Dead Between the Lines Read online

  PRAISE FOR DEVEREAUX’S DIME STORE MYSTERIES

  Nickeled-and-Dimed to Death

  “Delightful. . . . Readers will look forward to seeing more of the quick-witted Dev.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A fabulously entertaining read. The pace is quick, the prose is snappy, and the dialogue is sharp.”

  —The Maine Suspect

  “Peopled with unique characters, Ms. Swanson’s books are always entertaining.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Quite the caper. [Swanson] is masterful in her storytelling.”

  —Romantic Times

  Little Shop of Homicide

  “Swanson puts just the right amount of sexy sizzle in her latest engaging mystery.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Veteran author Swanson debuts a spunky new heroine with a Missouri stubborn streak.”

  —Library Journal (Starred Review)

  “A new entertaining mystery series that her fans will appreciate. . . .With a touch of romance in the air, readers will enjoy this delightful cozy.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Swanson has a gift for portraying small-town life, making it interesting, and finding both the ridiculous and the satisfying parts of living in one. I wish Dev a long and happy shelf life.”

  —AnnArbor.com

  “A top-notch new mystery . . . all the right ingredients for another successful series.”

  —Romantic Times

  PRAISE FOR THE SCUMBLE RIVER MYSTERY SERIES

  “I enjoy every minute of every book in this series.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Charlaine Harris

  “Endearing . . . quirky . . . a delight.” —Chicago Tribune

  “Bounces along with gently wry humor and jaunty twists and turns. The quintessential amateur sleuth: bright, curious, and more than a little nervy.”

  —Agatha Award–winning author Earlene Fowler

  “Charming, insightful.”

  —Carolyn Hart, author of Death Comes Silently

  “[A] lively, light, and quite insightful look at small-town life.”

  —The Hartford Courant

  “A fun and fast-paced mystery. . . . Reading about Scumble River is as comfortable as being in your own hometown.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “Top-notch storytelling, with truly unique and wonderful characters.”

  —CrimeSpree Magazine

  “Smartly spins on a solid plot and likable characters.”

  —South Florida Sun-Sentinel

  “Denise Swanson keeps getting better and better . . . unforgettable reads!”

  —Roundtable Reviews

  “A magnificent tale written by a wonderful author.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Denise Swanson hits all the right notes in this brisk and witty peek at small-town foibles and foul play.”

  —Romantic Times (Top Pick)

  Also by Denise Swanson

  DEVEREAUX’S DIME STORE MYSTERIES

  Little Shop of Homicide

  Nickeled-and-Dimed to Death

  SCUMBLE RIVER MYSTERIES

  Murder of a Stacked Librarian

  Murder of the Cat’s Meow

  Novella: Dead Blondes Tell No Tales

  Murder of a Creped Suzette

  Murder of a Bookstore Babe

  Murder of a Wedding Belle

  Murder of a Royal Pain

  Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry

  Murder of a Botoxed Blonde

  Murder of a Real Bad Boy

  Murder of a Smart Cookie

  Murder of a Pink Elephant

  Murder of a Barbie and Ken

  Murder of a Snake in the Grass

  Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

  Murder of a Sweet Old Lady

  Murder of a Small-Town Honey

  Dead Between the Lines

  A Devereaux’s Dime Store Mystery

  Denise Swanson

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Denise Swanson Stybr, 2014

  Penguin 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 to continue to publish books for every reader.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  ISBN 978-1-101-61559-1

  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.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Praise

  Also by Denise Swanson

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  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

  EPILOGUE

  Excerpt from Murder of a Needled Knitter

  To the real Stepping Out Book Club. You gals rock! Thank you for the inspiration.

  CHAPTER 1

  Well, this was awkward. In my head, I could hear my grandmother, Birdie, yelling, “Devereaux Ann Sinclair, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” Ann wasn’t my real middle name, but little details like that never stood in Gran’s way when she was truly ticked off at me.

  I slid a cautious glance to my left. My shop, Devereaux’s Dime Store and Gift Baskets, boasted three soda-fountain stools, and two of them were occupied by men who had recently kissed me silly. In the antique Bradley & Hubbard cast-iron mirror hanging behind the counter, I could see them sitting shoulder to shoulder, glaring at each other. The gilt cherub on top of the glass smirked back at them.

  Being the coward that I am, I ignored the two rivals for my affection and forced my poor weekend clerk, Xylia Locke, to deal with them while I stayed firmly behind my beloved 1920s brass cash register, ringing up the purchases of the last few, lingering customers. As I bagged Mr. Williams’s Lucky Tiger liquid cream shave, I wondered what my straightlaced employee thought of the two smoldering men in front of her, or, for that matter, what her opinion was of my less than orderly life. Xylia was majoring in business administration at the local junior college, and she hated it
when life—especially the emotional part—got muddled, chaotic, or messy.

