by Kylie Logan
Praise for the national bestselling League of Literary Ladies Mysteries
“This highly addictive series continues with a clever storyline, quirky characters and an ideal island location. As the mystery evolves and the main character realizes the parallels to Agatha Christie’s famous novel, the suspense intensifies, and the twists and turns keep on coming.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Kylie Logan has created a cast of characters with whom readers will feel invested, as their histories are played out throughout the series . . . The plot, a surprisingly complex one in this third of the series, never suffers from the focus on character development. Literature, the struggle of authors, and friendship among women make this an absorbing read—a spookily good book with an even greater mystery.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
“Logan has fun with this unusual story, intimate setting, and feisty characters, and readers will, too.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“This is one of my favorite series. What could be more fun than a mystery series that is about a reluctant book club? I love how the mysteries run parallel to the book the League of Literary Ladies are reading.”
—MyShelf.com
“One of my favorite cozy mystery writers . . . What great characters Kylie Logan has created.”
—Fresh Fiction
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kylie Logan
Button Box Mysteries
BUTTON HOLED
HOT BUTTON
PANIC BUTTON
BUTTONED UP
League of Literary Ladies Mysteries
MAYHEM AT THE ORIENT EXPRESS
A TALE OF TWO BIDDIES
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HARLOW
AND THEN THERE WERE NUNS
GONE WITH THE TWINS
Chili Cook-off Mysteries
CHILI CON CARNAGE
DEATH BY DEVIL’S BREATH
REVENGE OF THE CHILI QUEENS
Ethnic Eats Mysteries
IRISH STEWED
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Connie Laux
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: 9780698407299
First Edition: March 2017
Cover art by Dan Craig
Cover design by George Long
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.
Version_1
Contents
Praise for the national bestselling League of Literary Ladies Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kylie Logan
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
For Hooligan Apollo, who really is gone with the wind
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every book is its own adventure, and Gone with the Twins is no exception. Brainstorming, research, plotting, planning. If it were a linear process, it would certainly be easier, but of course, the creative mind doesn’t work that way. In reality, it’s more like brainstorming, researching, oh no that’s not going to work, brainstorming again, etc.
The good news (and it’s really amazing when you think about it) is that the book does get written, and as always when a book is finished, I have plenty of people to thank:
My agent, my editor, the writers in my brainstorming group who so generously share their time and talents. Thank you Shelley Costa, Serena Miller, and Emilie Richards! To my email buddy, Maureen Child, thank you for listening to me not only plot and plan, but moan and complain, too.
And of course while all this creativity is going on, there’s real life to deal with, too. Thank you to my family, who help get me through the everyday joys and chores and problems. David always reads my first chapters to make sure I’m telling just enough to get readers reacquainted with my characters and not too much to overwhelm them. Thank you for the first look!
Gone with the Twins gave me a chance to revisit South Bass Island, and as always, I have to thank everyone there for being so welcoming. If you’re ever near Lake Erie, pay them a visit!
1
“Fiddle-dee-dee!”
The real question—at least for me—wasn’t where Chandra Morrisey had found the elegant white lace fan she swept back and forth in front of her face when the exclamation oozed out of her, but where on earth her exaggerated Southern drawl had come from. South Bass Island, three miles from the Ohio shore in Lake Erie, is not exactly dripping with Spanish moss or known for its grits.
“The woman has more nerve than Carter’s got liver pills.” As if to reinforce exactly what I was thinking, this added pronouncement from Chandra had more Southern belle aplomb than had ever been heard north of the Mason-Dixon Line, and to emphasize it, she tossed her head in a way that made her blunt-cut blond hair bob in the summer sunshine that streamed through the windows of the Island Yacht Club. Her eyes narrowed, she shot a look across the room to where Vivien Frisk held court, two men on either side of her. “She thinks the sun comes up just to hear her crow.”
“Whatever!” It was early, but when a waiter walked by with a tray full of drinks, Kate Wilder grabbed a mimosa and downed half the glass in one gulp. “Bea, who can we blame for creating this monster?” she asked me. “And is it ever going to end?”
Believe me, I felt Kate’s pain.
“It’s my fault,” I admitted. “I’m the one who said she could choose the book for this discussion.”
“Gone with the Wind.” Kate rolled eyes the same color as the club’s neatly manicured lawn. “I guess it’s a good thing we’re not reading Dracula or she’d be running around biting necks.”
“I know who her first victim would be.” I slid a look across the room just in time to see Vivien toss back her head and laugh. Like everyone else on South Bass, I knew Vivien’s reputation was anything but spotless.
Cutthroat.
Vindictive.
Selfish.
