{"product_id":"an-olive-grove-mysteryisbn-9780425277249","title":"An Olive Grove Mystery","description":"\u003cb\u003eOn her family's South Georgia olive plantation, Eva Knox is on the hook for murder in the third delightful Olive Grove Mystery from the author of \u003ci\u003eOne Foot in the Grove\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eCold Pressed Murder\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn a sizzling-hot September day, Eva Knox's ex-boyfriend, Dudley Dexter Codman the Third, along with a bunch of his corporate cronies from Boston, arrive at Eva's family's guest inn and olive farm, Knox Plantation. Maps and binoculars in hand, the New Englanders claim they're on a bird-watching holiday. Only, Eva knows that her ex doesn't know the first thing about birds. Nor does he care.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEva can't fathom why he'd show up after all these years in her off-the-beaten-path hometown--nearly 1,200 miles from Boston. When Dudley's body is found drowned in the pond, Eva starts fishing for answers. But she doesn't have much time after authorities determine that her ex was poisoned by one of Eva's family's olive oils. She'll have to find the real killer before her family is caught for murder.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eDipped to Death\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A page-turner in every sense of the word, this is a great entry in a fun series!\"—RT Book Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for the Olive Grove Mysteries\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Easily one of the top ten mystery series to have come about in the last few years, the Olive Grove series is a winner!”—More Mysteries Please\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If you enjoy southern cozies, family driven mysteries, well written characters and storylines, this is the book for you.\"–\u003ci\u003eOpen Book Society \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An intriguing mystery and plenty of Southern atmosphere.”—Peg Cochran, national bestselling author of the Gourmet De-Lite Mysteries\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An enticing tale you'll enjoy from beginning to end.”—Thoughts in Progress\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Charming characters and an atmospheric Southern setting make this a tasty debut for food cozy aficionados.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eKelly Lane\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of the Olive Grove mysteries. She has worked as a writer, editor, and public relations professional. An active member of Sisters in Crime, she participates in professional writing groups and workshops.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Of course, the last thing I expected to find was another dead      body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But, there he was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Eva!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Daphne's fancy Italian slingbacks click-clacked across the floor      as she entered the laundry room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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!\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A stickler for perfection, Daphne always had to be the best.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She straightened the pile of linens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And, of course, Daphne was always right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sigh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'd have to wash, dry, and fold the entire load all over again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Argh!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I pretended to pull my hair out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Smiling ever so sweetly, Daphne pointed me toward an enormous wad      of soiled bed linens in another hamper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I need y'all to clean, dry, and fold those ASAP. And, of course,      the towels. Don't forget softener.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She turned on her heels and click-clacked back to the kitchen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, ma'am,\" I mumbled, rolling my eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Miffed, I yanked open the door to the oversize washing machine and      started jamming in the soiled bedsheets and pillowcases.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I heard more click-clacking, then Daphne peeked back around the      doorframe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"And really, Eva,\" she said with a sniff, \"I do wish y'all      wouldn't come to work looking so . . . pedestrian.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I slammed the washer door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Finished with the detergent, I turned on the machine and tromped      from the laundry room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I don't know why y'all won't wear a uniform,\" my sister huffed in      the kitchen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Stop, Daph,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ignoring her, I opened the big Sub-Zero freezer and filled my      glass with ice cubes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I don't see you wearing one, Daph,\" I shot back hotly, slamming      the freezer door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Don't y'all be silly, Eva. Of course I'm not wearing a uniform.\"      \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And younger sisters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Like everyone always did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After all those years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And for once, it'd worked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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 . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After that, Dolly'd jumped down to the floor before skittering to      the screen door, whimpering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Probably some critter outside, I'd thought, still groggy with      sleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Miracles do happen . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Eva, are you even listening to me? I do declare, y'all look like      ten miles of bad road today.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I need to get away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I set the glass of water down in the sink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I laughed. Only Daphne could imagine she'd need to \"order\" me to      take a summer afternoon off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Daphne threw her hands up, looking positively scandalized. The      door from the dining room swung open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Woo-wee! It's hotter than the Devil's armpit in here!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Miss Daphne, you got somethin' you need me to do before I head      back to Greatwoods?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Per Daphne's orders, Precious proceeded to pack me a picnic lunch      in an old willow basket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm tryin' out new recipes for the guests,\" Precious said later,      handing me the stuffed picnic basket. \"You're my guinea pig.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Great!\" I cried, eagerly snagging the load. \"Thanks, Precious.\"","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304793395429,"sku":"NP9780425277249","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780425277249.jpg?v=1730758456","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/an-olive-grove-mysteryisbn-9780425277249","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}