One Foot in the Grove

Book 1: An Olive Grove Mystery

by Kelly Lane

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

First in a delicious new mystery series about Eva Knox and her family’s Georgia olive plantation.
 
In the sweet Southern town of Abundance, Georgia, home of the Knox family’s olive farm, gossip isn’t the only thing that can kill you...
 
After leaving a man at the altar for the second time in her life, Eva Knox decides to head home to her family’s plantation to regroup and soak in some Southern charm. But hiding from her woes is a slipperier proposition than Eva imagined. For one thing, most people in town still haven’t forgiven her for leaving local boy Buck Tanner at the altar and hightailing it up north eighteen years ago. For another, a death on her family’s farm soon makes her the lead suspect in a murder case—and the sheriff investigating is none other than Eva’s old flame Buck.
 
With the police putting the squeeze on her, it’s up to Eva and her sisters, Pep and Daphne, to figure out who could have possibly left a dead body in their olive grove. And they’ll have to catch the greasy killer quickly—because it looks like Eva has been picked as the murderer’s next victim...

Release date: January 5, 2016

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 352

Sample

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

Recipes

CHAPTER 1

Okay, I admit it. I was curious. I’d lagged a bit, stepping past the beauty shop doorway. Maybe I’d wanted to check out Tammy Fae Tanner. See who her clients were. Hear for myself what they were saying about me.

Shear Southern Beauty was the only salon in Abundance County, Georgia. It was the place where every woman in town had her hair and nails done. The place where each woman sitting in shop owner Tammy Fae’s swiveling chair received an earful of her up-to-the-minute, down-home Southern dirt. And since my return home from New England a week earlier, I’d heard that all the pernicious drivel had been about me. So, naturally, I thought I’d check it out.

I’d gotten an earful.

Of course, Tammy Fae’s animosity wasn’t completely out of the blue. She happened to be the mother of Buck Tanner, the man whom I scandalously left standing at the altar, right before I ran out of town eighteen years earlier.

And I’d never returned.

That is, until another wedding-day blowout sent me packing from Boston.

Anyway, most folks weren’t out and about on that steamy August afternoon in Southern Georgia. Like my dad always said, summertime in town was hotter than blue blazes. Only tourists, mostly Northerners on vacation, fanning themselves with their “Welcome to Abundance” pamphlets from the Information Booth, ambled under the tropical palmettos, past the Victorian buildings and quaint Main Street shops that showcased hand-painted signs, charming window displays, and perfectly potted plants along the brick sidewalk.

After delivering my dad’s fresh olive oil to the Palatable Pecan restaurant, I picked up my dry cleaning and hustled a couple of doors down to Hot Pressed Tees, where, a few days earlier, I’d ordered some custom-printed shirts to promote my family’s new olive oil business. Each shirt read GEORGIA VIRGIN across the chest, with OLIVE OIL in smaller letters above an illustration of an olive branch imposed over the state of Georgia.

“These look great, Tommy!” I said to shop owner Tommy Burnside. I threw my purse strap over my shoulder. “Hopefully, we’ll sell out in no time.” I fitted the lid over the thin cardboard box of tees on the counter before loading up two more boxes of shirts in my arms. I tossed my plastic-bagged dry cleaning on top.

“Y’all have a real nice day, now,” said Tommy as he held open the door for me.

“Thanks!”

Stepping into the summer sultriness, I weaved in and out of tourists on the sidewalk as they rubbernecked and took selfies in the picture-perfect village. Then, I spied the open door at Shear Southern Beauty ahead.

I couldn’t resist.

Slowing to a stroll and peeping around my armload of bagged clothes and boxed shirts, I stared into the bay window with the giant purple shears painted on the glass. Standing in the middle of her shop, fifty-something Tammy Fae Tanner hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d seen her. That’d been at the wedding rehearsal party she’d hosted for her engaged son and me—the night before I’d run out of town eighteen years earlier.

Petite, with brown cocker spaniel eyes, a turned-up nose, and perfectly curled, shoulder-length, whiskey-colored hair, the former Miss Abundance and presiding president of the Abundance Ladies Club wore a purple apron and held a big cup, slathered full of hair color. She stood behind a tall, slender woman who sat covered in a smock with purple flowers patterned over it. With her hair all spiky in foils, the woman looked like a metallic hedgehog. As I neared the propped-open shop door, I could hear their drawly voices tittering away inside.

