Second Honeymoons Can Be Murder (A Baby Boomer Mystery Book 6) Read online

  Praise for the Baby Boomer Mysteries

  “Santangelo has come up with an intriguing premise, drawing on the much-publicized fact that the baby boomer generation will soon be facing retirement, and she develops it cleverly….We’ll look forward to more Boomer mysteries in the years to come….Pure fun—and don’t be surprised if retired sleuths become the next big trend.”

  —Booklist.com

  “Retirement Can Be Murder is a fun chick lit investigative tale starring Carol Andrews super sleuth supported by an eccentric bunch of BBs (baby boomers), the cop and the daughter. Carol tells the tale in an amusing frantic way that adds to the enjoyment of a fine lighthearted whodunit that affirms that ‘every wife has a story.’”

  —Harriet Klausner, National Book Critic

  “Moving Can Be Murder is jam-packed with Carol’s cast of best buds and signature Santangelo fun! The author has penned a magnificent cozy that will leave you panting from the excitement, laughing at the characters, and—no surprise here—begging for more.”

  —Terri Ann Armstrong, Author of How To Plant A Body

  “With her Baby Boomer mystery series, Susan Santangelo documents her undeniable storytelling talents. Class Reunions Can Be Murder is an especially well crafted and entertaining mystery which plays fair with the reader every step of the way….An outstanding series.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Can it be possible that Carol Andrews somehow attracts murders—or at least their discovery and subsequent solution—into her life? As this fun romp opens, Carol is simply attending the untimely funeral of her very hunky handyman. Funerals Can Be Murder is the fifth installment in Santangelo’s Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery series, and it doesn’t disappoint. Another ‘must-read’!”

  —Anne L. Holmes (“Boomer in Chief”), National Association of Baby Boomer Women

  “Susan Santangelo’s Baby Boomer Mystery series never fails to delight. I always know I’ll be in for several hours of enjoyable reading and quite a few laughs when I spend time with Carol Andrews, her irrepressible sleuth. Second Honeymoons Can Be Murder, the sixth book in this cozy series, is no exception. I’m already eagerly anticipating the next book. Santangelo needs to write faster!”

  —Lois Winston, USA Today Bestselling Author of the Critically Acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Series

  “In this sixth entry in Susan Santangelo’s charming Baby Boomer Mystery series, Carol Andrews finds herself in TV Land when she and Jim consult on a reality show that takes them on a second honeymoon in Florida. But when the Sunshine State is overshadowed by a sudden death, Carol once again finds herself embroiled in a murder investigation—one that hits uncomfortably close to home. With a vivid supporting cast including Carol’s best gal pals, snooty television execs, and a sketchy hotel concierge—not to mention the canine versions of Lucy and Ethel—Santangelo spins another delightful tale of murder and mayhem.”

  —Rosie Genova, Author of the Italian Kitchen Mysteries

  “Susan Santangelo’s latest Baby Boomer Mystery, Second Honeymoons Can Be Murder, keeps a smile on your lips and the pages turning one right after the other. What’s not to like? An engaging mystery and laugh-out loud characters right to the very last page.”

  —Susan Kiernan-Lewis, Award-winning Author of the Maggie Newberry Mystery Series

  “In Second Honeymoons Can Be Murder, Susan Santangelo treats us to a new adventure by amateur sleuth Carol Andrews, who accompanies her husband Jim to Florida for what promises to be a dream vacation and the beginning of a new career in reality TV...but the reality turns out to be the murder of her old school chum and new boss. The latest addition to Santangelo’s Baby Boomer Mystery series gives us delicious new insights into her heroine’s quirky personality, told engagingly as a conversation with the reader in Carol’s inimitable chatty style. And that’s not all—there’s a recipe for Key Lime Pie that is, well, to die for.”