  Xylia liked her world to be neat and tidy. She was a woman who never appeared in public in anything but perfectly tailored slacks and sweater sets in muted colors. In fact, when I had first hired her, she’d offered to take a pay cut in exchange for not having to wear a sweatshirt with the store logo embroidered on the front. I’d been a little insulted that she didn’t want to have my name across her chest, but I’d swallowed my pride and agreed to her proposal.

  Even the small amount of money I saved on her salary was a godsend to my cash-starved bottom line. Because while quitting my consulting job at Stramp Investments and buying the dime store had reduced my round-trip commute from two hours to fifteen minutes, and cut the time I spent at work almost in half, it had also shrunk my income from six figures to nearly poverty level. So even if it bruised my ego a bit that Xylia didn’t like my sweatshirt design, any way that I could keep my books in the black was okay with me.

  The change in career path, aspirations, and lifestyle had all been worth it, because it had enabled me to spend extra time with my grandmother. When Birdie’s doctor had informed me that Gran needed me to be around more due to her memory issues, I knew it was my turn to help her. How could I do anything less, since she had been the one who had taken me in and loved me when I had nowhere else to go and no one else who cared?

  I had just turned sixteen when my father went to prison for manslaughter and possession of a controlled substance. My mother, unable to handle the shame, loss of income, and reduced social status, had dropped me on my grandmother’s front porch with a fifty-dollar bill and a couple of suitcases containing all that was left of my previous life. Having disposed of her burden, Mom then headed to California to start over, leaving my grandmother and me to face the town’s condemnation by ourselves.

  “Ms. Sinclair?” Xylia slipped from behind the soda fountain and scurried over to me as I flicked off the neon OPEN sign. It was Friday and we closed at six o’clock.

  “Yes?” I had given up trying to persuade her to call me Dev or even Devereaux. She claimed it didn’t show the degree of respect an employee should have for her superior. Sometimes I wondered what century Xylia thought we were living in. While I loved vintage collectibles and antiques, I had no desire to bring back the formal manners and rigid customs of days gone by.

  “What about them?” Xylia glanced uneasily between the men and the locked door. “Are they staying?”

  “Apparently.” They obviously had no intention of budging from their perches. Having swiveled around to face the store, they had crossed their arms in identical gestures of stubborn defiance, and were now glaring alternately at me and at each other. Their silence was unnerving, and if looks could kill, both guys would be dead and I’d be fatally wounded.

  “But we have to get ready for the book club.” Xylia fingered the tiny heart-shaped birthmark on her cheek, something she did only in times of extreme stress. “They aren’t members.”

  “It’ll be fine.” Throughout Xylia’s shift, I’d noticed that she had been even more tightly wound than usual. Now I realized that she must be nervous about hosting her club’s meeting. It had been her idea to have it at the dime store, and she probably felt responsible for the event’s outcome.

  “We won’t have enough chairs.” Her voice rose. “Mr. Quistgaard was very specific in his requirements. He’ll leave if anyone is standing. Everything will be ruined.”

  “We’ll work it out,” I assured her. “Do you know Mr. Quistgaard?” Seating for everyone seemed an odd condition for an author to have, especially one who wasn’t a big name. If J. K. Rowling or Nora Roberts wanted everyone sitting, you’d damn well better have everyone off their feet, but Lance Quistgaard? Not so much. “Did you select his book for your club?”

  “Our president, Mrs. Zeigler, engages all our speakers.” Xylia backed away from me, bumping into the APRIL SHOWERS BRINGS MAY FLOWERS display. “Usually through their Web sites.”

  “I see.” I bent to replace an overturned red clay pot on a bag of mulch.

  “Let me do that.” Xylia nudged me out of the way and moved the small Victorian iron patio table a fraction of an inch to the left, then straightened the two matching chairs. “I’ve been meaning to fix this all afternoon.” She adjusted the shepherd’s hook plant hanger holding a basket of yellow and purple pansies a smidgen to the right.

  Did I mention that my clerk was a little OCD?

  As I leaned against the gas grill that the hardware store had loaned me for my display, I said, “Did you enjoy this month’s book?”

  “Uh.” Xylia bit her lip. “I’m sure I will once I understand the poems better.”

  One of the men at the soda fountain cleared his throat, and Xylia flinched at the sound. She grimaced, then put her hand on my arm and pleaded, “Do something before they spoil the whole evening.”

