Murder of a Stacked Librarian (31 page)

“I didn’t think you could use a cell while flying.” Skye watched her new cousin as he propped the tiny black rectangle between his shoulder and ear so he could take notes as he spoke.

“Private jets have their own Internet and phone links that use either satellites or special ground stations.” Wally finished his entrée and reached for his dessert.

“Oh.” Skye had no idea how the top one percent lived. “I suppose that’s a necessity, since most are used for business.”

“And speaking of business, this is the last little bit. I promise.” Wally took out his cell as “Hail to the Chief” blared from his pocket. “Yeah.” He listened, then said, “Good.” He listened again and shook his head. “No. You’re in charge now. I don’t want to hear about it unless Scumble River is attacked by a band of vampire werewolf zombies.” He paused, then added just before clicking the phone closed, “Actually, not even then.”

“Was that Quirk?”

“Yep.” Wally turned his cell off and stuck it in his carry-on bag. “The lab results confirm that the paint is from the vic’s car and the wood is from the bridge. Proving the blood on the wheel is Gaskin’s will take a couple more days, but in exchange for immunity from an accessory charge, Neil Osborn has agreed to testify against him.”

“Sounds like an airtight case.” Skye finished her cake. “But I’m still glad we got the confession.”

“Me too.” Wally pushed his plate away and reached for Skye. “Now we don’t have to think about anything but us for the next seven days.”

• • •

“A cruise!” Skye squealed. “I’ve always wanted to go on a cruise. I was so jealous of Trixie getting to take one.”

After the CB International jet had landed in Fort Lauderdale and they’d said goodbye to Carson and Quentin, a limo had taken Skye and Wally to the port, where Wally had finally revealed his big surprise. They were honeymooning in the eastern Caribbean on the
Diamond Countess
.

“What ship is Trixie on?” Wally asked as a tuxedoed man showed them to their quarters.

“I don’t know.” Skye shrugged, distracted by the soaring lobby. “I don’t think she ever said, or if she did, I don’t remember.”

“Too much wedding talk, right?” Wally teased.

“Probably.” Skye’s expression was sheepish. “I have been a little self-involved since we started planning it.”

The man pressed the elevator UP button and announced, “Your suite is on deck seven.”

“A suite!” Skye yelped. “Oh, my gosh!”

“I told you I was able to afford an upgrade because I got such a good price using your mother’s tip.” Wally beamed at Skye’s excitement.

“My mother.” Skye’s voice rose.

“Yes. She told me about the special the travel agency in town was running.” Wally sounded puzzled. “Remember—”

“No,” Skye interrupted him. “There, on the stairs.” She pointed. “Isn’t that my mother?”

A book club meeting turns deadly

and romantic rivalries take center stage in

Denise Swanson’s next

Devereaux’s Dime Store Mystery,

Dead Between the Lines

Available in March 2014 as a paperback
and e-book.

Read on for a fun excerpt. . . .

W
ell, this was awkward. In my head, I could hear my grandmother Birdie yelling, “Devereaux Ann Sinclair, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” Ann wasn’t my real middle name, but little details like that never stood in Gran’s way when she was truly ticked off at me.

I slid a cautious glance to my left. My shop, Devereaux’s Dime Store and Gift Baskets, boasted three soda fountain stools, and two of them were occupied by men who had recently kissed me silly. In the antique Bradley and Hubbard cast-iron mirror hanging behind the counter, I could see them sitting shoulder to shoulder, glaring at each other. The gilt cherub on top of the glass smirked back at them.

Being the coward that I am, I ignored the two rivals for my affection and forced my poor weekend clerk, Xylia Locke, to deal with them while I stayed firmly behind my beloved 1920s brass cash register, ringing up the purchases of the last few lingering customers. As I bagged Mr. Williams’s Lucky Tiger Liquid Cream Shave, I wondered what my straitlaced employee thought of the two smoldering men in front of her, or for that matter, what her opinion was of my less than orderly life. Xylia was majoring in business administration at the local junior college, and she hated it when life—especially the emotional part—got muddled, chaotic, or messy.

