An accomplished master of mystery, Carolyn Hart is the author of twenty previous Death on Demand novels. Her books have won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards. She is also the creator of the Henrie O series, featuring a retired reporter, and the Bailey Ruth series, starring an impetuous, redheaded ghost. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Hart lives in Oklahoma City.

Dead Days of Summer

Thorndike Press

Chapter One

The moon broke free from the low -- lying bank of clouds, revealing the white crests of breaking surf. Pinpoints of light sparkled at the water's edge, the bioluminescent glow of tiny zooplankton. Humid summer air lay over land and sea heavy as a funeral pall. Waves boomed and water surged around the pilings of the fishing pier. Footsteps echoed as a shadowy figure walked alone to the end of the pier, reached out to grip the railing. The grasp was tight, unrelenting.

Anger burned, scalding and uncontrolled. The thought came, words vivid as scarlet neon: She had to die.

Resolution provided release. Taut muscles eased. The hands fell away.

She had to die.

Vanessa Taylor surveyed the dimly lit restaurant with satisfaction. Not a woman she saw could match her for beauty. Vanessa felt exultant. Everything she wanted was within her grasp. She looked across the table at her companion. Her richly red lips curved in a cat -- in -- the -- cream smile.

He reached into the pocket of his blazer, pulled out two snapshots, handed them to her. His eyes were intent, though he managed a smile. "Think you can handle it?"

She glanced at the photographs. "Of course. I'll persuade him. You can count on it. And once it's done, we'll be together. Everything will be wonderful." She lifted her wineglass. "To us."

He raised his glass, dark head bent forward.

Vanessa drank every drop and laughed aloud.

The burst of laughter turned the head of a nearby diner, a tired single -- mom real estate agent out for an evening with a chattering group of friends. She rubbed an aching temple. God, to be young again, to be happy and confident, to be triumphant. Not to be worried about the slowdown in house sales and the ugly whispers that real estate might be the next bubble to burst. Not to be frantic about her son Mike and his thirteen -- year -- old girlfriend who wore her blouses too tight and her shorts too short. Not to be fearful that her mom was making less and less sense. Not to be tired to her bones, yet wake up in the night scared and anxious, sleepless until dawn. Too beaten down for envy, she stared at Vanessa, admiring the raven black hair that curled in soft ringlets, the bold, forceful features, the voluptuous body in the low -- cut crimson dress.

The older woman sighed. If she had a dress like that, it would hang from her thin shoulders, making her look like a bony hag. Her face bleak, she watched as Vanessa dropped two snapshots into a small silver purse. The man with her watched attentively. He wasn't smiling. He looked intense and determined.

The observer wondered what that look meant. Was he crazy about the girl who laughed with such delight? Probably. The single woman's face drooped. Nobody had looked across a table at her for more years than she wanted to remember. She felt a hot rush of tears, dipped her face until her hair swung forward. She was tired, so tired. She wished bitterly that she and the dark -- haired woman in the beautiful red dress could change places. Just for one night.

Heather Whitman ignored the knock on her bedroom door. After a pause, the knock was repeated, soft, inquiring, yet subdued. Heather clutched her pillow with tense fingers. The knock didn't come again. The only sound was the rev of a motor in the drive in front of the house, the throaty purr of Jon's car. She glanced at the bedside clock. Almost noon. Her stepfather always took his own sweet time but he had no need to hurry to his office. Not since he'd married Mother. Of course, Mother always lauded him to the sky, said how lucky the island was to have a man of his caliber, inferring he was so successful. Successful at marrying a really rich woman, that was for sure. Damn Jon. She didn't like him. He was always snide about Kyle. How many times had Jon brought up the flagpole flap? For God's sake, it was years ago, a high school prank. Heather pushed away other moments when Kyle's daring and defiance had landed him in trouble. And now . . . Could she overlook his last wild escapade? Oh damn, damn, damn.

Thoroughly awake, Heather rolled from the bed. She stopped at the vanity, yanked up a brush to pull at her tousled dark hair. She didn't look at her face. She was likely pale as a ghost, with huge smudges beneath her eyes. Whenever she got upset, she looked like a wraith, all gray and silver, insubstantial as a ghost. She flung down the brush, walked to the French window. She pulled it wide, looked out at the familiar sweep of the gardens, brilliant with roses and hibiscus and bougainvillea. The wedding was supposed to be there at the gazebo. I, Heather, take thee Kyle . . .

Was there going to be a wedding?

Lillian Whitman Dodd paused at the top of the steps, looked down the hall toward Heather's room. Perhaps she should go back, knock again. Clearly, Heather was distraught. Lillian was surprised at her sudden feeling of dismay. That was odd. She should be overjoyed if this marriage didn't happen. She'd never tried to hide her regret at the engagement. She'd hoped Heather would outgrow Kyle, but she had never looked at another boy, not from the first moment she met him. Admittedly, Kyle was appealing with an impish charm and good looks, but he was a disaster waiting to happen. Why now did Lillian feel sadness for her daughter? Perhaps because passionate love is rare and when it happens it is worth fighting for. Just as she'd been determined to marry Jon despite Heather's opposition. Lillian had been certain Jon was the right man for her from the moment they'd met. He'd done such a fabulous job on the promotions for the . . .