“When writers as sharp as Margaret Maron, Earlene Fowler, and Jerrilyn Farmer all rave about a colleague as convincingly as they have about Denise Swanson … take notice.”
—Chicago Tribune
Murder of a Botoxed Blonde
“With its endearing hero, terrific cast of realistically quirky secondary characters, and generous soupçon of humor, Murder of a Botoxed Blonde … is a delight.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Tight plotting and plenty of surprises keep this series on my must-read list.”
—Crimespree Magazine
“This fast-paced cozy has it all.”
—Romantic Times
Murder of a Real Bad Boy
“Swanson is a born storyteller.”
—Crimespree Magazine
“Another knee-slapping adventure in Scumble River.”
—The Amplifier (KY)
“Scumble River is a joy to visit.”
—Romantic Times
Murder of a Smart Cookie
“[Swanson] smartly spins on a solid plot and likable characters.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“[A] hilarious amateur sleuth mystery…. [Swanson] has a lot of surprises in store for the reader.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A hoot.”
—Romantic Times (4 stars) “It’s no mystery why the first Scumble River novel was nominated for the prestigious Agatha Award. Denise Swanson knows small-town America, its secrets and its self-delusions, and she writes as if she might have been hiding behind a tree when some of the bodies were being buried. A delightful new series.”
—Margaret Maron
Murder of a Pink Elephant
“The must-read book of the summer.”
—Butler County Post (KY) “One of my favorite series. I look forward to all my visits to Scumble River.”
—Crimespree Magazine
“Current readers will appreciate the trip into Scumble River, while new readers will want to go back.”
—The Best Reviews
Murder of a Barbie and Ken
“Swanson continues her lively, light, and quite insightful look at small-town life … a solid plot [and] likable characters who never slide into caricature.”
—The Hartford Courant
“Another sidesplitting visit to Scumble River … filled with some of the quirkiest and most eccentric characters we ever have met, with a sharp, witty protagonist.”
—Butler County Post (KY)
Murder of a Snake in the Grass
“An endearing and realistic character … a fast-paced, enjoyable read.”
—The Herald News
“This book is delightful…. The characters are human and generous and worth following through the series.”
—Mysterious Women
“Swanson’s Scumble River mysteries are marvelous.”
—Jerrilyn Farmer
Murder of a Sleeping Beauty
“A smooth, pleasant, and ultimately satisfying book.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Another delightful and intriguing escapade.”
—Mystery News
Murder of a Sweet Old Lady
“More fun than the whirlagig at the county fair and tastier than a corn dog.”
—The Charlotte Austin Review
“Swanson is on her way to the top of the genre … a magnificent tale written by a wonderful author.”
—Midwest Book Review
Murder of a Small-Town Honey
“Bounces along with gently wry humor and jaunty twists and turns. The quintessential amateur sleuth: bright, curious, and more than a little nervy.”
—Earlene Fowler
“A lighthearted, entertaining mystery.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“A likable new heroine reminiscent of some of our favorite childhood detectives—with a little bit of an edge … a fresh, delightful, and enjoyable first mystery.”
—The Charlotte Austin Review
“A charming, insightful debut.”
—Carolyn Hart
Other Scumble River Mysteries
Murder of a Botoxed Blonde
Murder of a Real Bad Boy
Murder of a Smart Cookie
Murder of a Pink Elephant
Murder of a Barbie and Ken
Murder of a Snake in the Grass
Murder of a Sleeping Beauty
Murder of a Sweet Old Lady
Murder of a Small-Town Honey
Murder of a
Chocolate-
Covered Cherry
A Scumble River Mystery
DENISE
SWANSON
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, April 2008
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3
Copyright © Denise Swanson Stybr, 2008
All rights reserved
EISBN: 9781101567531
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
To the people of my hometown, Coal City, Illinois,
who have been amazingly supportive
Author’s Note In July of 2000, when the first book, Murder of a Small-Town Honey, was published in my Scumble River series, it was written in “real time
.” It was the year 2000 in Skye’s life as well as mine, but after several books in a series, time becomes a problem. It takes me from seven months to a year to write a book, and then it is usually another year from the time I turn that book in to my editor until the reader sees it on a bookstore shelf. This can make the time line confusing. Different authors handle this matter in different ways. After a great deal of deliberation, I decided that Skye and her friends and family will age more slowly than those of us who don’t live in Scumble River. Although I made this decision while writing the fourth book in the series, Murder of a Snake in the Grass, I didn’t realize until recently that I needed to share this information with my readers. So, to catch everyone up, the following is when the books take place.