Xylia liked her world to be as neat and tidy as she was, never appearing in public in anything but perfectly tailored slacks and sweater sets in muted colors. In fact, when I had first hired her, she’d offered to take a pay cut in exchange for not having to wear a sweatshirt with the store logo embroidered on the front. I’d been a little insulted that she didn’t want to have my name across her chest, but I’d swallowed my pride and agreed to her proposal.

Even the small amount of money I saved on her salary was a godsend to my cash-starved bottom line. Because, while quitting my consulting job at Stramp Investments and buying the dime store had reduced my round-trip commute from two hours to fifteen minutes and cut the time I spent at work almost in half, it had also shrunk my income from six figures to nearly poverty level. So even if it bruised my ego a bit that Xylia didn’t like my sweatshirt design, any way that I could keep my books in the black was okay with me.

The change in career path, aspirations, and lifestyle had all been worth it in order to be able to spend the extra time with my grandmother. When Birdie’s doctor had informed me that she needed me to be around more to keep an eye on her due to her memory issues, I knew it was my turn to help her. How could I do anything less, since she had been the one who had taken me in and loved me when I had nowhere else to go and no one else who cared?

I had just turned sixteen when my father went to prison for manslaughter and possession of a controlled substance. My mother, unable to handle the shame, loss of income, and reduced social status, had dropped me on my grandmother’s front porch with a fifty-dollar bill and a couple of suitcases containing all that was left of my previous life. Having disposed of her burden, Mom then headed to California to start over, leaving my grandmother and me to face the town’s condemnation by ourselves.

“Ms. Sinclair?” Xylia slipped from behind the soda fountain and scurried over to me as I flicked off the neon OPEN sign. It was Friday and we closed at six o’clock.

“Yes?” I had given up trying to persuade her to call me Dev or even Devereaux. She claimed it didn’t show the degree of respect an employee should have for her superior. Sometimes I wondered what century Xylia thought we were living in. While I loved vintage collectibles and antiques, I had no desire to bring back the formal manners and rigid customs of days gone by.

“What about them?” Xylia glanced uneasily between the men and the locked door. “Are they staying?”

“Apparently.” They obviously had no intention of budging from their perches. Having swiveled around to face the store, they had crossed their arms in identical gestures of stubborn defiance and were now glaring alternately at me and at each other. Their silence was unnerving, and if looks could kill, both guys would be dead and I’d be fatally wounded.

“But we have to get ready for the book club.” Xylia fingered the tiny heart-shaped birthmark on her cheek, something she did only in times of extreme stress. “They aren’t members.”

“It’ll be fine.” Throughout Xylia’s shift, I’d noticed that she had been even more tightly wound than usual. Now I realized that she must be nervous about hosting her club’s meeting. It had been her idea to have it at the dime store, and she probably felt responsible for the event’s outcome.

“We won’t have enough chairs.” Her voice rose. “Mr. Quistgaard was very specific in his requirements. He’ll leave if anyone is standing. Everything will be ruined.”

“We’ll work it out,” I assured her. “Do you know Mr. Quistgaard?” Seating for everyone seemed an odd condition for an author to have, especially one who wasn’t a “big name.” If J. K. Rowling or Nora Roberts wanted everyone sitting, you damn well better have everyone off their feet, but Lance Quistgaard, not so much. “Did you select his book for your club?”

“Our president, Mrs. Zeigler, engages all our speakers.” Xylia backed away from me, bumping into the APRIL SHOWERS BRING MAY FLOWERS display. “Usually through their Web sites.”

“I see.” I bent to replace an overturned red clay pot on a bag of mulch.

“Let me do that.” Xylia nudged me out of the way and moved the small Victorian iron patio table a fraction of an inch to the left, then straightened the two matching chairs. “I’ve been meaning to fix this all afternoon.” She adjusted the shepherd’s hook plant hanger that was holding a basket of yellow and purple pansies a smidgen to the right.

Did I mention that my clerk was a little OCD?

As I leaned against the gas grill that the hardware store had loaned me for my display, I said, “Did you enjoy this month’s book?”

“Uh.” Xylia bit her lip. “I’m sure I will once I understand the poems better.”

