PRAISE FOR THE DEVEREAUX’S DIME STORE MYSTERIES
“Delectable . . . with a plentiful cast of suspects, this was a fast-paced page-turner of a mystery that I couldn’t put down.”
—Jenn McKinlay, New York Times bestselling author of the Cupcake Bakery Mysteries
“Delightful. . . . readers will look forward to seeing more of the quick-witted Dev.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Swanson puts just the right amount of sexy sizzle in her latest engaging mystery.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A spunky new heroine with a Missouri stubborn streak.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Plenty of twists and suspense . . . a great read.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Peopled with unique characters, Ms. Swanson’s books are always entertaining.”
—Fresh Fiction
“The pace is quick, the prose is snappy, and the dialogue is sharp.”
—The Maine Suspect
“Swanson has a gift for portraying small-town life, making it interesting, and finding both the ridiculous and the satisfying parts of living in one.”
—AnnArbor.com
“[An] entertaining mystery series. . . . With a touch of romance in the air, readers will enjoy this delightful cozy.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“I was so engrossed in it that I was shocked to discover I was nearly finished reading the book.”
—Socrates’ Book Reviews
Also by Denise Swanson
DEVEREAUX’S DIME STORE MYSTERIES
Little Shop of Homicide
Nickeled-and-Dimed to Death
Dead Between the Lines
Dying for a Cupcake
Between a Book and a Hard Place
SCUMBLE RIVER MYSTERIES
Murder of a Needled Knitter
Murder of a Stacked Librarian
Murder of the Cat’s Meow
Murder of a Creped Suzette
Murder of a Bookstore Babe
Murder of a Wedding Belle
Murder of a Royal Pain
Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry
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 an Open Book
Murder of a Cranky Catnapper
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Denise Swanson Stybr
Excerpt from Little Shop of Homicide copyright © 2012 by Denise Swanson Stybr
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780698411296
First Edition: July 2017
Cover art by Anni Betts
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.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A huge thank-you to Shay Connelly and Kim Greene for helping Devereaux figure out how to break up with one of her suitors. And to Shelly Franz for giving Dev the perfect example of how not to do it.
CONTENTS
PRAISE FOR THE DEVEREAUX’S DIME STORE MYSTERIES
ALSO BY DENISE SWANSON
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
EPILOGUE
SPECIAL EXCERPT FROM Little Shop of Homicide
CHAPTER 1
Shuffling slowly back from my newly completed sales exhibit, I tilted my head and studied my handiwork. It was the beginning of October, and I was experimenting with something new for my Halloween merchandising. After clearing out the area near the entrance of my shop, Devereaux’s Dime Store and Gift Baskets, I had set up contrasting seasonal displays. One nice. One naughty.
On the right side, I had arranged traditional holiday products. Bright orange pumpkins adorned the shelves, colorful goblins and ghosts hung from hooks, and bags of trick or treat candy spilled temptingly from bushel baskets. The vibe was good, clean fun.
Opposite that space, I had created a sexy black-and-white fantasy. Naughty nurse and wanton witch costumes lay draped over a velvet couch. A marble-topped Victorian coffee table with a sign that read POTIONS held a selection of delectable chocolates, as well as edible body gels and flavored massage oils. And a muscular male mannequin was dressed in an abbreviated kilt and tam-o’-shanter, and not much else.
“Damn it to hell!” I blurted out. “Am I taking too much of a risk?”
Yes, I was talking to myself. I did that sometimes when I needed expert advice.
Snickering, I returned to my contemplation. Although it was true that I had become somewhat famous, or maybe infamous, for my custom-designed erotic gift baskets, I usually tucked all the wicked bits and pieces safely out of the sight of my regular shoppers. But I was tired of hiding that part of my business and had decided that Halloween was the perfect time to test the waters.
Now I was having second thoughts. Were my customers ready to be smacked in the face with the sensual darkness and guilty pleasures of my offerings? After all, I did have a teen lounge on my second floor. Would their parents be appalled at the display? But the raciness was more hinted at than overt, so really, it should be okay. Right?
While I was still vacillating between tearing down the display or leaving it up, the sleigh bells above the front door jingled. Turning my head, I saw an attractive man in his late forties or early fifties stroll inside as if he owned the place.
Hell! It was only eight a.m. and the store was supposed to be closed until noon on Mondays. Evidently, after my new tenant had arrived, I’d forgotten to turn the dead bolt. This was the first official day of the renter’s lease, and having the second-story office suite
occupied would take some adjustments on my part. Like remembering to lock the freaking door.
