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  PRAISE FOR

  COLD PRESSED MURDER

  “If you enjoy Southern cozies, family driven mysteries, [and] well-written characters and story lines, this is the book for you.”

  —Open Book Society

  “Interesting plot twists that will have readers guessing and second-guessing who they think the murderer is. The shocking truth will surprise readers.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “[A] whole passel of sisterly secrets and gossipy townsfolk.”

  —Criminal Element

  PRAISE FOR

  ONE FOOT IN THE GROVE

  “This story flows as smoothly as the heroine’s olive oil, with fresh characters, an intriguing mystery, and plenty of Southern atmosphere.”

  —Peg Cochran, national bestselling author of the Gourmet De-Lite Mysteries

  “Charming characters and an atmospheric Southern setting make this a tasty debut for food cozy aficionados.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “[A] great new series about a town full of Southern charm and more than its share of locals who love to gossip.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kelly Lane

  ONE FOOT IN THE GROVE

  COLD PRESSED MURDER

  DIPPED TO DEATH

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Claire Talbot Eddins

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698180055

  First Edition: March 2018

  Cover illustration by Anne Wertheim

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  Version_1

  For Wyatt and David, in loving memory of Dolly

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I’m indebted to literary agent John Talbot—my partner in crime developing and championing the Olive Grove Mysteries. John, your intuition, patience, and tutelage brought this slippery-fun cozy series to life. Thank you.

  Lily Choi, my wonderful editor for Dipped to Death, thank you for your dedication to the Olive Grove Mysteries, as well as your patience and accessibility, insight, amenability, and unflappable good humor. While unforeseen events rock the boat on my home front, you’re always a calm port in the storm—it’s an absolute joy to work with you!

  During a time of unprecedented change within the publishing industry, I’ve collaborated with a different Berkley Prime Crime editorial/production team for each of the three Olive Grove Mystery books—with the notable exception of cover designer Sarah Oberrender and cover illustrator Anne Wertheim, who’ve been on the ride from the very beginning. Thank you both, so very much, for your vision and skill bringing to life three darling concepts! I’m totally smitten with each whimsical cover . . . they’re without a doubt some of the most appealing and endearing book covers in the genre today. Also, Laura K. Corless, thank you for your original interior text design for the series—you’ve added the perfect touch!

  Michelle Vega, I’m most appreciative that you took on a new series submitted by an unpublished author of fiction after reading just a proposal and fifty pages of One Foot in the Grove. Thank you so very much for believing in me as well as the series. Likewise, Bethany Blair, I’m grateful for your astute editorial guidance for Cold Pressed Murder. Your input is invaluable to the series.

  With respect to Dipped to Death, special thanks to these superb professionals at Berkley Prime Crime: Stacy Edwards, senior production editor; Kelly Lipovich, interior text designer; Marianne Aguiar, copyeditor; Elisha Katz, marketing; and Tara O’Connor, publicity. I appreciate the time, effort, and unique talent you’ve each shared to help make this series a success.

  Bibiana Heymann, your wholehearted, nonstop verve and devotion to our friendship and to the Olive Grove Mysteries leaves me excitedly breathless, buoyed up, and inspired each time we connect. If only I had a smidgen of your brilliance and energy! Martha Austin, the years and years you’ve shared your steadfast friendship, wisdom, and support are second to none. Having you in my corner humbles, grounds, and invigorates me. Thank you both, Bibiana and Martha, for your constant warmth as well as your help nurturing my dreams and aspirations.

  Paul McCubbin, thank you for enthusiastically sharing news about Kelly Lane books with the folks from Ridgewood, New Jersey. I’m most appreciative of your kind efforts on my behalf. Margaret Ann Curran, you’ve got my heartfelt thanks for taking time to ensure that the Greene County Library in Stanardsville, Virginia, is onto the Olive Grove Mysteries. Caitlin Tirri, I appreciate the encouragement and backing you provided, giving me the “headspace” I needed to wrap up the Dipped to Death manuscript.

  And to the folks at Georgia Olive Farms in Lakeland, Georgia, you’re the inspiration for the series. Recently, I was thrilled to discover a bottle of your Chef’s Blend Extra Virgin Olive Oil at the local Target store, here in Virginia. When I first read about Georgia Olive Farms’ fledgling business a few years ago, folks were wondering if big-scale production of such an oil in South Georgia was even possible . . .

