Murder of a Botoxed Blonde
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“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 Real Bad Boy
“Swanson is a born storyteller.”
—CrimeSpree Magazine
“Pack your bags and don’t forget your funny bone as we head out for another knee-slapping adventure in Scumble River.” —The Amplifier (KY) “Scumble River is a joy to visit…. Skye is an intelligent and full-figured heroine who holds on tight to her independence, the mystery is fast-paced … and it wraps up nicely.” —Romantic Times
Murder of a Smart Cookie
“In her seventh novel, Denise Swanson continues her insightful look at small-town life. Murder of a Smart Cookie 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)
Murder of a Pink Elephant
“Get the hammock strung, the lemonade poured, and settle in for the must-read book of the summer…. With a sharp tongue and even sharper mind, Skye once again proves herself adept at outwitting not only the bad guys, but the well-meaning good guys.” —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 “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 Barbie and Ken
“Swanson continues her lively, light, and quite insightful look at small-town life … a solid plot [and] likeable characters who never slide into caricature.” —The Hartford Courant
“Another side-splitting 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
Murder of a Sleeping Beauty
“A smooth, pleasant, and ultimately satisfying book.” —Chicago Tribune
“Another delightful and intriguing escapade.” —Mystery News
“Swanson’s Scumble River mysteries are marvelous.”
—Jerrilyn Farmer
Murder of a Sweet Old Lady
“More fun than the whirligig 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.” —Agatha Award-winning author 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 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
Botoxed Blonde
A Scumble River Mystery
DENISE
SWANSON
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
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 Ltd.,
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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 Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, April 2007
10 9 8 7 6 5 4
Copyright © Denise Swanson Stybr, 2007
All rights reserved
EISBN: 9781101567524
The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA Printed in the United States of America Without limiting the rights under copy 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 copy 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 copyed materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This one is for my mom, Marie Swanson, and her
wonderful friends—Marge Broucek, Esther Knorr,
Lorie Rink, and Dolores (Aunt Pooch) Swanson—or,
as I affectionately call them: The Yo Yo Sisters.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Tracey Thomas, who knew Vince and Loretta would make a great couple long before I did. Also, to Kim Puckett, a teacher who e-mailed me the quip regarding the No Child Left Behind law.
Thanks to Dave Stybr, for sparking the idea for the chapter titles and the ending.
And to Louis Graham, welcome to the family. Just remember, anything you say or do can an
d might be used in a future book.
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 timeline 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
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: Rubbed the Wrong Way
Chapter 2: Beauty Is in the Eye of the Beholder
Chapter 3: Chewing the Low Fat
Chapter 4: It’s to Diet For
Chapter 5: Wash That Vandal Right out of My Hair
Chapter 6: Stick in the Mud Bath
Chapter 7: Whole New Ball of Wax
Chapter 8: What Did the Client Say to the Acupuncturist? Stop Needling Me!
Chapter 9: Leave No Stone Massage Unturned
Chapter 10: Getting Steamed
Chapter 11: Waxing and Waning
Chapter 12: Don’t Cry Over a Spilled Milk Bath
Chapter 13: Cast the First Stone Massage
Chapter 14: Keep Your Powder Dry
Chapter 15: Survival of the Fitness Class
Chapter 16: Too Many Curling Irons in the Fire
Chapter 17: Still Water Therapy Runs Deep
Chapter 18: Beauty Is Only Skin Deep
Chapter 19: In Hot Water
Chapter 20: Pour Body Oil on Troubled Waters
Chapter 21: Fight Tooth and Nail Polish
Chapter 22: Strike While the Curling Iron Is Hot
Chapter 23: That Puts a New Wrinkle on It
Chapter 24: Two Facials Are Better Than One
Epilogue
CHAPTER 1
Rubbed the Wrong Way
“Ahhhhh!” An earsplitting scream penetrated Skye Denison’s deep sleep.
She fought her way to consciousness, but she was still half dozing as she lay trying to remember where she was and what had roused her.
It was the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving, and she had been dreaming she was the holiday turkey. A dream brought on, no doubt, by the butterlike substance slathered over every inch of her skin, the seaweed wrapped around her, and the tinfoil covering her from neck to toes.
Of course, being stretched out on a steel table with an overhead heating element, baking her at what felt like 350°, might have added to the illusion. That, along with the timer that had just popped out, might give anyone fowl dreams.
“Ahhhhh!” Another scream surged through the louvered doors of the spa treatment room.
This one cleared the confusion from Skye’s mind and brought her fully awake. She shot upright … or at least she tried to. But rather than sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the table as she intended, she found she couldn’t fold in the middle. Instead, she slipped and rolled onto the floor, where she landed like a turtle stuck in the mud.
In her dream, Skye, AKA Thanksgiving dinner, had been struggling to avoid her mother, who was wielding a giant meat fork and carving knife. Remnants of that nightmare surfaced when Skye realized her arms were bound to her sides and her legs pressed together by layer upon layer of Reynolds Wrap. She was completely immobilized.