The stern expression on the face of the guy in the expensive suit who was striding toward me was a reminder as to why I hadn’t previously gone public with the spicy side of my sales. This would be a good test. Should I take down the suggestive display or leave it intact?
I narrowed my eyes, squared my shoulders, and prepared to defend myself.
Although Mr. Suit seemed familiar, I didn’t think he was a native of my hometown. With a population a shade over four thousand, I recognized most of the indigenous inhabitants of Shadow Bend, Missouri. However, I wasn’t as up-to-date on the more recent move-ins, the ones who had built McMansions in Country Club Estates.
The new folks had relocated here from Kansas City looking for cheap land and their concept of rural living. Unfortunately for them, their fantasy didn’t include the reality of smelly farm animals, slow-moving tractors, or locals who had their own idea of how the community should be run.
When the man’s unblinking stare skimmed my new display, then looked me up and down with a grim air, I braced myself for battle. His lips pressed together in a harsh white line, then he puckered his mouth, and as he glanced around, he shook his head.
The guy studied the paperback bookrack, the three-stool soda fountain, and my pride and joy, the antique brass cash register, clearly unimpressed with the vintage ambience. When he turned his nose up at the glass candy case, I gave up any hope that the shop might charm him.
The kind of person who didn’t appreciate fudge, truffles, and other mouthwatering confections would never be one of my shoppers. There was no way that the store would ever win him over. Nor did I want him as a customer. This meant I didn’t have to be nice to him.
“We’re closed until noon.” I crossed my arms. “The door should have been locked.”
He ignored my not-so-subtle order to leave and demanded, “Jake Del Vecchio?”
Seriously? I knew I didn’t look my best dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, but I was pretty damn sure my more than generous curves made it abundantly clear that I wasn’t named Jake.
Lifting my chin, I looked down my nose and said, “No. I’m Devereaux Sinclair.”
This morning before coming into work, I had meditated, used lavender calming oil, and drank green tea. Yet I still wanted to smack this guy.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” A scowl twisted his attractive features, and his brown eyes narrowed. “The business card Chief Kincaid gave me listed this address for Jake Del Vecchio. But evidently, Chief Kincaid has sent me on yet another wild-goose chase. He’s treating my concerns like they’re unimportant. A big joke,” Mr. Suit huffed. “Not that I’m at all surprised. I’ve found that isn’t unusual for public officials around here.”
The guy was obviously a know-it-all. I pursed my lips. The problem with people who think they know it all is that they actually never seem to know when to shut up. Looked like it was time to educate him.
“Chief Kincaid is very good at his job.” I put on my best don’t-mess-with-me expression, the one I’d learned when I had worked in the cutthroat investment consulting business. “A job that doesn’t always get the respect it deserves.” Once I was sure the guy understood me, I said, “Jake’s office is on the second floor.” I jerked my thumb toward the rear of the store. “Up the stairs. The first door on the left.”
“And he’s a private investigator?” Once again, Mr. Suit’s gaze flitted around my store. “Chief Kincaid said he had been a U.S. Marshal.”
“That’s right. He left the marshal service due to a line-of-duty injury,” I explained, curious as to why Eldridge Kincaid had fobbed off this bozo on Jake.
The chief wasn’t one to recommend a citizen go to a private detective unless there was a good reason. Maybe he didn’t want the police department to become involved in the matter. And if that was the situation, I was more than a little bit worried what kind of mess Jake might be getting into if he took Mr. Suit’s case.
If Jake was just my tenant, I probably wouldn’t care, since I’m really not the warm-and-fuzzy type. But Jake was also my boyfriend.
Okay, fine. He was one of my boyfriends. He and Dr. Noah Underwood were, as my grandma Birdie liked to say, vying for my affection.
I was physically attracted to them both, but I hadn’t made up my mind which man I truly loved. Each had pros and cons, and the decision was turning out to be a lot more difficult than I had ever imagined. What I had thought would be a sprint was turning into a marathon.
On the pro side for Jake, his ex-wife, Meg, had finally moved out of the house he shared with his great-uncle Tony on the Del Vecchio ranch. On the con side, instead of returning to St. Louis, Meg had rented an apartment in Shadow Bend.
The compassionate part of me understood that after the trauma Meg had experienced six months ago, she wasn’t ready to live completely on her own. The hard-hearted part of me wished she had someone other than her ex-husband to lean on.
