Sweet Revenge by Diane Mott Davidson

By Diane Mott Davidson

Goldy Schulz is extremely joyful to be catering a vacation breakfast ceremonial dinner for the employees of the Aspen Meadow Library. yet little does she comprehend that at the menu is a huge assisting of homicide. whereas constructing on the library, Goldy spots a girl lurking within the stacks who bears a outstanding resemblance to Sandee Brisbane—the Sandee Brisbane who killed Goldy's ex-husband, the Jerk. yet Sandee is meant to be lifeless . . . or so each person believes. Goldy's suspicions mount while the physique of Drew Wellington, a former district legal professional, is located in a nook of the library, with a map worthy hundreds of thousands of greenbacks stashed in his garments. Goldy is confident that Sandee, a confessed felon, is concerned. however the vacation insanity is simply simply starting for Goldy. quickly she's drawn into the damaging, double-crossing international of top-end map dealing. and prefer the ghost of Christmas prior, Sandee retains making an visual appeal. may perhaps she be out to turn out that revenge is oh-so-sweet?

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Smiling, nodding, dark hair, pretty, Wait a minute. I knew that face. Okay, the hair was wrong. It was brown, not bleached blond, and it was pulled back in a ponytail. But I recognized her nonetheless. Suddenly I was like a speeder who sees a state patrol car. I inadvertently smacked my brakes so hard they squealed, and my van skidded sideways. Trying to stop was a mistake, because then the driver of the other car hit her brakes, but only for a moment. When she glanced over, it was with the practiced, furtive movement of a criminal.

The specter appeared on November 25, which fell on the Friday after Thanksgiving, when I was on my way to Smithfield and Hermie MacArthur’s house to book two parties. I’d been looking forward to seeing the MacArthurs’ place, because the events promised to fill my Christmas stocking with dough, and I didn’t mean the kind I made into cinnamon rolls. Hermie MacArthur had introduced herself to me at a churchwomen’s luncheon I’d done earlier in the fall. In her midforties, with a much-powdered face, grayish-blond hair, and a commanding Southern accent, Hermie possessed an imposingly tall body that was shaped like a McIntosh apple—a hefty chest on stick legs.

I’d asked with trepidation, fearing something to do with snakes. ” I’d almost choked as I imagined having to make a cake in the shape of North America, complete with squiggly lines for the rivers. But Hermie didn’t mention a cake. I smiled and reminded myself that I’d had plenty of practice dealing with ultrawealthy people and their eccentricities. So if the MacArthurs wanted to haul out their Rand McNallys along with some mincemeat pies, who was I to complain? I did tell Hermie that the one famous map of Aspen Meadow, with its maze of dirt and paved roads winding through the mountains, was You Use’ta Couldn’t Get There from Here!

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