by Gin Jones
The blade cut into my side before Manny pushed me toward the SUV and ran down Main Street in the direction of the pier. I collapsed onto the sidewalk. Not unconscious, for once, but I almost wished I were. The pain in my side throbbed in unison with my headache, and both of them beat in time with the wail of an approaching police cruiser's siren.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I was half an hour late for my own Thanksgiving dinner party. But I had a lot to give thanks for.
First and foremost, there was Gil's rescue. Then the police department's rapid response to her call. The ambulance that arrived just a few minutes later. The EMT that pronounced the stab wound to be superficial, needing nothing more than a cleaning, some antiseptic cream, and a few butterfly bandages.
Detective Ohlsen arrived while the bandages were applied and took off just a few minutes later, after I'd explained about Manny's confession and the sampler quilt that had incriminated him. Otherwise, I might have been tempted to invite Ohlsen to join us for dinner since he obviously didn't have other plans, and at this point one more person wouldn't matter.
Before Ohlsen left, he'd arranged for an officer to give me a ride home. All the guests were there before me, and Gil had explained that Manny was the killer, although she hadn't known what the motive was. I filled that in as I helped get the turkey and side dishes onto the table.
I'd just taken a seat at the head of the table, sharing it with Matt to leave enough room—barely—for our ten guests, when someone knocked on the outer front door.
Matt jumped up. "I'll get it."
He came back a minute later with a young man I didn't recognize. He was wearing a rumpled business suit, and there were deep bags under his eyes, far too pronounced for someone who appeared otherwise to be in his early thirties.
Lindsay had her back to the new arrival, and when she turned to see who it was, she rose about an inch out of her seat before freezing and then dropping back down. She turned back to the table and picked up her napkin—someone had folded them into turkeys while they were waiting for me—acting as if it required every bit of her concentration to smooth it out on her lap.
I gave Matt an inquiring glance, and he said, "Say hello to Andy Zamora. He's a friend of Lindsay's."
Lindsay made an irritated sound. "Friends don't ignore friends for weeks at a time."
"I'm sorry." Andy moved to a spot across the table from Lindsay. He had one hand behind his back and brought it around to the front to reveal not a floral apology, as I'd expected, but three brass handbells of various sizes, all held together with the rim up and wrapped to look like a bouquet. "Forgive me? I shouldn't have put my work ahead of our relationship. I won't do it again."
Lindsay, who had never to my knowledge ever squealed with delight—not when she'd been given a raise or when her grandmother had sent flowers to the office for her birthday or even when she'd been part of a challenging peal that was completed without any errors—jumped up from her seat with a squeal and ran around to hug Andy.
"I hope you're hungry," I told Andy as Matt went to get him a plate and silverware. "We're out of chairs though, so I hope you won't mind sitting at the peninsula." It was only a few feet away from the main table, so it wasn't as bad as it sounded.
"I'll sit with him," Lindsay said, scurrying over to grab her own plate and utensils.
From then on, the meal went perfectly. The heritage breed turkey was indeed far too small for thirteen people, but half of the diners were more than happy to fill up on side dishes or eat the ham that Lawrence had been able to retrieve from his home. Matt's cousin and his friend, who turned out to be a girlfriend, were charming and grateful that we'd included them, especially since they were going to be able to tell their friends at school about eating with someone who had firsthand experience with confronting a killer.
There was enough turkey for Sunny, and that was all Stefan claimed to care about, but I noticed that he ended up wolfing down his own slice of pumpkin roll plus at least half of Sunny's piece of bourbon vanilla-bean pumpkin pie.
Dee and Emma were grateful that Brooke's killer had been caught—I got a text from Detective Ohlsen that Manny was in custody, so I didn't have to worry about his coming after me again—although Dee was outraged about the sampler quilt's cremation and was making plans to use my pictures of it to make a reproduction to be donated to the museum. She was also distracted from death and destruction by the prospect of meddling in Lindsay's and Andy's relationship. Emma gave Dee a small pad of graph paper, where she began sketching a quilt design, presumably planning ahead for her granddaughter's wedding since it featured the Wedding Ring block that had been in Brooke's sampler quilt.
Gil's boyfriend was a witty and charming addition to the gathering. His wine was a big hit, and I was feeling quite mellow by the time Lawrence organized the cleanup, and then everyone except Matt went home.
We settled in the bank-vault-turned-reading-room to relax in the upholstered love seat, with the last two remaining glasses of wine.
"Next time we do a big dinner party," I said to Matt, "we're doing it at your house. Even if we have to cook everything in the microwave."
"I'll start looking for a new oven first thing tomorrow," he promised as he wrapped his arms around me. "I told you Thanksgiving dinner was going to be fine, nothing to worry about."
"I remember," I said. "And at the time I wanted to thwap you for being so calm about it."
He laughed. "Now, about this tendency you have to keep me at arm's length."
