane road. It was dusk, and at this hour few cars passed through these low grassy hills outside the California coastal town of Bodega Bay. Here, a mile inland, she couldn't hear the surf, but still the chill air carried a tang of salt. Overhead a raven cawed, its shriek splitting the heavens.
The route was her usual one and required no concentration. Her mind was free to wander, and it did, to her favorite daydream.
New Yorkers shouldered past her as she stared into the windows of the glitzy bookstore. Snow drifted from the sky, dusting her brunette hair and melting on the long lashes rimming her green eyes, shiny with tears of joy. A businessman, walking fast, bumped into her, muttered under his breath.
She remained motionless. Mesmerized. Nothing could tear her from this sight, one she'd dreamed of for years. Her novel—hers!—stacked in a giant pyramid in the window. In the middle where the bestsellers go.
A shopper inside lifted a book from the pyramid and headed for the registers. More like that and Annie would rise even higher on the bestsellers list. She could just imagine Philip and that new wife of his frowning at each other over their New York Times, unable to fathom that Annette Rowell's name was printed there, and in such an illustrious position.
Maybe I shouldn't have divorced her, Philip would think, eyeing wife number two with the disappointment he'd previously reserved for Annie. But who would have thought she'd ever amount to anything?
The fantasy generated the usual smile but this time it didn’t last long. Annie was abruptly jarred back to reality.
She picked up her pace—just a bit, not enough to be obvious, then raised her chin a notch and resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder.
How long had that car been behind her?
Why wasn’t it driving past?
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Page 29
