Little Shop of Homicide: A Devereaux’s Dime Store Mystery Read online

  Praise for the Scumble River Series

  Murder of a Creped Suzette

  “Tongue-in-cheek humor, complex motives, and unique murders. The latest cleverly crafted tale is another entertaining mystery.”

  —Romantic Times

  Murder of a Bookstore Babe

  “In the latest installment in her cozy Scumble River series, Swanson serves up another irresistible slice of romance-spiced mystery.”

  —Chicago Tribune

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

  —The Mystery Reader

  “Swanson once again thrills her readers.…. The thirteenth book in the series, Murder of a Bookstore Babe is still as fresh and fun to read as the first book, and that’s quite a tribute to the skills of an author to keep it so.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Murder of a Wedding Belle

  “The latest carefully crafted installment in Swanson’s Scumble River series features a charming heroine, who is equally skilled at juggling detection and romance.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “A tightly woven mystery…. I had no idea as to who the murderer was until the final reveal, which definitely makes for a page-turning read.”

  —Once Upon a Romance Reviews

  Murder of a Royal Pain

  “A trip to Scumble River is like visiting with old friends…. Another entry into a fine series that is sure to be on most must-read lists.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “Swanson has given me many a smile and many hours of wonderful, fun reading. This is another in a long line of really great books.”

  —CrimeSpree Magazine

  Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry

  “[A] cleverly crafted plot…. with a generous dash of romance.”

  —Chicago Tribune

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

  —CrimeSpree Magazine

  Murder of a Botoxed Blonde

  “Endearing…. quirky…. a delight.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Tight plotting and plenty of surprises keep this series on my must-read list.”

  —CrimeSpree Magazine

  Murder of a Real Bad Boy

  “Swanson is a born storyteller.”

  —CrimeSpree Magazine

  “Another knee-slapping adventure in Scumble River.”

  —Kentucky Amplifier

  Murder of a Smart Cookie

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

  —South Florida Sun-Sentinel

  “[Swanson] has a lot of surprises in store for the reader.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Murder of a Pink Elephant

  “The must-read book of the summer.”

  —Butler County Post (KY)

  “Current readers will appreciate the trip into Scumble River, while new readers will want to go back.”

  —The Best Reviews

  Murder of a Barbie and Ken

  “Denise Swanson keeps getting better and better! This time, I giggled like a schoolgirl at the antics of Simon’s estranged mother, Bunny, the explanation of the two essential tools for every household, and even the very fitting character names.…. It is not necessarily the mystery that holds me riveted. It is Denise’s way with words. She jknows ust how to add humor and warmth to her books, making them unforgettable reads!”,

  —Roundtable Reviews

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

  —Romantic Times (Top Pick)

  “Swanson continues her lively, light, and quite insightful look at small-town life.”

  —Hartford Courant

  “Another sidesplitting visit to Scumble River…. with some of the quirkiest and most eccentric characters we ever have met.”

  —Butler County Post (KY)

  Murder of a Snake in the Grass

  “An endearing and realistic character…. A fast-paced, enjoyable read.”

  —Herald News

  “This book is delightful.”

  —Mysterious Woman

  Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

  “A smooth, pleasant, and ultimately satisfying book.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Another delightful and intriguing escapade”

  —Mystery News

  Murder of a Sweet Old Lady

  “More fun than the Whirl-a-Gig at the County Fair and tastier than a corndog.”

  —Charlotte Austin Review

  “A magnificent tale written by a wonderful author.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Murder of a Small-Town Honey

  “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

  “A charming, insightful debut.”

  —Carolyn Hart

  Other Books by Denise Swanson

  Scumble River Mysteries

  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

  Little Shop

  of Homicide

  A Devereaux’s Dime Store Mystery

  Denise Swanson

  AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632,

  New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

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  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, March 2012

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Denise Swanson Stybr, 2012

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-101-57695-3

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

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, s
tored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  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 publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For Kelle Z. Riley

  Because she is always there to help me brainstorm, listen

  to my plots, and tell me when I’m going

  in the wrong direction.

  Because she tolerates my whining, but never lets me sink

  into the quagmire of writer’s depression—especially

  when I think I might have committed career suicide.

  But, mostly, because she writes amazing stories with life-

  affirming happy endings that everyone is going to love

  once some smart editor snaps them up.

  Never give up the dream!

  Acknowledgments

  After so many books, I sometimes forget to thank the two people who have had such a huge part in making those books possible. However, with a new series starting, it reminded me how much I owe my agent, Laura Blake Peterson, and my editor, Ellen Edwards. So, thank you for all you’ve done, and for being with me for the long haul!

  Thanks also to my Facebook peeps. Your generosity in answering all my “research” questions, and your support of my books (and me) help in ways you can’t imagine—especially on the days that I wonder why I ever wanted to be a writer.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Murder of the Cat’s Meow

  CHAPTER 1

  Stepping back from the old kitchen table I used as a workbench, I contemplated my creations. Both evoked strong feelings. The one on my left called up memories of a simpler time, filled with sunlight and innocence, while the one on my right summoned thoughts of sensual darkness and guilty pleasures.

  As I examined the nostalgia basket, the one for the Gerbers’ sixtieth anniversary, I smoothed the 1952 Saturday Evening Post, straightened the fifties music CD, and pinned an I LIKE IKE button to the sock monkey’s hat. Once I tucked in the sacks of peppermint sticks and licorice whips, a mesh bag of marbles, and a kazoo, I was ready to place my trademark—the one perfect book—in the center. Norman Rockwell’s Faith of America had been the clear choice.

