“The perfect book if you’re looking for a great suspense.”
Perfect Poison
“A fabulous whodunit that will keep readers guessing and happily turning pages to the unexpected end. Peggy Less is a most entertaining sleuth and her Southern gentility is like a breath of fresh air . . . [A] keeper!”
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“A fascinating whodunit with unusual but plausible twists and plenty of red herrings.”
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PRETTY POISON
FRUIT OF THE POISONED TREE
POISONED PETALS
PERFECT POISON
A CORPSE FOR YEW
WICKED WEAVES
GHASTLY GLASS
DEADLY DAGGERS
HARROWING HATS
A TIMELY VISION
A TOUCH OF GOLD
A SPIRITED GIFT
Copyright © 2011 by Jim and Joyce Lavene.
All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
“I’m nervous.”
“There’s nothing to be nervous about. Just hold my hands and close your eyes.”
I did as my friend Shayla Lily said. We were seated at an old rosewood table that had once served as a spot where Thomas Jefferson ate breakfast and attended to his morning business. In the candlelight, the aged patina glowed, making shadows and depth in the wood.
“I can’t help it,” I said, even though I knew I was supposed to be quiet. “It’s been a year.”
“It’s just like riding a horse, sweetie. Except you’re on back this time and I have the reins.” Shayla tossed her rich black hair and took a deep breath. “Are you ready now?”
I wasn’t really sure if I was. It had become ritual for Shayla and me to meet on my mother’s birthday, October 15. Shayla was a medium who’d lived in Duck for the last few years. Contacting my dead mother was what had brought us together originally. Now we were friends—even though our personalities were very different.
I had already decided, as the month of October approached, that this was the last time I would try to raise the ghost of my mother.
It was a big decision for me. I’d desperately wanted to talk to her after her death more than fifteen years ago. There’d been no time to say the things that needed to be said before her car went off one of the bridges that connect the Outer Banks to the mainland of North Carolina. I just wanted that last opportunity to tell her that I loved her. And that I was sorry.
“Spirits of the air—hear my voice.” Shayla began the ritual while I tried to decide if we should even do it. “We seek Jean O’Donnell. Her daughter is here to speak with her. Hear me, spirits. We ask your blessing and to speak to Jean O’Donnell.”
I squeezed my eyes closed—wanting so much to see her and, at the same time, afraid that I would. I’d never seen a ghost. Shayla had told me it was a lot like seeing a living person. I had a feeling that wasn’t quite true. I wanted to believe that my mother could come back to me. I wanted to hear her voice one last time.
“Is anything happening?” I whispered. I could hear the wind battering the house outside. I knew Duck might be catching the tail end of a tropical storm that was headed up the coast after hitting Florida.
“Nothing is gonna happen if you keep talking, Dae.” Shayla’s voice seemed loud even though she was whispering.
The candle on the table between us flickered as though some errant breeze had filtered through the room. There was a scratching sound at the window beside us. I rationalized it as a tree branch, clawing at the glass.
Shayla invited the dead to join us again. Her plaintive cry was made poignant by the not-so-subtle overtones of her New Orleans accent. I wondered if anyone was listening to her.
It seemed to me as though my mother must not have anything to say to me. Maybe she was still angry. Maybe she blamed me for her death. I knew she was upset when she left me at college that day. We’d argued, as we frequently did. She’d left early for Duck because a storm was brewing in the Atlantic. I’d let her go without telling her that I loved her. She’d left me without looking back.
Was I to blame for her state of mind? Had she been crying when she lost control of her car and skidded off