“Sweet-talkin’ thing’ll never land a fella,” said Tammy Fae, slapping a blob of bleach on a spike of the hedgehog’s hair. “Not the way she’s carried on. Fancy that . . . runnin’ away from another weddin’—and, in front of the whole world to see!”

The hedgehog giggled. “Even after a dog’s age, she ain’t changed a bit since high school.”

“Well, y’all just can’t piss on a man’s leg and tell ’em it’s raining. No decent fella’s gonna touch her with a ten-foot pole now.”

Tammy Fae loaded up another glob of bleach and spun the hedgehog in the swiveling chair toward the door. That’s when I stopped short, recognizing the hedgehog. It was Realtor Debi Dicer. My old nemesis. Back in high school, the popular blonde, cheerleader, and student council president had looked over my shoulder and copied all my test answers in class. And she’d adored my high school sweetheart, Buck. Often, she’d followed him to Knox Plantation when he’d been visiting me.

“Y’all know, not a one of those three Knox girls can keep a man,” sniped Debi, looking down as Tammy Fae slathered more bleach on the back of her head.

“Back in my daddy’s day, women like that would’ve been locked in the attic. The whole lot of ’em are pretentious, shameless tarts,” sniffed Tammy Fae. “Just like their mama.”

As I stood transfixed in the doorway, a young man taking snapshots bumped my elbow. My plastic-covered dry cleaning slid to the sidewalk, right in front of the shop.

“Sorry, miss. May I help you with that?”

“No worries, I’ll get it!” I whispered, shooing the man away.

Kneeling to pick up my big baggie of cleaned clothes, I tried to balance the tee shirt boxes in my arms, hoping Tammy Fae and Debi hadn’t noticed me. Except, I’d unwittingly stepped on the corner of the plastic bag. I got all caught up in myself when I tried to pull the bag from the sidewalk and not drop the boxes.

“And if y’all ask me, she’s the worst of the lot,” said Tammy Fae with a snigger. “Luring a man right to the altar, then shamelessly runnin’ away. That hussy’s stuck-up higher than a light pole.”

“For sure, that Miss Eva’s got some kinda itch that needs scratchin’!” Debi chortled. “She just can’t stop herself.”

Embarrassed at their words, I felt a rush of blood flush my cheeks. Still stooped over, I hurried backward, out of the doorway. Except, the hot plastic bag was caught on my sneaker, wrapped around and sticking to my bare leg under my cutoffs. My shoulder bag swung wildly, putting me off-balance.

“Goodness knows, her man antics and fame whoring are givin’ Abundance a bad name. Folks in the ladies club are real upset about it,” Tammy Fae huffed indignantly.

“For sure, that minx has got some balls, settin’ her foot back in this town,” laughed Debi.

“She’s no better than a common criminal, comin’ back to the scene of the crime.”

“It’s just like my honey always says, ‘A leopard can’t change her spots!’”

Finally, I snatched my dry cleaning from the sidewalk. Just then, the flimsy shirt boxes tumbled out of my arms, thudding and splitting open in the doorway. I looked up. The two women stared at me.

“Bless her heart, there she is!” hissed Tammy Fae.

I scrambled to hang on to my purse and dry cleaning while seizing the torn boxes and spilled tees from the ground. Tammy Fae gave me that disdainful, if-looks-could-kill, Southern-woman stare. Debi plastered a big ol’ pompous grin on her face.

“Eva Knox!” Debi flapped her hand to wave. “Bless your little ol’ pea-pickin’ heart! Tammy Fae and I were just talkin’ about y’all. Weren’t we, Tammy Fae?”

Tammy Fae’s expression morphed from deadly stare to supercilious smirk.

“Imagine. Y’all comin’ back to town, after all these years!” Tammy Fae sneered.

“Afternoon, ladies! So lovely to see you both.”

I scrambled to stand, squashing the battered boxes, tee shirts, dry cleaning, and purse to my chest. My heart raced, and my ears burned. I’d gotten a bigger dose of Southern scuttlebutt than I’d bargained for, and I’d made a fool of myself doing it. I was embarrassed to hear the things they’d said about me, and my family. And the duo had caught me snooping, to boot!