  Also, here’s a shout-out to friends and associates from Sisters in Crime, a group that is always welcoming, supportive, and an invaluable resource for mystery authors. And I must mention my Alma Mater, Mount Holyoke College—I can’t imagine Eva Knox attending any other school!

  David Eddins and Wyatt Morin, you’re my rock and inspiration as I teeter and totter from one massive undertaking to another. I’m forever grateful for your unparalleled patience, love, support, and understanding as I ensconce myself in words and stories. I love you both.

  Lastly, this series would not be complete without sweet Dolly, whose big heart, boundless enthusiasm, and exquisite joy for life inspires so much of the stories. Our recent and heartbreakingly unexpected loss of Dolly is only countered by the knowledge that our beloved pup forever lives on in this world, happily romping through the pages of the Olive Grove Mysteries.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Cold Pressed Murder

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kelly Lane

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chap
ter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Recipes

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Given the bizarreness of the night before, all in all, it’d been a pretty ho-hum September day in Abundance, Georgia. Right up until the moment Dolly and I spied that odd mop of brown stuff bobbing in the pond.

  Of course, the last thing I expected to find was another dead body.

  But, there he was.

  Even though we had a full house of guests at Knox Plantation, earlier that day my boss—who happened to be my oldest sister, social butterfly, and self-proclaimed Southern belle, par excellence, Daphne Knox Bouvier—had offered me the Saturday afternoon off. As head of PR and guest relations for our plantation and guest inn, I’d worked nonstop for weeks at my family’s old farmhouse—we called it the “big house”—tackling a full load of service and housekeeping, in addition to my usual PR duties.

  That’s because the duo my sister’d hired to handle housework and guest service—twenty-something twins Charlene and Darlene Greene—had rarely shown up for work that summer. They’d gotten away with their schlocky schedule because they were Daphne’s best friend Earlene Azalea Greene’s kids. Firing them had not been an option.

  Anyway, by midday, I was hot, overtired, and decidedly cranky as I’d labored for hours in the sweltering summer heat, slogging away in place of the MIA twins. Then in the laundry room, I’d stubbed my toe—hard—and dropped a huge armload of just-cleaned, just-folded bath towels that I’d just been about to carry up to the guest rooms. As I’d hopped around on one foot, Daphne’d overheard me cursing and grumbling, complaining like a wet hen about Daphne’s ever-in-absentia employees.

  “Eva!”

  Daphne’s fancy Italian slingbacks click-clacked across the floor as she entered the laundry room.

  “Y’all need to stop that hissy fit you’re havin’ ’cause everyone in the house will hear you,” she scolded in a loud whisper. “We have guests!”

  Even in her hushed voice my sister spoke with a thick-as-molasses Southern drawl. Daphne’s accent was far more pronounced than anyone else’s in my family . . . more than anyone else’s in the entire county of Abundance, really. No doubt, the affectation made my sister feel more Southern than everyone around her. And I imagine that being more of something—anything—assured Daphne that she was the best . . . as in: good, better, best.

  A stickler for perfection, Daphne always had to be the best.

  She threaded a lily-white finger under a wayward wisp of my hair, securing the strawberry-blonde tendril behind my ear. With mingled scents of sparkly aldehydes, potent florals and powders, along with oakmoss, amber, and musk, my sister’s iconic Chanel perfume suffused the cramped laundry room.

  “Eva, dahhwr-lin, you’ve got a thumpin’ gizzard for a heart sometimes,” Daphne cooed as she patted me on the head. Her signature gold charm bracelet jangled as the Southern diva turned her attention to a pile of freshly folded bed linens on the counter. “We’re plum lucky to have the twins helpin’ us at all. Lord knows, I couldn’t manage the business without them. Y’all really should be more appreciative.”

  She straightened the pile of linens.

  Like many folks in our backwater Southern hamlet, whenever Daphne addressed me with the plural contraction “y’all”—a term usually intended to address more than one person—it was a signal that I was on the receiving end of a polite dress-down or diss. Or, it was used to soften an order. Somehow, it sounded less bossy to say “y’all” do this or that, rather than to demand “you” do this or that. It was all part of the subtle art of being an Abundance woman of stature. Or at least that was Daphne’s take on it.

  And, of course, Daphne was always right.

  Sigh.