  “Don’t worry.” I turned away so she couldn’t see me roll my eyes. “They’ll be gone before the author arrives.” I was fairly certain neither of the men currently scrutinizing me was interested in attending a poetry reading.

  “But wh—”

  “I’ll handle it.” I cut her off before she could hyperventilate. “My Supergirl cape is at the dry cleaner, so you’ll just have to take my word for it, but I promise they’ll leave before you’re finished setting up.”

  Xylia opened her mouth to protest, but closed it when I frowned and ordered, “Go start getting the crafting alcove ready for your group.”

  With one last worried peek over her shoulder, Xylia headed toward the back room, where the folding tables and chairs were stored.

  The minute she was out of sight, both men shot off their seats and stomped toward me. Taking a deep breath, I focused on the one who, by elbowing his competition, then cutting his opponent off at the pass, got to me first. Tall, dark, and devastating, Deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Del Vecchio had blown back into town an hour ago, plainly expecting us to pick up where we had left off, and just as plainly unhappy to find another guy warming his stool at my soda fountain.

  I had met Jake when he was recuperating from a line-of-duty injury at his granduncle’s ranch. He had helped me clear my name when I was accused of murdering my old boyfriend’s fiancée. Then a month ago, after being declared fit for duty, he’d returned to St. Louis, and except for a brief visit and make-out session a few weeks ago, that was the last I’d seen of him.

  Now, as he cupped my cheek, his words sent a sizzle down my spine. “I’ve been dreaming about doing this the entire time I was gone.”

  He leaned in for a kiss, but with his mouth inches from mine, I stepped back, and his hand dropped to his side. It had been hard to pull away. The electricity between us was enough to light up most of North America. But I knew that if I let our lips touch, I’d lose all my willpower to resist, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.

  In the meantime, the guy who had been sitting next to Jake had reached my side. Sleek, elegant, and aristocratic, Dr. Noah Underwood had been my high school boyfriend. Because both our mothers were pregnant at the same time, we claimed to have known each other since the womb. The Underwoods and the Sinclairs were two of the five founding families of Shadow Bend, Missouri, our hometown, which meant that while growing up we were constantly thrown together at parties, charity events, and community functions. So when Noah and I hit adolescence, it had seemed inevitable that we would become sweethearts.

  For a while, we were inseparable. During that time, Noah was the most important person in my life, and I thought I was the most important one in his. Sadly, I’d been mistaken. When we started dating, the Sinclairs and the Underwoods were social equals. But after my father’s disgrace, the Sinclairs became the town pariahs and Noah dropped me like a lit match, before his reputation could go up in the same flames that had consumed my family’s good name.

  According to Noah, he
’d had a noble reason for breaking off with me. However, even though he’d proven there was still a spark between us, I wasn’t sure I believed his version of past events. And I definitely didn’t trust that he wouldn’t dump me or betray me again if a similar situation were to occur.

  Moving with an inherent grace, Noah put both hands on my shoulders and spun me so that I was facing him. That I now had my back to Jake was probably just a bonus. Once Noah was sure he had my attention—he was a methodical kind of guy—he put his lips to my ear and whispered, “Get rid of Deputy Dawg. I’ve got a surprise planned for you.”

  “What?” His warm breath tickling my neck sent a bibbidi-bobbidi-boo message to my girl parts. Both of these guys could melt my panties right off my hips. “Were we supposed to get together tonight?” I knew we didn’t have plans because that wasn’t something I would have forgotten, but I wanted to hear his explanation.

  “No.” Noah’s head dipped closer. “I thought it would be fun to be spontaneous.”

  “Possibly.” I finally got control of myself and leaned away from him. “Except I have a club meeting here at seven, and Gran is expecting me home after that.”

  “Take your hands off her, Frat Boy.” Jake muscled his way in between us.

  I moved so that I was facing both guys, but when they crowded forward, I realized that I had let them corner me. My back was against solid shelves, so I couldn’t retreat, and the men had cut off any possible forward escape route.

  “Hold it, fellas.” I crossed my arms. “Let’s maintain a little personal space here, shall we?”

  Jake cocked a dark brow and gave me a badass grin but he didn’t budge, and Noah, despite looking a little sheepish, didn’t give an inch, either. Frustrated, I put a hand on each of their chests and shoved. Even though Jake was brawnier, Noah had a lean strength, so it was like pushing against twin statues.

  Lowering my gaze to their crotches, I threatened, “Don’t make me go for the family jewels.”

  Jake raised his hands. “Fine.” He tipped his head toward Noah. “But are you really dating this bozo?”