The mother of the bride was inconsolable.
"My baby," she kept crying, hugging her daughter's body even as the dead woman's head lolled back like an obscene rag doll, mouth hanging open and baring all her teeth. "My sweet baby, no."
"Mia, please," said the groom, gently touching his brand-new mother-in-law's shoulder. Already a widower before the champagne toast. "It was an accident, a terrible accident. But we can't leave her like this. Everyone is watching. Please, for Amelia's sake. There's nothing anyone can do now."
But Loretta suspected someone already had done something. Because as the mother wept into the bride's twenty-thousand-dollar dress, ruining the delicate silk, something in the bride's teeth flashed red. It was nothing more than a glimpse, a tiny detail the rest of the wedding guests and servers easily overlooked in the chaos. But Loretta Starling wasn't one to overlook.
"Mrs. Hallowell, lay your daughter down and step back," Loretta said with authority. It was the same authority she used to cut drunk patrons off at the bar or put her boss/boyfriend in his place when he got ideas about how Loretta should live her life. It brooked no argument, and people's bodies obeyed before their minds could protest.
And Mrs. Hallowell, despite her raging grief, was no different. She laid her daughter down, looking to Loretta with her tearstained face. Loretta had seen enough death to know the damage done to the bodies was nothing compared to the emotional wounds in the loved ones they left behind. But now was no time to lose herself to sentiment for the poor mother of the bride. She had more important details to investigate.
"Are you a doctor?" Mrs. Hallowell asked, her voice warbly. "Can you help her?"
"I'm not a doctor, but I can help," Loretta said, squatting beside the bride. She reached into the bride's mouth and fished out a sliver of black and red, holding it up. "Rosary pea, a deadly toxin. This was no accident. This was murder, cold and premeditated. There's a killer on this island."
EXCERPT FROM SOMETHING BORROWED, SOMEONE BLUE
LORETTA STARLING, BOOK 3
BY KATE VALENTINE
FRIDAY
CHAPTER ONE
Our story begins, as these stories often do, with an awfully convenient murder.
Not convenient for the murder victim, of course. They probably had plans, hopes and dreams, maybe even a date or a meal left unfinished. No, I guess their murder came as a bit of a shock for them.
It might not even be convenient for the murderer, considering the circumstances. That's the problem with crimes of passion, isn't it? There you are, having a normal day, fed up with your spouse or your cranky neighbor or maybe your boss, and suddenly, BAM! You've got blood on your hands, a blunt object to toss in a river, clothes to burn, and an alibi to line up.
But these murders are admittedly convenient for Loretta Starling, she of the Starling Mysteries, a Florida Keys bartender by night and amateur sleuth by day. This is Loretta's fourth murder in as many books in her sleepy vacation resort town, and, really, it's a wonder no one has gotten suspicious of Loretta herself. I mean, look at Jessica Fletcher. How many people have to kick the bucket around her before you start looking for blood spatter on that typewriter? Murder, She Committed, am I right?
Kate Valentine sighed and deleted the note on her phone, letting her head drop against the back seat of the ride share. She'd thought a change in venue and writing device might have shaken some decent words loose, but so far it was proving as productive as the last six months of trying to force this book out hunched over her laptop in her apartment, surrounded by increasingly distressing mounds of takeout containers.
"You said Pier 66?" said the driver as they traversed the brilliant blue of the Lake Washington Ship Canal, looking her over in the rearview mirror. "That's the clipper terminal, right? You headed to Victoria or the San Juan Islands?"
Kate cut her gaze up sharply. That was the problem with writing murder mysteries; it made a girl far more fine-tuned to the inherent dangers in the minds of men. Any rideshare driver could end up being The Bone Collector. Sure, this guy had a picture wedged into his dashboard of what looked like a wife and two kids, but how was Kate to know they were real? The car was some kind of gray SUV that she normally would have clocked the make, model, license, and any visible damage or identifying marks on. This time she'd barely even checked to make sure it was her rideshare before chucking her suitcase into the trunk.
