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, dahr-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. Like everyone always did. So, on that stifling, September morning-overtired, nursing a sore stubbed toe, aggravated with my nagging boss, and seeing nothing but mountains of dirty laundry ahead of me-I'd nearly reached the end of my string. Plus, on top of it all, there'd been the unexpected stress of the day before. Dex Codman and his Boston cronies had just shown up at Knox Plantation, completely out of the blue. After all those years. And right after serving them their first dinner at the plantation, I'd had a big blowout with Dex in front of everyone during the after-dinner olive oil tasting party. Later that night in my one-room cottage behind the big house, I'd actually been so upset about the scene I'd made with Dex that I'd downed a couple of glasses of wine before bed, to help me sleep. A chronic insomniac, I rarely slept, anyway. Especially that summer. And I rarely drank alcohol . . . certainly not alone. However, with the shock and stress of Dex and the others staying on at the plantation, I'd recognized that it would take something extra to get me to sleep. That's where the wine had come in. And for once, it'd worked. The wine, combined with the allergy pill I'd taken earlier, had done the trick. I'd slept like a baby, only awakening one time in the middle of the night, after a weird dream-but then, I always had weird dreams. In the dream, somewhere in the dark of night, a half-naked man with two heads was singing and dancing, mocking and chanting obscenities at me, while trying to pull off my clothes. He laughed raucously. Then suddenly, I found myself underwater. The same man was tightly holding my wrist, and he was pulling me down . . . down, deeper into the dark water as I struggled and gasped for air. Then again, the dream switched gears. It was still night, and a growling black bear was chasing me through the woods, gnashing his teeth and clawing at me. The man was still calling my name. I couldn't see him. And I couldn't find my way out of the dark and scary woods. Terrified, I felt a bear claw tearing though my clothes. There was wet slobber on my shoulder as I still tried to get away. But I was paralyzed and couldn't seem to move, let alone run. I heard the man laughing. Then I felt the beast breathing and slobbering on my cheek, growling in my ear. I was sure that I was about to die . . . That's when I'd jumped up, awakening with a start, only to realize the attacking bear had actually been my little black dog, Dolly, licking me on the face. She'd been in my cottage with me, up on my grandma Knox's antique four-poster bed. After that, Dolly'd jumped down to the floor before skittering to the screen door, whimpering. Probably some critter outside, I'd thought, still groggy with sleep. Dolly hadn't even bothered to wait for me to get out of bed. Pulling the screen door open with her paw, she'd let herself out of my cottage and onto the stoop outside. Exhausted and barely conscious, I'd put my head back down on the pillow, meaning to get up and let Dolly back in after a moment or two, after my heart stopped pounding and I'd sorted through my dream. Instead, I'd fallen right back to sleep, dead to the world. Miracles do happen . . . Several hours later that Saturday morning, as I sipped my cool glass of water in the big house kitchen while the blasted bed linens tumbled in the washing machine, Daphne stopped mid-sentence and sighed. She crossed her arms. "Eva, are you even listening to me? I do declare, y'all look like ten miles of bad road today." Above the farmhouse sink, the curtains at the kitchen window puffed in the warm breeze. I peeped outside, taking in Daphne's riot of flowers blooming in the garden. I caught a heady whiff of sweet-scented Gertrude Jekyll roses, tall, purple bearded irises, and gargantuan, snow-white Casa Blanca lilies as they bobbed in the breeze. Across the green lawn, birds chattered in a live oak tree laden with Spanish moss. I'd managed to avoid Dex and the others that morning while they were out on some sort of nature walk. Still, I thought, it was only a matter of time before I'd run into them. Or worse, if the twins didn't show up, I'd have to serve Dex and his Boston buddies. Again. I need to get away. I set the glass of water down in the sink. "Eva? Hello? Are y'all paying me any mind?" Daphne tapped her foot as I turned to face her. Her bracelet jingled as she crossed her arms. "Gracious to goodness, y'all are about as useless as tits on a boar today, Eva." She let out an exasperated sigh. "Y'all are no help to me at all like this. I'm sure the twins will be here soon, so, I'm ordering you to take the afternoon off." I laughed. Only Daphne could imagine she'd need to "order" me to take a summer afternoon off. "Hooray! Thanks, Daph," I said. "Except now, I kinda feel bad about all the despicable things I've thought about you this summer." I grinned. Daphne threw her hands up, looking positively scandalized. The door from the dining room swung open. "Woo-wee! It's hotter than the Devil's armpit in here!" Precious Darling, who worked as our "temporary" chef at Knox Plantation-when she wasn't working as estate manager for the Gatsby-esque Greatwoods Plantation next door-clomped into the kitchen. Well over six feet tall, Precious was built like an Amazon warrior maiden. She had beautiful coppery skin, with matching short-cropped hair, and always wore Louboutin shoes and designer duds, even when she worked in the kitchen. Best of all, Precious was a spectacular cook. "Miss Daphne, you got somethin' you need me to do before I head back to Greatwoods?" Per Daphne's orders, Precious proceeded to pack me a picnic lunch in an old willow basket. "I'm tryin' out new recipes for the guests," Precious said later, handing me the stuffed picnic basket. "You're my guinea pig." "Great!" I cried, eagerly snagging the load. "Thanks, Precious." Excerpted from Dipped to Death by Kelly Lane All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.