I’d heard all those words and more uttered in the same sentence as Vivien’s name. Still, Chandra’s reaction was over the top. Even for Chandra.
Interested, I stepped back and watched
the drama that played out in front of me. Chandra, resplendent that morning in a long yellow skirt, an orange top, and sparkling sandals, shooting daggers of death across the room at Vivien, who looked pretty (as always) in a white summer dress dusted with a tiny print of green flowers. The dress had a nipped waist, a wide skirt, and a neckline that was just high enough to be appropriate for the occasion, and just low enough to show off the smooth sweep of Vivien’s milky shoulders to best advantage.
Vivien batted her dark lashes and pouted at the middle-aged man stationed on her left.
Chandra ground her teeth.
“You knew she would be here,” I said. “You knew she was hosting the event. Maybe you shouldn’t have come.”
“Y’all can’t be serious.” In one slick move, Chandra spun away from watching Vivien, tapped the fan closed, and whacked me on the arm with it. In a ladylike way, of course. “How could I not come and pay my respects to Mizz Estelle? Why, everyone just adored Mizz Estelle.”
“And no one ever called her Mizz Estelle.” Clearly the charm (oh, how I use the word loosely!) of Chandra’s Southern persona had not penetrated the aura of pragmatism that Kate carried like a shield. When she glanced Chandra’s way, her lips were set in a thin line. “It was always just Estelle. Or Ms. Gregario, to those who didn’t know her well. You know that, Chandra. You knew the woman all your life.”
“Ex-act-ly.” It says something about just how far gone Chandra was when she dared to tap-tap-tap the sleeve of Kate’s gray linen jacket with said fan to the beat of the syllables. “Which is precisely why I knew I had to be here.” She sighed and pressed a hand to her heaving bosom. “There is a certain honor we owe the dead, and Mizz Estelle’s passing, it surely affected me clear through to my bones. Even with being so upset and all”—she lifted her chin and clenched her jaw—“I knew I had to be here to honor her memory. Just like we should all express our admiration and appreciation for those brave young men who gave their all for the noble Confederate cause.”
“Really?” Let’s face it, there’s only so much even I can take. When that waiter zipped by again, it was my turn to grab a drink. I held the stemmed glass in a death grip and pinned Chandra with a look. “Could you drop the Scarlett act? We get it. We really do. You love the book we’re reading.”
“I more than love it!” Chandra’s sigh tickled the morning air. “I want to live it. It’s so wonderfully romantic. So completely absorbing. So absolutely—”
“Phony.” It may have been just a coincidence that this opinion popped out of my mouth exactly at the moment Levi Kozlov walked into the gathering to honor island real estate agent Estelle Gregario’s life.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t.
Once upon a time, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away and in a universe even more unrealistic than Chandra’s notion of the antebellum South, I couldn’t think of romance without thinking about Levi. But that was before I fell into bed with him—and found out afterward that though I’d always known him as the owner of one of the island’s most successful bars, he was actually a private investigator who’d been hired by my (former, once I learned what was going on and fired him) attorney to live on the island so he could keep an eye on me.
The truth had come out a couple of months before, and still, just thinking about it made my blood pressure rise and my blood boil in response. Even a sip of mimosa didn’t cool it off.
Which didn’t mean I couldn’t be an adult about the whole thing. I mean, more of an adult than I’d been when I found out what a conniving, weaselly rat Levi was and whacked him over the head with a wet mop.
I set the thought aside and, ever the adult, refused to back down. She might not be Scarlett O’Hara, but for the moment at least, Chandra was my role model. When Levi headed in our direction, I lifted my head, set my chin, and steadied my shoulders, just as Chandra had done a few minutes before when she sang the praises of the dead Rebs. It wasn’t easy to keep my cool, considering how delicious he looked. Khakis, a crisp blue dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, a navy blazer. Levi is tall, broad, and golden-haired. He’s got a chipped-from-granite chin, a voice so husky it sounds like he’s just slugged down a shot of really good brandy, and a sculpted-by-the-gods chest. The rest of him is mighty fine, too. I know this from firsthand experience.
When he stepped over to say hello, I managed a tight smile.
His own smile was far more relaxed. Or at least it looked that way, and I silently cursed him for being able to carry it off. He blessed Chandra, Kate, and finally me with that megawatt smile, and I did my best to ignore the tiny flame of heat that licked my insides. “No Luella this morning?”
“Working her little fingers to the bone over on the boat of hers!” Yes, Chandra really did press the back of one hand to her forehead and close her eyes in forbearance as if she were the one who was toting that barge and lifting that bail. “She’ll be along. Don’t you worry,” she added for Levi’s benefit.