  Primped and polished to the nines as usual, wearing a conservative, fitted linen dress accented with gold Van Cleef and Arpels ear clips—gifts from Daphne’s pro-ball-playing ex-husband before he went splitsville—not one glossy, strawberry-blonde hair fell out of place from her flawless chignon as my exquisite sister curtsied over and picked up each towel with her fingertips, one by one, from the floor. Then, one by one, she tossed each towel into the dirty laundry hamper.

  I’d have to wash, dry, and fold the entire load all over again.

  “Argh!”

  I pretended to pull my hair out.

  “Please, Eva. Man-up,” chided Daphne. Treating me like an unruly child was a holdover from the time she helped Daddy raise me and my middle sister, Pep, after Mother abandoned us as children.

  Smiling ever so sweetly, Daphne pointed me toward an enormous wad of soiled bed linens in another hamper.

  “I need y’all to clean, dry, and fold those ASAP. And, of course, the towels. Don’t forget softener.”

  She turned on her heels and click-clacked back to the kitchen.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled, rolling my eyes.

  Miffed, I yanked open the door to the oversize washing machine and started jamming in the soiled bedsheets and pillowcases.

  I heard more click-clacking, then Daphne peeked back around the doorframe.

  “And really, Eva,” she said with a sniff, “I do wish y’all wouldn’t come to work looking so . . . pedestrian.”

  I slammed the washer door.

  Daphne frowned as I reached for the container of liquid laundry detergent. She couldn’t mask her obvious disdain for my torn jeans and dime-store sneakers. Of course it was a no-brainer that she’d not “approve” of the promotional tee shirt I’d had made downtown at Hot Pressed Tees. It was printed with the slogan, O-LIVE OR DIE. Underneath, in smaller print, it read, KNOX PLANTATION.

  I thought the slogan was pretty clever, actually. I mean, if Daddy hadn’t started growing olive trees a few years back, we really would’ve died . . . or at least the plantation would’ve died. Growing olive trees and producing olive oil saved our homestead during a time when sales of more traditional crops had dwindled to nearly nothing.

  Finished with the detergent, I turned on the machine and tromped from the laundry room.

  “I don’t know why y’all won’t wear a uniform,” my sister huffed in the kitchen.

  Her bracelet jingled as she picked
some lint off my shirt while I reached up and took a tall drinking glass from the upper cabinet. I set the glass on the red laminate countertop. Same counter we’d had growing up.

  “Stop, Daph,” I said.

  “Why don’t y’all just know it,” she yammered, “our guests just ahh-dowr the twins in their little Knox Plantation uniforms. They look cuter than a sack full of puppies!”

  Ignoring her, I opened the big Sub-Zero freezer and filled my glass with ice cubes.

  I had to agree about one thing. Our guests—the men, anyway—did seem to enjoy taking in an eyeful of the twins as they bent over and served meals in their ridiculous, skimpy uniforms. To me, the ruffled, off-the-shoulder, too-short, poofy-skirted getups that Daphne’d designed to look like “charming Southern belle dresses” looked more like cheesy French maid frocks. Naturally, despite Daphne’s protestations, I refused to wear one. Service and housekeeping weren’t my official duties, anyway.

  “I don’t see you wearing one, Daph,” I shot back hotly, slamming the freezer door.

  With her svelte figure—she was taller and less curvy than I was—Daphne probably could’ve gotten away with wearing one of her stupid uniforms, scanty as they were, despite the fact that she was well into her forties.

  “Don’t y’all be silly, Eva. Of course I’m not wearing a uniform.”

  Daphne sniffed with indignation. Still trying to smile and keep her composure, she ended up looking like she’d just taken a whiff of some stinky cheese. Daphne hated cheese.

  She continued. “I’m ten years older than you are, Eva. It wouldn’t be age appropriate. Besides, I’m the lady of the house.”

  What Daphne really meant to say was that wearing a skimpy worker’s costume wasn’t her station. And in the same light, heaven forbid should la-di-da Daphne strip a soiled bed, or place her delicate hands around the handle of a scrub brush and stare down a dirty toilet bowl . . . oh no. That type of job was for the plebeians in life.

  And younger sisters.

  Still, when you cut to the chase, it was all for our family business. That’s why I’d stepped in for the twins, time and time again that summer. I’d done way more than my fair share of vacuuming, dusting, changing bed linens, washing laundry, scouring pots and pans, and scrubbing toilets in the big house. And all through the summer, I’d endured Daphne’s holier-than-thou attitude.