Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too by Nancy Martin

By Nancy Martin

While the mogul proprietor of a spectacularly cheesy activities bar is killed, Nora Blackbird suspects a secretive flesh presser, a shady former rock megastar doubling as a pastry chef, and a deadly aristo-brat at the verge of stardom.

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You're not half bad for a hoyden. " "Don't get your hopes up, old man. " Affronted as a maiden aunt who'd just heard a naughty limerick, he blustered, "Don't be ridiculous, young lady! " "That's what they all say. " "Certainly not. " He used his knobby knuckles to rap his own skull. "See? " "I'd rather be boiled in oil by South Sea savages than set foot in a germ factory like a hospital. " "Humor me, you old geezer. " "You'll have to wrestle me to the ground," he replied. " He had turned away and marched back to his car.

She shrugged and hooked her thumb in the direction of the Kingsley's truck. "What's going on? " "In a way," I said. "Zell is clearing out the house. " Emma looked surprised. "No kidding? " We heard some yelling from the direction of the house. The security guard dropped his cigarette and ran over to help one of his compatriots, who plunged out of the ballroom French doors, wrestling with a tall, rangy woman with spiked white hair. "Uh-oh," said Boy. " Verbena Fitch Barnstable let out a scream that shook the tree limbs around us.

Pierpoint Fitch, best known as "Pointy" to his friends, unfurled his storklike body from the car and stood up, looking bizarre, but uninjured. "Hey, hot dog," Emma called. " "No thanks to you," he snapped, shoving his goggles to the top of his head. His hair immediately stood on end as if he'd stuck his finger in a light socket. "Me? " Pointy Fitch, nearly eighty, had a pair of baggy shorts hanging on his bony hips—shorts that would have looked more natural on a skateboarding teenager than an elderly millionaire.

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