One of the men at the soda fountain cleared his throat, and Xylia flinched at the sound. She grimaced, then put her hand on my arm and pleaded, “Do something before they spoil the whole evening.”

“Don’t worry.” I turned away so she couldn’t see me roll my eyes. “They’ll be gone before the author arrives.” I was fairly certain neither of the men currently scrutinizing me was interested in hearing a poetry reading.

“But wh—”

“I’ll handle it.” I cut her off before she could hyperventilate. “My Supergirl cape is at the dry cleaner, so you’ll just have to take my word for it, but I promise they’ll leave before you’re finished setting up.”

Xylia opened her mouth to protest, but closed it when I frowned and ordered, “Go start getting the crafting alcove ready for your group.”

With one last worried peek over her shoulder, Xylia headed toward the back room, where the folding tables and chairs were stored.

The minute she was out of sight, both men shot off their seats and stomped toward me. Taking a deep breath, I focused on the one who, by elbowing his competition, then cutting his opponent off at the pass, got to me first. Tall, dark, and devastating, Deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Del Vecchio had blown back into town an hour ago, plainly expecting us to pick up where we had left off and just as plainly unhappy to find another guy warming
his
stool at
my
soda fountain.

I had met Jake when he was recuperating from a line-of-duty injury at his granduncle’s ranch. He had helped me clear my name when I had been accused of murdering my old boyfriend’s fiancée. Then a month ago, after being declared fit for duty, he’d returned to St. Louis. And except for a brief visit and make-out session a few weeks ago, that was the last I’d seen of him.

Now, as he cupped my cheek, his words sent a sizzle down my spine. “I’ve been dreaming about doing this the entire time I was gone.”

He leaned in for a kiss, but with his mouth inches from mine, I stepped back, and his hand dropped to his side. It had been hard to pull away. The electricity between us was enough to light up most of North America. But I knew that if I let our lips touch, I’d lose all my willpower to resist, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.

In the meantime, the guy who had been sitting next to Jake had reached my side. Sleek, elegant, and aristocratic, Dr. Noah Underwood had been my high school boyfriend. Because both our mothers had been pregnant at the same time, we claimed to have known each other since the womb. The Underwoods and the Sinclairs were two of the five founding families of Shadow Bend, Missouri, our hometown, which meant while growing up we were constantly thrown together at parties, charity events, and community functions. So when Noah and I hit adolescence, it had seemed inevitable that we would become sweethearts.

For a while, we were inseparable. During that time, Noah was the most important person in my life, and I had thought I was the most important one in his. Sadly, I’d been mistaken. When we started dating, the Sinclairs and the Underwoods were social equals. But after my father’s disgrace, the Sinclairs became the town pariahs, and Noah dropped me like a lit match before his reputation could go up in the same flames that had consumed my family’s good name.

According to Noah, he’d had a noble reason for breaking off with me. However, even though he’d proven there was still a spark between us, I wasn’t sure I believed his version of past events. And I definitely didn’t trust that he wouldn’t dump me or betray me again if a similar situation were to occur.

Moving with an inherent grace, Noah put both hands on my shoulders and spun me so that I was facing him. That I now had my back to Jake was probably just a bonus. Once Noah was sure he had my attention—he was a methodical kind of guy—he put his lips to my ear and whispered, “Get rid of Deputy Dawg. I’ve got a surprise planned for you.”

“What?” His warm breath tickling my neck sent a
bibbidi-bobbidi-boo
message to my girl parts. Both of these guys could melt my panties right off my hips. “Were we supposed to get together tonight?” I knew we didn’t have plans because that wasn’t something I would have forgotten, but I wanted to hear his explanation.

“No.” Noah’s head dipped closer. “I thought it would be fun to be spontaneous.”

“Possibly.” I finally got control of myself and leaned away from him. “Except I have a club meeting here at seven and Gran is expecting me home after that.”

“Take your hands off of her, Frat Boy.” Jake muscled his way in between Noah and me.

I moved so that I was facing both guys, but when they crowded forward, I realized that I had let them corner me. My back was against solid shelves, so I couldn’t retreat, and the men had cut off any possible forward escape route.