"I'm done with that." I snuggled up to him, closing what little distance there was between us. "Nothing's ever going to come between us again. Not secrets, not thefts, not murders. From now on, I'm sharing everything with you."
* * * * *
Sweet Potato and Apple Casserole
3 large sweet potatoes
3 large apples
4 T. butter
¼ c. lemon juice
¼ c. brown sugar
¼ t. cinnamon
⅓ c. sherry (optional)
Place clean but unpeeled potatoes in large pot with enough water to cover them by an inch. Boil for thirty-five minutes or until just tender (avoid overcooking, or they'll get mushy when mixed with the apples). Drain and cool. If preparing a day or two in advance, keep them chilled. On the day of the meal, peel the potatoes and cut them into bite-sized chunks. Peel and core the apples and cut them into similar-sized chunks. Then, in a large skillet, cook apples in the butter, stirring constantly for three minutes or until softened. Stir in lemon juice, brown sugar, cinnamon, and sherry. Bring liquid to a boil and simmer for three more minutes. Add potatoes and cook for two minutes, stirring gently so as not to turn everything to mush, until heated through. Serves eight, so if you've got a huge crowd like Keely has, you'll want to double or triple the recipe. Or make extra on purpose, since leftovers taste great when reheated in the microwave.
* * * * *
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DANGER COVE BOOKS
Secret of the Painted Lady
Murder and Mai Tais
Death by Scones
Four-Patch of Trouble
Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai
Killer Closet Case
Tree of Life and Death
A Killing in the Market (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)
Killer Colada
Passion, Poison, & Puppy Dogs
A Novel Death
Robbing Peter to Kill Paul
Sinister Snickerdoodles
Heroes and Hurricanes
A Death in the Flower Garden
Divas, Diamonds & Death
A Slaying in the Orchard
>
A Secret in the Pumpkin Patch
Deadly Dirty Martinis
A Poison Manicure and Peach Liqueur
Not-So-Bright Hopes (short story in the Pushing Up Daisies collection)
Tequila Trouble
Deadly Thanksgiving Sampler
* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Gin Jones became a USA Today bestselling author after too many years of being a lawyer who specialized in ghostwriting for other lawyers. She much prefers writing fiction, since she isn't bound by boring facts and she can indulge her sense of humor without any risk of getting thrown into jail for contempt of court. In her spare time, Gin makes quilts, grows garlic, and advocates for rare disease patients.
To learn more about Gin Jones, visit her online at: http://www.ginjones.com
Elizabeth Ashby was born and raised in Danger Cove and now uses her literary talent to tell stories about the town she knows and loves. Ms. Ashby has penned several Danger Cove Mysteries, which are published by Gemma Halliday Publishing. While she does admit to taking some poetic license in her storytelling, she loves to incorporate the real people and places of her hometown into her stories. She says anyone who visits Danger Cove is fair game for her poisoned pen, so tourists beware! When she's not writing, Ms. Ashby enjoys gardening, taking long walks along the Pacific coastline, and curling up with a hot cup of tea, her cat, Sherlock, and a thrilling novel.
* * * * *
BOOKS BY GIN JONES
Danger Cove Quilting Mysteries
Four-Patch of Trouble
Tree of Life and Death
Robbing Peter to Kill Paul
Not-So-Bright Hopes (short story in the Pushing Up Daisies collection)
Deadly Thanksgiving Sampler
Danger Cove Farmers' Market Mysteries
A Killing in the Market (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)
A Death in the Flower Garden
A Slaying in the Orchard
A Secret in the Pumpkin Patch
Helen Binney Mysteries:
A Dose of Death
A Denial of Death
A (Gingerbread) Diorama of Death (holiday short story)
A Draw of Death
A Dawn of Death
A Darling of Death
A Display of Death
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
of the first Helen Binney Mystery
A DOSE OF DEATH
by
GIN JONES
CHAPTER ONE
If there was anything that annoyed Helen Binney more than people who tried to help her without waiting to be asked, it was people who were cheerful and efficient while they were providing that unwanted help.
At the moment, it was Helen's nieces who were irritating her. Laura Gray, the younger one, was cheerfully fluffing the sofa's pillows, while her older sister, Lily Binney, efficiently collected the used mugs from the coffee table and carried them to the kitchen sink. The two young women puttered around the cottage's great room that encompassed both the living room and kitchen/dining areas. They tidied things that didn't need tidying, put away things that Helen preferred left out, and just generally turned the comfortable space into a sterile box.
Helen watched her nieces from the safety of her recliner. "I like living here all by myself. It's a nice change for me after twenty years of running the governor's mansion. Go away and leave me alone."
"You don't mean that." Laura's response was as emphatic as her pillow-fluffing and rug-straightening. "We just got here."
Lily returned from the far side of the kitchen island. "She does mean it, Laura. But it doesn't matter. It's obvious that Aunt Helen can't live here alone, so she'll have to move in with one of us, where we can take care of her."