Her heart pounding and her breath coming in gulps, Skye fought a rising sense of panic. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on thinking tranquil thoughts, and once she had calmed down, she discovered she could move by rolling.
Skye had just made it to the door, and had almost convinced herself that the shrieks she had heard were part of her dream, when there was another scream, this one even louder than the first two.
Shit! Why had she ever agreed to a seaweed wrap? Heck, why had she agreed to spend her holiday weekend at Scumble River’s new spa? She wasn’t a spa kind of girl. Getting naked and letting perfect strangers tell her what was wrong with her body had never appealed to Skye.
Granted, the massage had been lovely, and apparently so relaxing that she fell asleep, but where was the masseuse? Or, for that matter, anyone else? What kind of spa was this? What kind of place would wrap you up so that you were helpless, then just leave you lying around like Thanksgiving leftovers? In what kind of place did screams go unchecked? Her thoughts raced as she tried to figure out how to hoist herself upright and open the door.
Finally, Skye came up with a way to use the knob like a hook to haul herself to her feet. Once erect, she used her fingernails to tear a small hole in the foil covering her hand. Using the three fingers she had been able to poke through the slit, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.
She had just made it into the hallway when another scream echoed off the marble floors. This one sounded worse than the previous ones. Was she already too late to help?
Hopping was the only form of locomotion Skye could manage with her legs bound together, and she had to go slowly since she couldn’t risk falling and not being able to get up again. Soon she developed a rhythm of hopping, opening each door she came to in the hall, and looking inside.
The last scream had sounded close by, and as Skye approached the fourth door down, another shriek blasted through. Skye grabbed the knob, turned it, and flung herself into the room.
She had prepared herself for the worst, but even so, Skye came to an abrupt halt when she saw what was happening. Swaying, she fought to stay upright as a wave of hysteria threatened to overtake her. She stared at her best friend and school librarian, Trixie Frayne, lying spread eagle with a young woman seated between her thighs ripping out strips of wax covered in pubic hair.
Skye sank to the floor, her shoulders shaking, tears of laughter running down her cheeks. She had just rushed through the halls like a foil-covered tortilla in order to save her friend from the horrible, the feared, the deadly … Brazilian bikini wax.
“Oh, Miss, I am so sorry. Are you injured? Do you need the doctor?”
“No, Ustelle.” Skye looked up at the masseuse, who had appeared in time to see her collapse. One last hysterical giggle escaped her lips as she reassured the worried young woman, “I’m fine. Really. Just laughing at my overactive imagination.”
“How did you get in here, Miss?” Ustelle grasped Skye’s shoulders and raised her to her feet with one effortless motion—an impressive demonstration of the woman’s strength, since Skye was far from a lightweight.
“I’ll explain later.” Skye started hopping toward the door. “Just get this stuff off me.”
“Yes, Miss.” Ustelle looked back over her shoulder and fixed her younger coworker with a stern gaze. “Amber, I would be most unhappy if this incident
was talked about.”
Amber gave the masseuse a calculating glance. “What’s it worth to you?”
Ustelle’s mouth flattened as she snapped, “We’ll discuss it later.”
“Whatever.” Amber shrugged.
Ustelle’s face was red when she turned back to Skye, but she calmly guided her down the hallway and into her own treatment room. As she peeled the Reynolds Wrap from Skye, she apologized again. “I am so sorry for having left you so long. I had to make a personal call, and I did not think it would take as much time as it did.”
“Sure.” Once freed of the foil, Skye stepped into the corner shower. “I understand.”
“Please do not tell Dr. Burnett or Miss Margot.” Ustelle handed Skye a loofah. “If I lose this job, I shall be forced to return to Sweden.”
“I won’t tell them,” Skye promised, wondering if the spa owners were really so unforgiving that they would fire an employee for so minor an infraction.
“Thank you. Anything you require for the remainder of your stay, I shall take care of it for you.” Ustelle’s long blond braid bobbed as she spoke and her blue eyes shone with earnestness.
“Really. It’s nothing. Don’t worry.” Skye dried herself with the giant towel the masseuse handed her, turbaned a smaller towel around her wet hair, then slipped on the white terry robe the spa asked all its guests to wear between treatments. “I’m going to rest until dinner. We’ll just forget about this whole afternoon.”
Once Skye reached the room she was sharing with Trixie, she threw off the spa robe, which was too tight anyway. The label might say one size fits all, but clearly, the manufacturer had never met a woman above a size twelve.
Replacing the robe with the jeans and sweater she had worn upon her arrival that morning, Skye began to feel back in control. She unwound the towel from around her head and combed out her chestnut curls. When her hair lay like a wet poodle down her back, she looked at the clock. Two hours until dinner. If she wanted some quiet time to relax and decompress, she couldn’t stay in the room. Trixie would be back soon, wanting to discuss what had just happened.