Pretty is as Pretty Dies

ProloguePARKE 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...