Mortified, I backed away from the doorway, onto the sidewalk. I couldn’t escape fast enough. Hugging my disheveled armload, I racewalked past Beasley’s Butcher Shop next door, and the Lacy Goddess Lingerie Boutique after that. I remembered how years ago, Tammy Fae had told her son, Buck, that a farmer’s daughter wasn’t good enough for him. Of course, somehow, the fact that she was a farmer’s daughter hadn’t mattered. She’d told Buck that I’d break his heart, like my mother had done to Daddy. And all through high school, and later when I’d gone to college and he’d waited, Tammy Fae had done her best to put the kibosh on her son’s relationship with me. In the end, she’d gotten her wish. So, why keep after me now? I wondered if Buck Tanner was even around anymore.

I hurried across the boulevard to my car parked in front of Duke’s Donut Shoppe. With a few minutes still left on the parking meter, I dropped the busted tee shirt boxes on the rear seat and yanked open the door of my green BMW 3 Series convertible—an engagement gift from my last fiancé. I’d be damned if I’d ever give that louse the car back. I tossed my purse on the passenger seat and draped my bag of dry cleaning over it as I slid behind the wheel. The blistering black leather seat burned the backs of my legs. Should’ve put the top up, I thought. I twisted around to the back, yanked a new tee from one of the torn boxes, and shoved the shirt under my thighs. Popping on my sunglasses, Maui Jims—another gift from my ignoble ex—I noticed in the rearview mirror that my face was beet red. Equal parts heat and humiliation.

“Welcome home, Eva.” I rolled my eyes.

I turned the key, shifted into drive, and shot onto the boulevard, heading out of the village, toward home. As I cruised past one freshly painted, gingerbread-trimmed Victorian building after another, my strawberry-blonde hair whipped around my head, free and tangled in the hot summer wind. About a mile outside town, I passed a white farmhouse with painted gnomes on a dirt lawn with scraggly rosebushes under an ancient live oak tree. An American flag hung from a pole mounted to the porch, where old Mister Moody pushed himself up from a rocking chair and waved as I drove by. I tapped the horn and waved back. Mister Moody didn’t know who I was. It didn’t matter. He’d been on that porch, waving to folks passing by, since I was a little girl. It was one of the things that I loved about my hometown.

I took a deep breath. I was starting to feel better.

In fact, despite Tammy Fae’s scurrilous beauty shop gossip—and the dubious future of my hair and nails, given that her place was the only salon in town—it felt darn good to be home. Back in Boston, the cost of living had been high. Winters had been long and cold. And friends had been few and far between. Most New Englanders were often too busy to chat as they blustered busily along crowded, noisy city streets. And, inexplicably, a woman with just a hint of a Southern accent didn’t rank as being as “smart” or “industrious” as her Northern counterparts.

By contrast, Southern Georgia’s Abundance County was a calm, bucolic place, with temperate weather and a realistic cost of living. Folks, like Mister Moody, were always ready with a neighborly wave. And, more often than not, locals meandered and stopped on the sidewalk to chitchat, saying, “I reckon,” before sharing thoughts and a smile.

In Abundance, neighbors welcomed neighbors at their kitchen doors with just-made, warm peach pies and friendly embraces. On balmy summer evenings, verandas sheltered friends and families lounging in wicker settees, playing cards, sipping sweet iced tea. And always, it was about the food. Homemade, delicious, down-home cuisine. Fried, salted, sugared, buttered. It was all good.

My stomach growled as I contemplated the evening’s menu at my family’s Knox Plantation. Chef Loretta had planned to serve up pan-fried Georgia trout with cracklin’ biscuits and a peach and pecan cake made with Daddy’s Knox Liquid Gold Extra Virgin Olive Oil. Yum.

I was real proud of Daddy and his new olive oil business. After a series of droughts, a poor economy, and decades of crummy returns for Georgia farmers, a few years earlier, he’d almost lost the family farm. Then, he’d decided to try tapping into the huge, growing domestic olive oil market. Everyone knew that cultivating olives in Georgia was a risk—although Spanish missionaries had grown olive trees in the region five hundred years earlier, no one had tried or successfully grown olives on a large scale since Thomas Jefferson’s day. And Jefferson’s vision of olive trees flourishing throughout the American Southeast had never come to fruition, mostly because winters were too long and cold, even in the South. Still, thanks to Dad’s painstaking research, new technologies, and improved cultivars, the oils made from his first crop had already garnered awards. In fact, his was the first-ever successful commercial olive operation in the Southeast. And it was my job to let the world know about it.

