Pretty is as Pretty Dies (A Myrtle Clover Mystery)

ELIZABETH SPANN CRAIG

In Memory of Ammamy grandmother, Mary Ligon Spann

PARKE STOCKARD WOULDN'T HAVE ended up popped-over-thehead dead if she hadn't been bent on mischief-making that morning. To be fair, though, she couldn't have known she'd messed with
the wrong person this time-one who solved their Parke Stockard
plight by leaving her dead at the church altar.

Waking up in her pink satin sheets that morning, she'd mulled
over spreading malevolent gossip about a local politician. While
brushing her model-quality blonde hair, she'd concocted some
nastiness for her unlucky neighbors. And, when driving her champagne-colored BMW convertible to church, she made a fateful,
threatening phone call that started her day on its slippery slope.

If Parke had-for once-rejected her baser instincts, she'd still
be happily dreaming up devilment this very day. If she'd only listened to the good Parke buried deep in the nether regions of her
murky conscience. Or had second thoughts and remembered she
was on her way to church. But she didn't and the stage was set for
murder in the sanctuary.

Early-morning summer light peeked through stained glass windows, its gentle light illuminating the flower arrangement on the
altar. The withering glare Parke leveled at the pretty blossoms should
have vaporized the intrepid bouquet on the spot. Unscathed by her
fury, the black-eyed Susans and wild daisies saucily defied her.