Pretty is as Pretty Dies: Myrtle Clover #1

Prologue and Chapter One

Prologue

Parke Stockard wouldn't have ended up popped-over-the-head dead if she hadn't been bent on making mischief that morning. To be fair, though, she couldn't have known she'd messed with the wrong person this time—one who solved their Parke Stockard plight by leaving her dead at the church altar.

Waking up in her pink satin sheets that morning, she'd mulled over some malevolence. While brushing her hair model-quality blonde hair, she'd concocted even more nastiness. And, when driving her Champaign-colored BMW convertible to church, she made the fateful phone call that started the day on its slippery slope.

If Parke had—for once—rejected her baser instincts, she'd still be happily dreaming up devilment this very day. If she'd only listened to the good Parke buried deep in the nether regions of her murky conscience. Or had second thoughts and remembered she was on her way to church. But she didn't and the stage was set for murder in the sanctuary.

Early-morning summer light peeked through stained glass windows, its gentle light illuminating the flower arrangement on the altar. The withering glare Parke leveled at it should have vaporized the intrepid bouquet on the spot. Unscathed by her fury, the black-eyed Susans and daisies sassily defied her.

Parke vowed to do something about Kitty. Scavenging the roadsides for the altar arrangements was not going to work. Good Lord, next she'd be sticking Queen Anne's lace in Mason jars with chickweed filler. Dumping the weedy bouquet in a trash bag, Parke pulled out roses from her canvas tote and rapidly positioned them in a heavy crystal vase.

Intent on fixing the immediate crisis of the unsuitable arrangement and the long-term problem of the locals' ignorance, Parke didn't notice the sanctuary doors open. A harsh voice caught her attention.

"You!" Parke said scornfully. And then she picked the last fight of her life—thirty minutes later, pretty Parke Stockard was dead...

Chapter One

Several days earlier:

It was a warm, but not yet muggy, 7:00 a.m. on what would become a blistering summer day. Sensible, elderly citizens of Bradley, North Carolina, were contentedly puttering about before the heat took a turn into truly oppressive territory. They plucked tomatoes off their backyard vines for lunch, refilled feeders for cardinals and bluebirds, wrestled with the complexities of the daily crossword, or munched leisurely bowls of Grape Nuts under humming screened-porch fans. Myrtle Clover could not be included among this placid part of the populace. An early-morning phone call had fired her up into a froth. Parke Stockard.

An unwelcome glimpse of herself in a shiny, copper kitchen pot revealed an Einstein-like image scowling back at her. She patted down her wispy poof of hair into a semblance of order and squinted at the rooster clock hanging on her kitchen wall. No, it wasn't too early to call Elaine. Myrtle's toddler grandson functioned admirably as Elaine's alarm clock. What did it matter that he preferred watching the Teletubbies at 5:30 a.m.? In his baby head, everyone should be eager to watch Laa-laa wrangle her big, yellow ball from Dipsy's clutches.

Elaine answered the phone with a weary hello. The early mornings must be hitting her pretty hard. Her voice was gravelly like she'd swallowed half of Jack's sandbox.

"Parke Stockard is bad news, Elaine. Bad news. The whole town is riled up about her. And let me tell you what she's done to me."

Elaine was, really, trying to listen to her mother-in-law. Ordinarily, multi-tasking was her forte. But, with the cordless phone crunched between her ear and her shoulder as she cleaned up Cheerios her son had cheerfully tossed onto the linoleum, she couldn't fully focus on the phone call. "Um. Really?" Elaine stretched to reach the crumbs on the other side of the chair and felt much older than thirty-six.