"You're talking as if I'm old and decrepit," Helen said. "I may be retired, but it was early retirement. I don't even qualify to join AARP."
"You're old in spirit," Lily said, coming to a stop behind the sofa, where she could stare down her aunt. "You always have been, according to Dad. And you admitted you were decrepit when you started to use a cane."
It wasn't her mind that was betraying her, it was her body, ravaged by a stupid, unpredictable disease. She could still count on her clear skin, thick brown hair and sharp brown eyes, but the rest of her was falling apart. Helen automatically glanced at the front door, where her cane hung from the knob, so she wouldn't forget to take it with her whenever she went out. It was a practical solution, but she hated the constant reminder of her limitations. Ever since she'd hit forty, her lupus had been taunting her, inflaming her joints, ruining her mood and stealing her independence.
"That's no way to talk to your aunt," she said, "calling me old and decrepit."
"It's the truth." Lily was naturally slender, with model-sharp cheekbones and an equally sharp mind that never forgot anything. "You're the one who told us always to tell the truth, never to hide behind the social lies that you were so good at before you decided to become a hermit."
"I was wrong." Apparently there was something worse than receiving unsolicited and unwanted help: having her own lectures quoted back at her. "Lies are good. You should tell more of them."
Laura, as soft around the edges as the pillow she hugged to her chest, sank onto the sofa. "It would be so nice if you came to live with me and Howie. I've always wanted an extended family for my children."
"You don't have any children yet," Helen said. "And when you do, you won't want me anywhere near them. Children hate me."
"I know that's not true," Laura said, her sweet, oval face becoming even more earnest. "Lily and I always adored you when we were children."
Helen adored her nieces in return, but she wasn't foolish enough to admit it right now. If she showed the least sign of weakness, she would find herself surrounded by grand-nieces and grand-nephews, and Auntie Helen would spend the rest of her life as an unpaid babysitter. She'd worked hard for the last twenty years, coddling one bunch of babies—her ex-husband and his cronies—and she wasn't about to replace them with a new set. No, her job was done, her career as the state's first lady was over, and she had every right to enjoy her retirement. Alone.
Laura smiled encouragingly, and there were still traces of the chubby little round face she'd had as a toddler.
Despite herself, Helen said, "I might be willing to visit you and your myriad of children occasionally."
"That would be lovely." By the look in Laura's eyes, she'd forgotten she was here to browbeat her aunt, and instead was daydreaming about the dozen or more babies she planned to create with her Howie.
"Never mind the babies," Lily said. "You need to decide which of us you'll live with."
"I'll disinherit both of you if you don't stop this foolishness right now."
Lily shrugged. "You probably disinherited us years ago and willed all your money to charity."
"You'll find out eventually." Most of her substantial estate was going to charity, but the girls had also been provided for. They obviously didn't consider being disinherited much of a threat, presumably because they knew she cared about them too much to actually do it, even if they did persist in helping her against her will. Whatever little leverage the threat gave her, though, was better than nothing. She was not moving out of her cottage.
"We don't need your money, Aunt Helen." Laura absently re-fluffed a pillow. "We have perfectly good jobs."
"Then how do you find the time to come bother me?" Helen said, struggling to get out of the recliner. This had gone far enough. It was time to show them to the door. "You should be at work, not spending half the day coming here to bother me."
"We don't work on Sundays." Lily said. "You know, forgetting the day of the week is one of the signs of mental disorientation."
"You are not going to commit me to a mental institution just because I sometimes lose track of the days of the week now that I'm not tied to a calendar." Helen leaned against the arm of the recliner, waiting for the ache in her hip to s
ubside enough to allow her to walk without a pronounced limp. "Especially since I know that you work plenty of weekend hours, Lily Binney, so it's perfectly logical for me to expect you to be working on a Sunday."
"Very good." Lily smiled, her face still sharp, but no longer quite as worried. Lily had never had a sweet little baby face. By the time Laura was born, Lily had already looked and acted like a miniature adult. "You're still mentally alert."
"If anyone even thinks of committing me," Helen said, "I'll get out my Rolodex. You don't want to see what happens then."
"I know what you can do with a few phone numbers," Lily said. "I'm sure it's enough to strike terror in anyone's heart."
Laura ran out of pillows to fluff. "We just want to help, Aunt Helen."
"We don't want to commit you," Lily said, letting some of her frustration show, "but we really think you should come live with one of us so you aren't alone. It isn't safe for you here."
Neither of the girls would be easy to dissuade from their current plan. Lily was single-minded and thick-skinned. Laura was easily distracted, but also easily hurt in confrontations.
"I'm perfectly fine here." Why couldn't they see how happy she was here? The cottage had always been her refuge from her public life as the governor's wife. Vacation time spent here had given her the strength to get through the rest of the year, when she'd worked long hours charming all of her husband's constituents and cronies as he worked his way up the political food chain. "I've spent a good part of every summer here alone for a dozen years. You weren't worried then."
"It's different now," Laura said. "You're older."