After my mortifying wedding-day blowout in Boston, Daddy had offered me a job as head of PR and guest relations for the family plantation. Also, behind the main plantation house, where I’d grown up—we called it the “big house”—the tiny, antique cook’s cottage was to be mine for as long as I wanted. And my dad had gotten my big sis, Daphne—who was running her own business, a guest inn at the big house—to spruce up the one-room cottage for me.

Several miles beyond the village, a heavy-duty pickup truck towing a livestock trailer passed me going the other direction. Then, another truck, towing harvesting equipment, rumbled by as I whizzed past gracious Georgian- and Federal-style mansions set well back from the road on exquisitely manicured lawns. Long, cobblestoned drives were lined with flowering peach trees, tall magnolias, ambrosia-scented camellias, and mound after mound of blooming rosebushes. The car motor hummed as I took in a heady breath of the sweetly scented air.

I zipped by dusty pickups and faded cars parked in the gravel lot outside Carter’s Country Corner Store. Inside, undoubtedly, weatherworn men in grimy overalls were sipping RC Colas and playing checkers. Same way they’d been doing for generations.

Closer to home, I passed a couple of longleaf pine forests. Typical of Southern Georgia wire grass country, the forests teemed with wildlife, including deer, turkey, rabbit, quail, and largemouth bass. And every now and again, I passed swaths of flat, sandy-soiled farmlands that harvested cotton, onions, soybeans, peanuts, pecans, blueberries, peaches, and more. The neat fields were laid out next to antique barns and rambling farmhouses—several were built before the Civil War, like my family’s place, Knox Plantation.

This was quintessential Deep South countryside. Land of exquisite charm. Natural splendor. Southern pride.

A wrinkled, old codger in a rusted Chevy pickup loaded with manure honked and waved as he accelerated and passed by. The truck backfired, enveloping me in a noxious cloud of blue smoke.

Okay. So, on the other side of Abundance there was a chemical plant and a prison. Plus, there were some spooky cemeteries and a couple of big, scary swamps in Abundance County. And lots of crappy little cinder block homes on unkempt lots on the far side of town near the railroad tracks. And if you weren’t from Abundance, you never would be from Abundance, even if you lived there the rest of your life. Honestly, when you get right to it, folks were always meddling in one another’s business—Tammy Fae Tanner and Debi Dicer weren’t the only ones. For that matter, most Abundance women could smile at your face while happily stabbing you in the back. And although they’d rather be caught dead than admit it, the men in Abundance could be just as bad.

Of course, as cold as New England winters had been, Southern Georgia summers were crazy hot and stiflingly humid, with the wildest electrical storms I’d ever seen. And bugs—well, I’d forgotten how huge they could be—the Hercules beetles were bigger than my thumb. Then, there were snakes—copperheads, diamondbacks, cottonmouths—and they were just the venomous kind. As little girls, my sisters and I learned right quick how to tell a bad snake from a good snake. Good snakes got a free pass; bad snakes got the spade—a job always left for middle sister Pep and me because our oldest sister, diva Daphne, couldn’t be caught dead handling a “tool,” even if her life depended on it.

I glanced at the speedometer and clucked my tongue.

“Not too fast.”

I still had Massachusetts plates on the car. And I knew to watch for speed traps. As long as I could remember, deputies considered it “sport” to catch speeding out-of-town motorists. Growing up, everyone knew Sheriff Titus rewarded deputies who’d dispensed the most traffic tickets with gift certificates to Woody’s Gun Shop.

Oh—there’s that. Guns. And hunting. People came from all over to hunt in Abundance. I hated guns. And I disliked hunting. Still, tourists who came to hunt and fish in Abundance helped stave off development and maintain the longleaf pine and grassland forest, one of the most diverse and endangered ecosystems in the world.

