Ice cream parlor owner Tally Jones finds herself going to college to keep an eye on her niece after a graduate student is murdered at the annual Honor's Day celebration. Alice is the unfortunate person to discover the body of Bryan Campbell, and Tally's protective instincts kick in when suspicion initially falls on Alice.
It isn't long before a campus professor falls under suspicion. Bryan had a pending sexual harassment charge against English professor Emily Clowper. Emily's suspicious death has Tally donning a backpack and joining Alice on campus. She discovers Bryan wasn't a stand-up member of the faculty and many people had a reason to kill him. Figuring out the cryptic words spoken by Emily just before her death may provide the missing piece to the puzzle.
SCOOP TO KILL by Wendy Lyn Watson is a clever, amusing small-town mystery. Set in Dalliance, Texas (you know there's going to be a good time had by all in a town named Dalliance!), Ms. Watson infuses a warm, folksy feel in the story with well-chosen language that paints a vivid picture for the reader. Tally is a first-rate amateur sleuth; the relationship she has with her family is heartwarming. It's a well-crafted mystery, and readers will be as torn as Tally as she works to decide between the two men in her life. SCOOP TO KILL is the latest in the Mystery a la Mode series.
During the local collegeโs annual Honorโs Day festivities, a
graduate student is killed. When the English professor
suspected of his murder also meets an untimely end, Tallulah
Jones steps out from behind the counter of Remember the
a-la-Mode to clear the professorโs name-before anyone else
gets put on iceโฆ
EXCERPT
It may be blasphemy to say it here in Texas, but if William
Travis and his men had defended the Alamo the way Bree
defended Alice that day, General Santa Anna would have
scooted back to Mexico with his tail between his legs. Iโm
telling you, Bree was a sight to behold: half naked in her
skimpy pink sundress, her hair teased seven ways from
Sunday, purple-painted toenails peeping from three-inch
high strappy silver sandals, and a look in her eyes that
could have brought a grown man to his knees.
If, that is, that grown man had been anyone other than
Detective Cal McCormack. Heโd heard the call come in over
the scanner, that twenty-six-year-old doctoral student
Bryan Campbell had been bludgeoned to death, apparently
with an industrial-sized stapler, but he wasnโt on the
case. The victim, Bryan, was Calโs nephew, his older sister
Marlaโs boy.
Cal and I go way back, back to summer games of kickball and
capture-the-flag. We werenโt close anymore, but I knew Cal
McCormack as well as anyone. Laid-back, laconic, law-
abiding Cal. That afternoon in Sinclair Hall, though, I saw
a side of Cal McCormack Iโd never seen before.
He was incandescent with fury.
"What the hell happened here?" he bellowed, towering over
Alice as she huddled in the shelter of her motherโs arms.
Bree angled her body between Alice and the colossal cowboy
and raised her chin to stare him in the eye. "Donโt you
take that tone with my child, Cal McCormack."
The Cal I knew would be chastened by a southern woman
asserting her motherly credentials, would have tipped his
hat (metaphorically speaking) and begged pardon. But this
new Cal spun like a force of nature.
"Back off, Bree," he barked. "Your child is covered in
Bryanโs blood, and sheโs going to tell me why." He took
another ominous step, crowding Bree and Alice against the
wall. "Now."
I recognized the mulish expression on my cousinโs face.
Irresistible force had met immovable object, and nothing
good could come from that.
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