Murder of a Small-Town Honey—August 2000
Murder of a Sweet Old Lady—March 2001
Murder of a Sleeping Beauty—April 2002
Murder of a Snake in the Grass—August 2002
Murder of a Barbie and Ken—November 2002
Murder of a Pink Elephant—February 2003
Murder of a Smart Cookie—June 2003
Murder of a Real Bad Boy—September 2003
Murder of a Botoxed Blonde—November 2003
Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry—April 2004
The Scumble River short story and novella take place:
“Not a Monster of a Chance”—June 2001
“Dead Blondes Tell No Tales”—March 2003
Scumble River is not a real town. The characters and events portrayed in these pages are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to living persons is pure coincidence.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Preheat Oven to 350°
Chapter 2: Assemble the Ingredients
Chapter 3: Read Through Recipe
Chapter 4: Butter and Flour Your Pan
Chapter 5: Sift Dry Ingredients Together
Chapter 6: Cream, Sugar and Butter
Chapter 7: Add Egg Yolks
Chapter 8: Add Vanilla
Chapter 9: Slowly Add Dry Mixture to Creamed
Chapter 10: Mix until Smooth
Chapter 11: Beat for Two Minutes
Chapter 12: Set Aside Beaten Mixture
Chapter 13: Beat Egg Whites Until Stiff
Chapter 14: Fold Egg Whites into Batter
Chapter 15: Add Nuts
Chapter 16: Pour Batter into Prepared Pans
Chapter 17: Bake for Twenty-five Minutes
Chapter 18: Toothpick Inserted in Center Should Come Out Clean
Chapter 19: Cool Fifteen Minutes
Chapter 20: Remove from Pans
Chapter 21: Cool Completely
Chapter 22: Frost the Cake
Epilogue: Makes Twelve Servings
CHAPTER 1
Preheat Oven to 350°
School psychologist Skye Denison had endured the situation for as long as she could. Improvements on the outside were well and good, but they didn’t make her feel any better about the ugliness on the inside. It was time to put an end to her suffering.
She ignored the ringing telephone. There really wasn’t anyone she wanted to talk to bad enough to untie the rope, climb down from the ladder, and find the phone in the mess she had created in her dining room. She sighed with relief when the ringing stopped, but let out a small scream of frustration when it started right up again.
Evidently, whoever was calling knew that her answering machine picked up on the fourth ring and was hanging up after the third. This meant it was someone who called her on a regular basis. Skye paused as she tightened the knot. Who would be so determined to reach her that they would keep punching the redial button again and again?
It wasn’t her boyfriend, Wally Boyd, chief of the Scumble River Police Department. He had phoned earlier canceling their date for that night with the lame excuse that “something had come up.” His call had been the start of her bad day.
Another possibility was her best friend, Trixie Frayne, school librarian and Skye’s cosponsor of the school newspaper, but they had already spoken as well. Trixie had called to tell Skye that a cheerleader’s parents were threatening to sue the Scoop for slander, and Trixie and Skye were scheduled to meet with the district’s lawyer at seven a.m. on Monday. Homer Knapik, the high school principal, would have a cow when he heard the news—then make Skye and Trixie shovel the manure.
A quick glance at her watch and Skye knew it couldn’t be her brother, Vince. Saturday morning was the busiest time at his hair salon. Skye’s godfather and honorary uncle, Charlie Patukas, the owner of the Up A Lazy River Motor Court, wouldn’t bother with repeated calls; he’d just jump into his Caddy and come over. After all, few places in Scumble River, Illinois, were more than a five-or ten-minute drive away.
Shoot! That left only one person, and she would never stop dialing until Skye answered. Moaning in surrender, Skye made sure the rope holding the chandelier up out of the way was tied tightly and reluctantly climbed down the ladder, almost tripping on her black cat, Bingo, as she stepped to the floor. He shot her a nasty glare and darted from the room.
She yelled after him, “You know, you could have answered the phone, buddy. You’re not earning your keep around here.”