I rounded Benderman’s Curve, and a giant white heron soared across the road ahead of me. Moments later, I motored through a tunnel of live oak trees that made a green canopy over the road. Gobs of Spanish moss hung from the ancient, twisted branches overhead. I slowed, breathing in the summery sweet scents of the Southern Georgia countryside. Lush and alive, Abundance County was my home. Heading out of the verdurous tunnel, I punched the accelerator and cruised toward Knox Plantation. Happy to be home, I was eager to get back on my feet again.

CHAPTER 2

Blusters of wind exposed the undersides of leaves on giant live oaks lining the Knox Plantation drive. As I motored toward the big house, surrounded by acres of sprawling lawns and gardens, dark clouds crowded an early-evening sun, bruising the late-summer sky. A storm would roll in soon.

Scents of freshly cut grass mingled with the sweet perfumes of roses and fragrant “August lily” hostas seduced my senses as I pulled up to the white clapboard Knox family plantation house. A mix of neo-Gothic and Victorian styles with peaked red metal roofs and second-story balconies, the pre–Civil War home was fairly modest as far as antebellum plantations go. Like most Southern Georgia settlers who’d been independently minded and poorer than their Northern Georgia cousins, my ancestors had labored on their farmland almost entirely without slave labor. The main house at Knox Plantation had been built for a large, working family.

I parked at the side of the house below the wraparound porch, put up the convertible top, and stepped out onto the gravel drive just as an earsplitting engine roared from the backyard. A vintage “superbike” Kawasaki Zephyr 1100 motorcycle—restored, repainted red with a retro paint scheme, and upgraded to the max with top-of-the-line performance parts—blasted around the corner of the house, spewing gravel everywhere. Billy Sweet, my middle sister Pep’s husband, never acknowledged me as he hurtled past, hunched over the handlebars, wearing black-leather everything with silver chains, studs, motorcycle boots, and a big red helmet. Sporting over-the-knee leather boots and some sort of strapless, miniskirted, black-leather affair, my thirty-something sister, Pep, sat behind her husband on the bike, her bare arms wrapped tightly around his waist. “Pep” is short for Pepper-Leigh, but don’t tell her that I told you that—the only person who calls her “Pepper-Leigh” is our oldest sister, Daphne, and Pep can’t stand it. Anyway, with the earsplitting engine roar and a huge silver helmet domed over her tiny head, it was difficult to hear Pep as she waved and called out, “Seeeee yah-wwwwwl!” The couple peeled down the drive in a spray of smoke and gravel.

A screen door up at the house slammed shut.

“Thank goodness y’all are finally back!” cried Daphne from behind the porch railing. Daphne’s Southern drawl was thick and deep. Although we’d all grown up together, Daphne spoke with a far more pronounced drawl than Pep, and certainly way more than me, with my watered-down accent from all my years in New England. Still, I loved Daphne’s manner of speaking. It was all part of her elegant Southern veneer. My forty-something sister reveled in being the quintessential Southern belle, and she played the role to the max.

Tall and lithe, the epitome of perfection, and usually dressed in soft, feminine designer clothing, on that evening Daphne wore an uncharacteristically long, baglike linen tunic. Even more bizarre, her head was completely covered by a fancy silk scarf. Like a burka, she’d wrapped the big silk square around her head and shoulders, leaving just a slit for her eyes.

Daphne had four girls—Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. She’d named them after the characters in Little Women, one of her two favorite books. Up on the porch, she gripped the hand of her youngest daughter, six-year-old Amy, who was wrestling to free herself as she clutched a metal lunch box to her chest. Like a perfect doll, Amy, was donning a beribboned pink dress with a poofy tulle skirt, suggesting a model little Southern belle. Unfortunately, the dress looked like a Halloween costume on poor Amy, who was anything but a “belle.”

Like her mother, Amy was pretty, slender, and fair skinned. Except, unlike her mother, who cherished all things ethereal and feminine, little Amy had a hankering for all things dark and creepy. During the children’s summer visit to Daphne’s ex-husband—pro ballplayer Bernard “Boomer” Bouvier, who’d remained in the marital home in Atlanta after the divorce—Amy had gotten ahold of some hair color and had dyed her waist-length, strawberry-blonde hair jet-black. Most likely, an older sibling had conspired in the offense, but no one copped to it. Regardless, against her fair, freckled skin, pale eyes, and blonde eyelashes, Amy’s long raven hair gave the child an eerie, otherworldly appearance. In the froufrou mini belle outfit, Amy looked like a wee Vampira dressed for a cotillion. And she didn’t like it one bit.