Still, Jake had taken a couple of steps in the right direction. Meg was out of his house, and after getting his private investigation license, he rented my empty office space, saying that this way he’d be able to spend more time with me.
In addition to all that, he was encouraging me to get my own private investigator’s license so that we could work cases together. I really appreciated that instead of insisting that I stop getting involved in solving crimes, he wanted me to be his partner.
For Jake, becoming a PI in Missouri had been a lot quicker and a lot easier than I had expected. With his prior law enforcement experience, all he’d had to do was submit to a background check, pass a licensing exam, meet continuing education requirements, and obtain professional liability insurance.
It would be a bit more complicated for me to get my license. Still, I was considering it because, as it turned out, I was damn good at figuring out mysteries and helping the cops put the bad guys in jail.
Even if I didn’t become a PI and work for him, with Jake upstairs we were bound to see more of each other than when he’d been overwhelmed with caring for his ex and managing his uncle’s ranch. Although he continued to oversee the ranch, he’d hired a couple more hands, and during this time of year they weren’t quite as swamped as they were in spring and summer.
I suddenly noticed that all the time that I had been thinking about my complicated love life, Mr. Suit had remained in front of me. Why hadn’t he proceeded to the second floor to find Jake?
I raised a questioning brow at him and he murmured, “Devereaux Sinclair.” Wrinkling his forehead, he muttered, “Chief Kincaid mentioned you.”
“Oh?”
“He said you had your finger on Shadow Bend’s pulse and you knew almost everything that went on around here.” Mr. Suit squinted. “He mentioned that you had been instrumental in helping him solve some of his more complicated cases.”
“He did?”
Now I was really wary. The chief freely acknowledged my assistance, but to volunteer that information to a stranger was suspicious. Why was he so eager for this guy to seek help outside the police department? It wasn’t as if our tiny rural community was overrun with crime and the cops were too busy to handle minor complaints.
“Yes.” He stared at me appraisingly, then added, “You said the store was closed. Could you come upstairs with me to Del Vecchio’s office? You may have heard something that could help.”
“Why should I help you?” I raised a brow. “You’ve been nothing but rude and dismissive since you walked in here.”
“Uh . . .” Mr. Suit blinked, then inhaled sharply and said, “Sorry. When my mind gets focused on something, I have trouble thinking of anything else, even common courtesy.” He smiled and said, “I apologize.”
“Accepted.” Normally, I wouldn’t have been so forgiving, but I had the time and he’d aroused my
curiosity. “Let me lock the door and I’ll follow you up.”
As we climbed the steps, I heard hammering. And when we got to the office, I saw that Jake had been busy decorating. The walls that he’d painted a neutral taupe now held sepia-tinted photographs of the Old West. And a deer antler hat rack was near the doorway with his Stetson hanging from the tip of one of the horns.
I hadn’t been in his office since his furniture was delivered yesterday afternoon, and now I admired the rustic walnut desk and the pair of antler-and-cowhide Western chairs that he’d arranged for visitors. Jake’s own seat was a massive leather throne.
It seemed as if my little lesson on manners must have made an impression on Mr. Suit, because after he perused the decor, he smiled and held out his hand to Jake. “Mr. Del Vecchio?” Jake nodded and the man introduced himself. “I’m Elliot Winston.”
* * *
Jake flicked a questioning glance at me, and as always his arresting good looks totally captured my attention. I indulged myself for a few seconds and ogled the way his broad chest filled out his shirt.
But all too soon, I forced myself to meet his amused gaze and explain. “Mr. Winston invited me to join him while he talked to you. He wanted to find out if I’d heard anything about the matter he wants to discuss.”
For a nanosecond, as Jake stared back at me, I could actually see the sexual attraction zinging between us. Then he blinked and it was gone.
Jake turned his scrutiny to Elliot, waving us both to the visitor chairs, and said, “And this matter is . . .”
Elliot had an aristocratic attractiveness, but Jake’s rugged good looks were more to my taste. Whereas Elliot’s perfectly even features and lightly tanned complexion were nice, Jake’s chiseled face and his bronzed skin pulled taut over the sculpted ridge of his cheekbones were a lot sexier.
While Elliot was as lean as a runway model, the strong column of Jake’s throat rose from the collar of his red plaid Western-style shirt and his broad shoulders strained the flannel fabric. I barely stopped myself from licking my lips when he smoothed his palms down his faded Levi’s. The worn denim lovingly molding his leg, emphasizing his drool-worthy thighs.
Lions and Tigers and Murder, Oh My Page 1