He glanced my way, his honey-colored eyebrows raised.
With a wave of one hand, I told him to ignore our ingenue.
“So . . .” As the owner of Wilder Winery, Kate has the instincts of an astute businesswoman and the experience of walking a fine line when it’s called for. She glanced from me to Levi and I swear I could see the wheels working inside her head—she wondered which of us would crack first.
I guess she knew it was sure to be a draw because she filled the uncomfortable moment with small talk.
“Estelle sold you the bar, didn’t she?” Kate asked Levi, even though she already knew the answer. “She sold Bea her house, too.”
This was no secret. Not to Levi or to anyone else.
A waitress drifted by, and he grabbed a glass of sparkling water from her tray. “She was a classy lady, and as smart as they come. A lot of us have good memories of Estelle.”
“And not such good ones of that niece of hers.” Chandra was so busy swiveling a look in Vivien’s direction, she actually forgot the Southern drawl. “She’s as sneaky as Estelle was honest. As nasty as Estelle was nice. Rumor has it her real estate agency isn’t doing well at all. That’s no surprise! She should have known better than to go up against Estelle when it came to island real estate. Who would want to deal with a woman like Vivien? She’s lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.”
From the Southern belle she so wanted to be, this particular comment might have packed a little more oomph. Without the accent and coming out of regular ol’ Chandra, who’d been an island resident since she was born and made her living reading tarot cards and crystals for tourists, it made me bite my lip to contain a giggle.
Kate didn’t bother to hide her laughter and Chandra didn’t appreciate her reaction one bit. She sniffed. “You’ve heard all the same stories I have, Kate,” she snapped. “Even with as desirable as island real estate is, Vivien practically has to get on her knees and beg people to be her clients. Why, even when she was sick, Estelle closed more deals. Vi-vien”—she bit the name in two—“Vivien hasn’t made one sale since last fall. Not since she sold Tara to—”
Chandra snapped her mouth shut and a color that matched her flamingo-pink nail polish raced into her cheeks. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Sorry, Bea,” she mumbled.
Irritation bristled up my spine and my stomach clenched. I covered my reaction with a careful sip of my drink and stepped just the tiniest bit to my left, farther from Levi. Better that than having him pick up on the fact that every muscle in my body tensed.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about, Chandra,” I said. “It’s no secret that Tara is open for business or that it’s a B and B that competes with mine.”
Chandra may be our island flake, but she has a heart of gold. Of the four Ladies in our Literary League—me, Kate, Luella, and Chandra—she’s the one who always lets it all hang out, emotion-wise, the one who’s the softest touch, the one who might be a little wack
y, but is never mean. Her gray eyes misted. “I know, I know. But they’re stealing all your business. Tara is filled to overflowing and has been since summer started, and your place . . .” She brushed a hand against her cheek. “Well, I know you’ve had empty rooms, Bea, and you’ve never had empty rooms before, and you know it’s just because Tara is new and people are dying to see it, I mean because of the fabulous decorating and the charm and how they’re playing up the whole Southern plantation thing. And with the Civil War costume party gala they’re hosting next weekend to raise money for the island’s historical society . . .”
Chandra’s cheeks paled and she swayed inside her sparkly sandals. “Oh my goodness, I shouldn’t have chosen Gone with the Wind as our book this month! I never thought of it. I swear, I never did. I just wanted to pick a book that was wonderful and romantic. If I’d made the connection between that Tara and our Tara—”
I might be irritated but I wasn’t heartless. I managed a smile and put a calming hand on Chandra’s trembling arm. “I told you, none of it is your fault. You’re right—tourists are always interested in what’s new. That’s why they’re flocking to Tara and the gala.”
“And because of the Twins, of course.” Kate’s words were as acid as the expression on her face, and she didn’t apologize for either. “Oh come on, we all know it’s true. It’s like watching a car accident. Even if the wrecked cars are on the other side of the highway, everyone rubbernecks. They can’t help themselves. Most peoples’ lives are pretty dull, so they live vicariously through the people they call celebrities. They don’t care who those people are or what they’re famous for, all they want is a taste of the drama. Those Champion twins are—”
“Business people. Like all of us are business people.” I congratulated myself—I had actually made this sound as logical and unemotional as I’d hoped I would. Tell that to the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. This was the second summer that Bea & Bees—my charming Victorian inn—had been open for business, and for the first time, I’d had a rash of cancellations, days with no phone calls inquiring about rates and open dates, weeks with no hits on my website, and no comments on those travel review sites, except for a one-star bashing from some guy named Juan who claimed his room wasn’t clean, the neighbors were loud, and breakfast would have been better had he picked it up at a fast-food joint.