“Eva, I need y’all to help me tonight!” Daphne sounded completely exasperated as Amy wriggled to get free. “Earlene Azalea just dropped off Amy from her Bloomin’ Belles cotillion class in town.”

Daphne had convinced her best friend, Earlene Azalea Greene, to send her youngest daughter, Ertha Mae, along with Amy, to a finishing school, of sorts, for kindergarteners and first graders because, according to Daphne, “it’s never too early to learn good Southern manners.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” I said. “Amy, sweetie, did you have fun at your cotillion class tonight?”

Amy just scowled as her mother lamented, “Oh, Eva! I’m so chagrinned! I don’t know how I’ll face anyone in town, ever again! Amy was dismissed early after they discovered she’d brought that dreadful pet snake with her to class—in her new Amelia Bedelia lunch box!”

Amy stamped a foot and let out a grunt. Daphne’s heavy gold charm bracelet jingled as she kneeled down and hugged Amy still.

“Fiddle-dee-dee, child, stop your fussin’ this minute!”

No surprise, after Little Women, Daphne’s second favorite book was Gone with the Wind. Growing up, her role model had been Scarlett O’Hara, and she used to quote Scarlett ad nauseam. Unfortunately, she still did on occasion, and “fiddle-dee-dee” was one of her favorites.

Amy let out a yowl.

Daphne scolded, “Miss Amy! We’ve got important guests inside. They’ve come all the way from New York for our Southern hospitality and a little peace and quiet—I don’t reckon they’re takin’ kindly to your yammerin’ out here.”

“Daph, what’s with the head wrap?” I stepped in front of the car to the edge of the porch.

“Don’t y’all know? I’ve had a drrrr-eadful accident,” said Daphne as she stood.

Amy spun herself free from her mother’s grasp and twirled over to a big wicker chair on the porch, where she plopped down, kicking the chair leg and scowling with her arms folded against the lunch box cradled to her chest. Daphne studied her daughter for a moment before clucking her tongue and looking down at me in the parking area below.

“Eva, I’d be much obliged for y’all to help. Everyone’s abandoned me, and Chef Loretta can’t handle all the cookin’ and servin’ by herself. We’ve got important guests from New York, it’s the first week of school, and I’ve got to help the children with their homework and get them fed and ready for bed. Amy’s bein’ quite contrary, and Little Boomer is coming down with the sniffles.”

Daphne’s fifth and youngest child was Boomer, named after his athlete father. To distinguish one from the other, the child was known as “Little Boomer” and his father up in Atlanta was “Big Boomer.” The Little Women thing was bad, but how Daphne could name her child “Boomer,” I’ll never know, especially given her high-mindedness.

Amy kicked the chair. Daphne prattled on.

“Daddy is away in Texas this week. Pepper-Leigh just took off with that hooligan husband of hers for some sort of rock concert that she swears they bought tickets to a year ago.” Daphne pulled the wrapped scarf down from her nose and honked into a lacy handkerchief. “I hesitate to say anything negative about anyone, but I must say, I’ve never understood what Pepper-Leigh sees in him. Although, I guess we should be grateful he decided to step away from the gamblin’ table for at least one night.”

I waited as Daphne honked into the hankie again.

“And, much to my utter astonishment, Charlene and Darlene took the night off without telling me in advance, presumably so they could go to the same inauspicious concert! Who’s goin’ to serve our guests tonight? I should’ve never hired those twenty-something twins of Earlene Azalea’s . . . they’re too immature, not at all hardworking or conscientious like their mama. And I can’t fire them because I’ll insult my best friend. Honestly, if Charlene and Darlene spent half the time cleaning around here as they do texting, we’d have a five-star rating in no time. At least they’re each cute as a button, and the guests do seem to appreciate that. Anyhoo, other than you, the only other person left to help me tonight is Leonard.”

“Leonard?”

“Yes. You know, the field guide I hired last month. He’s out driving around somewhere in Chef Loretta’s car, supposedly getting ice. We’re nearly out. And apparently, he doesn’t have hi