  Happy with the Gerbers’ basket, I turned my attention to the one for the Cusslers, who were celebrating their first anniversary. I studied my handiwork. It needed something to be amazing. They had asked for heat and passion; so which would sizzle more, a crimson silk blindfold or a pair of black satin panties? Already nestled in the folds of an ebony lace shawl were a bottle of cinnamon massage oil, a box of chocolate-dipped strawberries, and a lushly illustrated copy of the Kama Sutra.

  Closing my eyes, I visualized the couple receiving the gift. He was the golf pro at the local country club and she was a PE teacher. Both were extremely athletic. It was a shame a trapeze bar wouldn’t fit into the basket.

  My deliberation was interrupted by the jingling of sleigh bells. Shoot! The front door was supposed to be locked. On Mondays, Devereaux’s Dime Store and Gift Baskets didn’t open until noon, by which time all the naughty bits and pieces would be safely tucked out of sight, and I would be working on a Birthday Bonanza toy box featuring a first edition of Lassie Come Home for dog lover Timmy Harper.

  Not that I was ashamed of my erotic creations, but like the sour-looking middle-aged man who had just entered the store, there were a lot of people with whom I didn’t want to discuss my artistic vision. The way my luck had been running lately, this guy was probably the town’s new minister, or worse, a reporter who hadn’t gotten the message that I was old news.

  When the man’s unblinking muddy brown eyes skimmed my worktable and his lips pressed together in a disapproving thin white line, I said hastily, “Sorry. We’re closed.”

  He grunted, lumbering past the paperback bookrack, the three-stool soda fountain, and the glass candy case, straight toward me. He walked as if each step was drawn on the floor, and nothing short of an act of God would stop him. The fact that he hadn’t even glanced at the enticing display of fudge, truffles, and other mouthwatering confections was worrisome. What kind of person didn’t notice chocolate?

  “We’re closed,” I repeated. “You’ll have to come back at twelve.” He was starting to scare me.

  He ignored my statement and flipped open the counter’s hinged panel.

  Alarmed, I said sharply, “You can’t come back here.” With his egg-shaped torso, pedantic movements, and acerbic expression he resembled Humpty Dumpty’s evil twin.

  As I frantically searched my jeans pockets for my cell phone, which unfortunately seemed to be AWOL, Humpty continued to advance until the only thing between us was my worktable.

  Putting both hands on the Formica surface, he demanded, “Devereaux Sinclair?”

  For a second, when he leaned forward, he seemed familiar, but if I’d known him he wouldn’t have had to ask my name. Unless… Damn! Was he a process server? I’d certainly met my share of them when I was going through all the crap from my old job.

  Before I could decide on an answer, a scowl twisted his heavy features, and he repeated, “Devereaux Sinclair?”

  “Yes.” What in the world did this guy want? To cover my consternation, I put on my best don’t-mess-with-me expression, the one I’d learned while working in the cutthroat investment consulting business, and asked, “How may I help you?”

  “I’m Detective Woods.”

  Okay, that would explain the ill-fitting cheap navy suit and the highly polished black shoes. “May I see some identification, please?” I was fairly sure that the police department in my hometown didn’t employ a detective. Especially since I knew the chief and all the officers on the force. So where was this guy from, and what was he doing in Shadow Bend, Missouri, population 4,028?

  Woods reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and retrieved a worn leather wallet. He flipped it open, displaying a Kansas City police ID card on one side and a gold badge on the other.

  I stopped searching for my phone. Kansas City was forty miles away, and during morning rush hour the trip took a good hour or more. What had I done to merit a visit from KC’s finest?

  Impassively, he stated, “I understand you made a gift basket for Joelle Ayers.”r />
  “That’s correct,” I answered slowly, struggling to fathom why a cop would be interested in either the basket or Joelle. “It was a Valentine’s Day present for her fiancé. She picked it up Saturday afternoon. They were going to spend a romantic weekend in the city.” Was there some kind of morality law in Kansas City that prohibited sex toys?

  “How well do you know Ms. Ayers?”

  “Not very.” Which was true, at least technically. “I met her for the first time when she came in to place her order.” What I didn’t add was that in a rural community like Shadow Bend, it was hard not to have heard plenty about someone like Joelle. She had swept into our town last summer, and by Christmas she had snapped up its most eligible bachelor. “Did something happen to her?”

  Detective Woods ignored my question. “But you do know her fiancé a whole lot better, don’t you?”

  “We went to high school together.” Had something happened to Noah? Even after the awful way he’d treated me all those years ago, I felt my stomach clench. “Why are you asking me about Dr. Underwood? Were he and Joelle in an accident?”

  “You sound pretty worried about someone who was just your classmate,” Detective Woods said in an insinuating purr. “But then, you two were much more than that. Weren’t you?”

  “We dated when we were teenagers.” I didn’t have to ask how he had learned about my relationship with Noah. There aren’t many secrets in a small town, where the past is never fully forgiven or forgotten. No doubt someone had been happy to tell Detective Woods all about Noah and me.

  “Until your father”—he consulted a small notepad—“one Kern Sinclair, went to prison.” Woods’s resemblance to Humpty had faded, and now he looked more like a banty rooster, particularly when he thrust out his chin. “That’s when Noah Underwood dumped your ass, and from what I hear, you’ve been carrying a torch for him ever since.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I tugged at the neck of my green sweatshirt, suddenly wishing I had on one of the power suits I had donated to the Salvation Army after I quit my previous job. “It became clear a long time ago that we were too young to have any kind of serious relationship. I’ve gone out with lots of guys since then.” I clasped my hands together to stop them from shaking as I remembered the pain of the day that had changed my life forever. The day my father was convicted of manslaughter and possession of a controlled substance, my mother abandoned me, and the boy who had vowed to love me for all eternity walked away.