Lethal In Old Lace

book 6 in the Consignment Shop Mysteries

     “If we lathered it in Crisco and shoved like the dickens it’s still not going to fit,” Mercedes said with Auntie KiKi, Bruce Willis the canine version and me staring at the end of the casket sticking out of the trunk of the Beemer.
     Auntie Kiki had moved the car next to the delivery door at the House of Eternal Slumber so the Beemer was in the shadows of the funeral home and we wouldn’t have to roll a casket clear across the parking lot. “So what should we do now and we better think fast,” Mercedes said in a panicky voice.
     I snagged the brown tarp that was draped over a mound of mulch. “We wrap the end in this and we use BW’s leash to hold it in place. I’ll tie my yellow scarf at the end so what we’re hauling looks legal. The last thing we need is the cops stopping us.”
     “I’ll park the Beemer in the garage till we find the killer,” KiKi added. “I can tell Putter that the car manual says BMWs need to rest every twenty-thousand miles. He’s a mighty fine cardio guy but not exactly a car expert.”
     “You read a manual?” I shook my head in disbelief.
     “Honey, if I add in that there’s pot roast for dinner the man will believe anything.”    
     Mercedes held the tarp in place while I wrapped the leash. KiKi added the scarf, a smile braking across her lips as she took a step back. “Looks good to me. You know, I think this is going to work just fine and dandy, no one would suspect a thing.”
     “Suspect what?” Police Detective Alden Ross wanted to know as she drew up beside Mercedes. Auntie KiKi grabbed my hand, I grabbed hers and the only thing that kept us from fainting dead away was Aldeen’s electric green nightshirt with I see guilty people on the front in day-glow pink. Neither of us wanted to miss that or the police car slippers strobbing red and blue when she walked. 

Demise in Denim

book five in the Consignment Shop Mysteries

      The convertible top was down, a crescent moon hung low over the marshlands and the night sky was filled with a bazillion stars as I drove Walker Boone’s precious ’57 red Chevy toward Tybee Post. It was a perfect spring night except that my palms were sweating, my heart was rocketing around in my chest, and there were one, two, make that four police cars on my bumper, their red and blue lights flashing in my rearview mirror. 

      Figuring I’d pushed the surely you can’t be after little ol’ me routine as far as I could, I pulled to the side of the road as the string of cruisers lined behind me.
     “Get out with you hands raised,” blared from the cop bullhorn. Teeth chattering I finally wrenched the car door open and stood, arms up. Immediately they were handcuffed behind me. Okay, I’d expected this to happen but the real deal was downright terrifying.
      “You’re not Boone,” a cop growled as he spun me around. “Where is he? You wanted us to think you’re Walker Boone.”
      “Would I do that?”
      “You’re even wearing his jacket and hat and driving his car. You’re leading us on a wild goose chase. So where is he?”
      “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Excerpts

Geared for the Grave

book two in the Cycle Path Mysteries

     “What’s going on?” A guy called down from the porch of the Grand Hotel right above us. “Is somebody there? Did somebody fall?”
      Sutter and I exchanged uh oh looks and a woman on the porch squealed. “Ohmygoodness! It’s a body! This is fantastic! I know what this is. It’s one of those murder mystery weekends right here at the Grand Hotel. The victim’s right there, I can see him all sprawled out on the ground. Oh this is so much fun.”
     “Look, lady,” Sutter shot back. “This is no mystery weekend party this is a real crime scene here.”
     “Of course it is,” she squealed again. “You all are great actors, this is amazing. What a fantastic surprise right here on Mackinac Island.”