Scoop to Kill

Table of Contents

 

 

“This lighthearted peek into small-town secrets and rumors carries enough good humor, emotional honesty, plot twists, and recipes to entertain and satisfy.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A delightful amateur sleuth that is not only exciting but also never melts down.”

—
Midwest Book Review

“Watson takes the mystery reader on a wild Texas stampede in
I Scream, You Scream. . . .
Humor abounds and the novel features lively, interesting characters.”

—Gumshoe

OBSIDIAN

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

First Printing, September 2010

Copyright © Wendy Watson, 2010

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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 recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

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eISBN : 978-1-101-18845-3

M
y deepest thanks to my agent, Kim, and my editor, Sandy, for their patience and guidance through some very rocky waters. Fingers crossed there’s smoother sailing ahead. I absolutely could not have written this book without the love and support of my friends and family: Patty Watson, Karen Watson, Lois Clary, Cleone and Stuart Hawkinson, Elizabeth Oldmixon, Lisa Solowiej, Emily Clough, and the Lit Girls. And I can’t do much of anything at all without the love and support of my husband, Peter.

Some special people have come into my life since I began writing the Mysteries à la Mode, people who have shown me the meaning of selfless generosity: Thom Anderson, Heather Webber, Misa Ramirez, Lorna Barrett, Jennifer Stanley, Leann Sweeney, and the amazing folks at Beth Marie’s Old Fashioned Ice Cream.

“I
can’t even believe that womanis related to me.”

“Alice, honey, I hate to tell you, but you and your mama are like two kits in a litter. Hardheaded, tenderhearted, and too smart for your own good.” I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. “Too smart for
my
own good.”

Alice folded her arms across her chest and cocked a skinny hip. She still looked more like a child than a woman, and I had a tough time remembering that she was finishing up her first year at Dickerson University. “That is so not true, Aunt Tally. I would never in a million years show up at a formal event looking like a hoochie.”

I studied my cousin, Alice’s mama, trying to see her through her precocious teenage daughter’s eyes. Bree Michaels wore a vibrant pink tank dress that clung to every luscious curve of her statuesque form. A beam of late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the atrium windows of Sinclair Hall, brightening her bouffant updo to a glossy maraschino cherry red. And when she threw her head back and laughed at one of her admirers’ quips, her abundant décolletage frothed like freshly whipped cream until I thought she might overflow her D cups. She looked like a sexy strawberry sundae, and the men surrounding her—from adolescents to octogenarians—practically drooled on her three-inch spike heels.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Alice tugging on the cuffs of her prim white cotton dress shirt, and I smothered a chuckle.

“In your mama’s defense, the invitation called this shindig a ‘reception,’ and they’re serving barbecue and ice cream. Not exactly black tie and tails.”

“You know what I mean,” Alice huffed. “You dressed appropriately.”

I glanced down at my own outfit, a knee-length black skirt and French blue wrap shirt. “I look like a waitress,” I muttered.

“Better a waitress than a call girl.”

“Show a little respect, Alice. And cut your mama some slack. She’s terrified she’s going to embarrass you today.”

Alice snorted.

“Seriously. Bree was a hot mess this morning. She tried on three different outfits and spent an hour on her hair, and she was still shaking so bad I thought she’d collapse the minute we walked in here and saw all the posters and displays.”

My niece nibbled on her lower lip, and I could see the wheels turning behind eyes as wide and blue as the prairie sky. “Mom’s no shrinking violet,” she insisted.

“You’re right. Bree’s cocky as heck when she’s on her own turf. When she’s singing karaoke at the Bar None or scooping cones at Remember the A-la-mode. But Honor’s Day on a college campus? Scares the piddle out of her.” I wrapped an arm around Alice’s scrawny shoulders and pressed a kiss to the silky hair at her temple. “Your mother is so freakin’ proud of you, little girl. Just turned seventeen and you’re presenting a research project at a prestigious private university? When she was your age, your mama had just gotten hitched to husband number one and was living in a camper in her in-laws’ side yard. She doesn’t want to hold you back, kiddo.”

Alice leaned in to me, and I gave her a little squeeze. Underneath the eighty-pound attitude, she was a great kid.

Before we could get any gooier, a smartly dressed woman emerged from the curtained platform that ran along one side of the atrium and made a beeline for us. I put her somewhere in her early to midthirties. Her caramel-colored hair fell just past her angular jaw in a chic asymmetrical bob, and funky tortoiseshell glasses rested on her aquiline nose. As she strode closer, I could see the nubby weave of her ankle-length gray dress and eggplant jacket, maybe linen or hemp. The name tag pinned to her breast read DR. EMILY CLOWPER, DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH.

“Alice, have you seen Bryan?” she snapped. Like a pit viper on speed, she vibrated with barely controlled energy.

“No, Dr. C.,” Alice said. “Reggie said he was still running off programs.”

Emily glanced at her watch, clearly irritated. “Figures. Go find him, will you? It’s time to get this show on the road.”

Alice slipped from under my arm and trotted off without a backward glance.

I held out my hand. “Hi. I’m Tally Jones.”

Emily looked at my hand like it was a riddle to be solved before grasping it and giving it a single bone-wrenching shake.

“You make the ice cream,” she said.

I smiled. “Have you tried it? The university is serving cones of honey-vanilla bean, raspberry mascarpone, and chocolate truffle out by the barbecue.”

“Diabetic.”

“Oh.” Alice raved about Emily Clowper’s brilliant mind, but she sure couldn’t carry a conversation.

She looked at her watch again and sighed.

“Uh, thank you for taking Alice under your wing. She loves working for you.”

Emily’s mouth softened into something approaching a smile. “The pleasure is mine. This paper she’s presenting today on the misogynist subtext of
Robin-son Crusoe
is graduate-level work. I’m not a Freudian, but she’s made a compelling case for the island as a symbol of dehumanized female sexuality.”

“Oh.”

“Her mother?”

“What? Oh, no. Aunt. Well, actually first cousin once removed.” One of her eyebrows shot up, and I felt like I’d got caught passing notes in class. “I’m her aunt.”

I glanced nervously across the room to where Bree continued to hold court. This woman would make Bree cry.

When I looked back at Emily, her attention had moved to something—or someone—behind me. Now there was no mistaking her smile or the crinkling at the corners of her eyes, the subtle softening of her posture.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Finn,” she said.

My heart did a somersault in my chest as I turned to find Finn Harper standing at my shoulder, a camera hanging from a strap around his neck. His mouth curled in a devilish smile, and I couldn’t tell whether the heat in his velvet green eyes was for me or for Emily.

Either way, I wanted to curl up in a tiny ball and die.

My relationship with Finn remained uncertain. After a near twenty-year absence, he had returned to Dalliance about six months ago to take care of his ailing mother. A bizarre set of circumstances threw us together, and I flirted with the notion that we’d pick up our teenage romance right where we’d left off.