Poisoned Tarts. G. A. McKevett
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Название: Poisoned Tarts
Автор: G. A. McKevett
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Ужасы и Мистика
isbn: 9780758243041
isbn:
Dedicated to
Joleen and Arden
With such joyful beginnings,
How very blessed,
And how deeply loved you are.
Contents
THE BODY IN THE COFFIN
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
THE BODY IN THE COFFIN
Savannah looked at the “wound,” the deep hole in the chest through which the wooden stake had been thrust. Reaching out, she touched the darkened area next to the wood, then looked at her fingertip. It was dried paint. “This is a dummy,” she said.
“No! Not that one!” Bunny cried. “It’s him!” She pointed to the male in the adjacent coffin.
But Savannah was already looking at the male figure, her heart in her throat. Even in this dim light, she could see the difference in this body and the female’s. The features were far finer, more realistic. The hair was real, not a phony wig. The hands, the fingers, and the nails were all too beautifully detailed to be fake.
As before, she dabbed her finger into the dark area around the stake, and this time, she felt the telltale wetness.
Blood.
The real thing…
Books by G.A. McKevett
Just Desserts
Bitter Sweets
Killer Calories
Cooked Goose
Sugar and Spite
Sour Grapes
Peaches and Screams
Death by Chocolate
Cereal Killer
Murder à la Mode
Corpse Suzette
Fat Free and Fatal
Poisoned Tarts
A Body to Die For
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
G.A. MCKEVETT
Poisoned Tarts
A SAVANNAH REID MYSTERY
KENSINGTON BOOKS
I want to thank all the fans who write to me, sharing their thoughts and offering endless encouragement. I enjoy your letters more than you know. I can be reached at:
sonjamassie.com
Chapter 1
“Palm trees and jack-o’-lanterns. Yuck,” Savannah Reid said as she entered the supermarket and skirted around a display of chrysanthemums, colorful gourds, and pumpkins—some of which had snaggletoothed smiles scrawled on them with black permanent marker. “I hate autumn and winter in Southern California. I mean, I love California in the spring and summer, but holidays just bite if you don’t have the right weather to go with them.”
Her companion Dirk Coulter answered with a disgruntled grunt, communicating his disgust at being dragged along on this little shopping foray. Dirk hated grocery shopping nearly as much as he hated watching soap operas and chick flicks or listening to “female prattle.” And in his opinion, any discussion that didn’t revolve around sports or things police-related, constituted “female prattle.”
“How’s a body supposed to get into the Halloween spirit when it’s eighty degrees out?” Savannah said as she yanked a shopping cart out of the queue. “No frost on the pumpkin. Nary a fodder in the shock in sight. How depressing.”
“Fodder in the shock? What the hell’s fodder?” he asked as he took the cart from her and began to push it himself. Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter might not be up on his Victorian poets, but he was a gentleman when it came to opening doors and pushing shopping carts.
“Oh, shoot, I don’t know,” Savannah said, her Georgia drawl even more pronounced than usual—as it tended to be when she was aggravated—“but I need some of it around to get in the mood. How am I going to give a good Halloween party without the smell of burning leaves in the air, that crisp morning cold that gets your blood flowing and—?”
“Oh, enough of your griping, woman. You’ll give your Halloween party the same way you do Thanksgiving and Christmas. You’ll decorate your house with way too much junk and cook way too much food and invite all of us over and make us dress up in stupid stuff and…”
“I told you last Christmas that you don’t have to dress up anymore. I just plumb gave up on that after seeing you as a maid a-milkin’. Lord help us, I still have nightmares about that.”
“You have nightmares! My skin still crawls when I think of how I allowed myself to be talked into wearing a dress and putting a mop on my head.”
“Free food.”
“What?”
“I told you that if you wanted to sink your chompers into that fine holiday feast of mine, you had to play along.” She giggled, recalling the sight—Dirk with milk bucket in hand, yellow yarn mop on head, inflated boobs straining against the СКАЧАТЬ