April Fool Dead

New York, NY, U.S.A.: William Morrow, 2002. Hard Cover. 8vo - over 7¾" - 9¾" tall. In Hart's 13th winning outing (after 2000's Sugar Plum Dead) to feature Annie Darling, the owner of Death on Demand Bookstore, "the best mystery bookstore east of Atlanta," has planned the signing to end all signings for a local writer on their South Carolina island. But someone produces fake copies of publicity flyers for the signing and sets a cat among the pigeons to solve some old crimes and settle some old scores. Annie and her charming husband, Max, hasten to salvage the shop's event and Annie's reputation. Their efforts to resolve the mystery of the bogus flyers bring to light clues to several unsolved crimes. A high school teacher subsequently turns up dead. Was the murder committed to keep old secrets buried, or is a new onslaught of crime just beginning? A serpentine plot includes plenty of red herrings to lead the armchair sleuth firmly in the wrong direction. The descriptions of wildlife add to the sense of place, but neither advance the story nor illuminate the characters. Established readers will relish the usual banter between the couple that evokes classic screwball comedy, though at times the author can be overly formulaic. Max is always "sexy as hell." "Hell" and "damn" are about as strong as the language gets, by the way. If cats play only a minor role here, their presence on the jacket will help lure those cozy fans not already familiar with this consistently fine series. 5-city author tour. Chapter One: The early-morning sun slanted through the pines, throwing huge shadows across the dusty gray road. Bob Tower's face was flushed, his heartbeat elevated. He was suffused with runner's euphoria, his arms swinging easily, his stride long, his shoes thudding rhythmically on the soft dirt. He smiled, at peace with the world. When his run was over, Jessie waited for him, eager and loving. The kids would be off to school. God, what a wonderful He was thinking of Jessie, already loving Jessie in his mind, when the Jeep careened around the curve. Suddenly the roar of the motor was upon him, louder and louder and louder, enveloping him. His head jerked. For an instant, he looked into the eyes of the driver. Pain was sudden and absolute, overwhelming, unendurable. Crumpled in the ditch, too hurt to moan, eyes clouding, throat closing, the last thing Bob heard was the dwindling of sound as the Jeep raced away. Tulips bloomed in red glory in a circular bed in front of the high school. Teresa Caldwell was chair of the moms' committee that had planted the flowers, kept the weeds pulled. She'd been presented a plaque at the recent Mothers-Daughters Banquet: To Teresa Caldwell, Who Always Puts Her Family First. Teresa bit her lip. Why had she looked at the damn flowers? She didn't want to think, didn't want. Mom! Stop. We're here. Lily's voice sullen. Teresa was accustomed to Lily's exasperated tone when confronted with what she judged to be yet another example of parental stupidity. Teresa had struggled with irritation at being viewed as only marginally competent. But oh, how she wished Lily would say, "Oh, Mom!" and flip her ponytail in mock disgust. Instead Lily, avoiding her mother's quick glance, yanked open the door of the Range Rover and lurched onto the sidewalk, a slightly built girl with frizzy brown hair and uncertain blue eyes, burdened by a backpack big enough to carry provisions for a jaunt to the Himalayas. Teresa opened her mouth, closed it. Lily wouldn't listen. She wouldn't listen about the weight of the backpack and Teresa could not bear to ask Lily why she was cold and withdrawn. Without a word of farewell, Lily moved slowly up the sidewalk, tilting to the left from the burden of the pack. Her head was down, her gait plodding. Teresa stared after her daughter and then, at the sound of an impatient horn, pulled out from the curb. She drove sedately around the curving drive, her lips stretched into a determined smile, nodding, waving. She knew what other mothers saw:asuperbly groomed, Lesley Stahl pretty suburban mother in a bright blue Range Rover with momscar plates. They couldn't see, would never see, must never know about the fever that raged within, the fever that might yet cost her everything. No one knew, of course. But Lily had looked at her oddly in recent weeks. What if someone had told Lily about the Range Rover parked on that dirt road? What if Lily had overheard one of those late-night calls? Oh, God, would Lily tell anyone? Would Lily tell her father? Teresa drove automatically, slowing as she reached Sand Dollar Road. All right, she'd turn left. Go home. Clean out the garage. Bake brownies, Ralph's favorite dessert. He was getting in tonight on a flight from New York. He'd had a hard week. When they talked last night, after Lily was in bed, she'd heard the weariness, even a touch of fear, in his voice. The corporate world was always uncertain, and never more so than now. He loved brownies, a nice way to welcome him home. The car eased to a stop. Her hands clenched on the wheel. She heard the rumble of an SUV behind her. She checked the mirror. Cherry Sue Richards. She had to make up her mind. Now. This instant. If she turned right, if she drove a mile and a half, turned onto a rutted gray road that jolted the car, streaked the gleaming blue paint with so much dust that Ralph kidded her, asked whether she'd been plowing the fields, if she drove as fast as she dared up that narrow road to the cabin nestled among a grove of willows, Paul would be waiting. She knew how he would look'thick, curly black hair, dark eyes, sensuous lips. He'd probably not shaved yet, he'd be bare-chested, his old, paper-thin Levi's hung on slim hips. Paul. Damn him. As the SUV stopped behind her, Teresa gunned the motor, turned to the right, the fever raging within her. Frank Saulter moved stiffly in the mornings. He welcomed the late-March sun, a cheerful precursor to spring. Only a few more days and it would be April. In summer the heat from the Low Country sun rolled against his skin hot as oil and just as soothing; yet he loved the crisp sunny days of spring. He smiled. He might be stiff, but arthritis never kept a man from fishing. He had his day planned. The lagoon off Belted Kingfisher Road was full of crappie, bass and bream, and he was just the man to land himself a mess of good eating. He took his time as he walked down the crushed-oyster-shell walk to the mailbox by the side of the road. He didn't expect anything much. Too late in the month for bills. Maybe a note from his daughter. Megan off at school in Australia, if that didn't beat the band; and Tom, who'd decided hanggliding off mountains in Montana had a lot more pizzazz than college. Frank shook his head as he pulled open the mailbox. Kids today. He grabbed. 245 pages..