The next group of rings helped her locate the handset, and she lifted the edge of the tarp she had placed on the hardwood floor to protect it. Grabbing the receiver, she pushed the ON button and said, “Hello, Mom.”
“It’s about time you picked up.” The voice of May Denison pounded into Skye’s ear. “There’s a family emergency. Get over here right away.”
Skye growled in aggravation as her mother hung up without further explanation. Then her mother’s words penetrated the fog of her bad mood. Emergency! Had something happened to Skye’s father? Her grandmother? One of her countless aunts, uncles, or cousins?
A busy signal greeted Skye’s repeated attempts to call back. No doubt May had taken the phone off the hook to force Skye to come over as ordered, rather than phone and ask questions.
Catching her reflection as she hurried past the foyer mirror, Skye hesitated. Her chestnut curls were scraped back into a bushy ponytail, the only paint on her face was the Tiffany blue she was using on her dining room walls, which did nothing for her green eyes, and the orange sweat suit she had put on to work in made her look like Charlie Brown’s Great Pumpkin.
Shaking her head, she decided it would take too much time to transform herself into a presentable human being, and instead grabbed her jacket, purse, and keys from the coat stand. She ran out of the house and leapt into the 1957 Bel Air convertible her father and godfather had restored for her a few years ago, after several unfortunate incidents left her previous cars undrivable.
The Chevy was a boat of a car, which made it hard to lay rubber, but Skye stomped on the accelerator and the Bel Air flew down the blacktop, white vapor pouring from the tailpipe in the below-zero temperature. Seven and a half minutes later, Skye wheeled into her parents’ driveway and skidded to a halt on the icy film covering the gravel.
Where were all the vehicles? If there was a family emergency the driveway should be packed with cars and trucks. Did her mom need a ride to the hospital? No, May’s white Olds was parked in the garage. What the heck was going on?
Skye flung herself out of the Bel Air and jogged up the sidewalk and across the small patio to the back door. She spared a glance at the concrete goose squatting at the corner. Except for the holidays, when the statue was dressed as anything from a Halloween witch to Uncle Sam, its costume was usually a good barometer of May’s mood. Given that it was January 10, too late for New Year’s and too early for Valentine’s Day, the fact that it was wearing an apron and a tiny chef’s hat and had a rolling pin clutched in its wing must mean something, but darned if Skye had a clue as to what.
Shrugging, she continued into the house, calling, “Mom, what’s going on? What’s the emergency?”
Silence greeted her as she dashed through the utility room’s
swinging doors and into the kitchen. Still no sign of her mother, but Skye slid to a stop as her gaze swept past the counter peninsula and reached the dinette.
She felt all the blood drain from her head and the room started to sway as she stared at the table. She sank to her knees and closed her eyes, hoping she was dreaming or having a hallucination, but when she opened them again the wedding cake was still there—three layers of pristine white frosting with delicate pink roses and a vine of ivy trailing down its side.
Surely even May, a woman desperate for her daughter to get married and produce grandkids, wouldn’t throw an emergency wedding.
Seconds later Skye’s mother bustled around the corner from the living room clutching a cordless phone to her right ear. She clicked it off and leaned down. “What are you doing on the floor?” Grabbing Skye’s arm, she ordered, “Get up. It’s filthy. I haven’t had time to mop it yet today.”
May was dressed in sharply creased blue jeans, a pale yellow sweatshirt with tiny bluebells embroidered across the chest, and gleaming white Keds. Her short salt-and-pepper hair waved back from her face as if she had just finished combing it, and her mauve lipstick looked freshly applied.
“What’s that doing here?” Skye shook off her mother, rose from the light green linoleum, noting that it looked as immaculate as the day it was laid, and pointed a shaking finger at the offending pastry.
May made a dismissive gesture toward the towering wedding cake. “Oh, that. I was bored last night; your father had a meeting at the Moose, so I decided to practice my recipe.”
“Okay.” Skye hesitated in asking what her mother was practicing for, afraid the answer would involve Skye, a church, and a long white gown. Instead she demanded, “What is the emergency? Is it Dad, Grandma, Vince?”
“Oh, well…” May looked everywhere except at Skye. “I suppose I should have made it clear: Everyone is fine. It’s not that kind of emergency.” May stepped toward Skye and took her hands. “It’s a good emergency. The best. You’ll never guess what’s happened.”
Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry Page 1