  —Carole Goldberg, National Book Critics Circle Member

  Second Honeymoons

  Can Be Murder:

  Every Wife Has a Story

  A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery

  Sixth in the Series

  Susan Santangelo

  SUSPENSE PUBLISHING

  SECOND HONEYMOONS CAN BE MURDER

  by

  Susan Santangelo

  DIGITAL EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Suspense Publishing

  Susan Santangelo

  Copyright 2016 Susan Santangelo

  PUBLISHING HISTORY:

  Suspense Publishing, Paperback and Digital Copy, 2016

  Cover and Book Design: Shannon Raab

  Cover Artist: Elizabeth Moisan

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Publisher’s Note: The recipes in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher and the author are not responsible for a reader’s specific health or allergy needs which may require medical supervision. The publisher and the author are not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  This book is dedicated to Maryvonne and Jim Fouss, who’ve been on their second honeymoon for the last fifty years. And to Terri Ann Armstrong, who would have made a heck of a police detective!

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my wonderful family—Dave, Mark, Sandy, Rebecca, and Jacob. And especially to my husband Joe, who keeps me on my toes and inspires me every day.

  A big thank you to my First Readers Club, including Marie Sherman, Sandy Pendergast, and Cathie LeBlanc.

  Thanks to Elizabeth Moisan for once again coming up with terrific artwork for this book’s cover.

  Honeymoon Island really exists on Florida’s beautiful west coast. It’s part of the state park system, and couples can/do marry and have their wedding receptions there, although not in the resort setting described in this book.

  There’s a new puppy in our house, and her image is on the back cover. Her call name is Lilly, and her official AKC name is My Pulitzer Prize. (I hope y’all get the double reference.) Boomer is still the model for the front cover, however, and is adjusting to having Lilly in his life. Thanks to Lynn Pray and Courtney Cherrico, Pineridge English Cockers, Rehoboth, MA for breeding such wonderful dogs,

  I am grateful to Sandra Tatsuno and Paulette DiAngi for providing the delicious Key Lime Pie recipes found in the back of this book.

  To everyone at the Breast Cancer Survival Center, and cancer survivors everywhere, God bless! And to those who are continuing to fight the fight, never give up!

  A big thank you to everyone from the Cape Cod Hospital Auxiliary, Barnstable Branch, and the Cape Cod Hospital Thrift Shop. And to all my new friends in Clearwater, Florida, especially the members of the Clearwater Welcome Newcomer Club and my volunteer buddies from Morton Plant Hospital. For Carole Goldberg from The Hartford Courant, and Gwenn Friss from the Cape Cod Times, I appreciate your help more than you will ever know.

  A special sh
out-out to Marti Baker, who’s always in my corner, no matter what.

  To all my friends and cyber friends from Sisters in Crime, especially the New England and Florida chapters, thanks for sharing your expertise with me. I always learn something new, and the support is fantastic.

  To Shannon and John Raab, and everyone at Suspense Publishing, who help me in so many ways, thank you for coming with me on this incredible journey.

  And to everyone who’s enjoyed this series—the readers I’ve met at countless book events and those who have e-mailed me—thanks so much! Hope you enjoy this one, too. And keep those chapter headings coming!

  Second Honeymoons

  Can Be Murder:

  Every Wife Has a Story

  Susan Santangelo

  The West Coast of Florida.

  On The Beach.

  “That feels wonderful,” I said, snuggling closer into my husband’s arms. This move was immediately followed by an image of Sister Mary Evelyn, the freshman health teacher at Mount Saint Francis Academy, scowling at me, and intoning, “A proper young lady NEVER allows her hormones to get the better of her in a public place. Girls, you must keep your knees together at all times. And always allow room for the Holy Ghost when you are dancing with a boy.”

  That killed the mood, all right. Good old Sister Evelyn. She was even haunting me from the grave. I pulled myself away from my husband’s amorous embrace. “Stop that. Somebody might see us.”

  Jim rolled over on his side and gave me a look. “Carol, for heaven’s sake. We’re on our second honeymoon here in Florida. And we’re on Honeymoon Island. It’s paradise here.” He gestured around at the pristine beach and powdery white sand. “I hope you remember what we did on our first honeymoon. It was a lot more than what we’re doing now.”

  He waggled his eyebrows for emphasis, in case I didn’t get his meaning. Which I definitely did. My education had progressed way beyond what I learned from Sister Evelyn.

  I sat up and brushed the sand off my bathing suit. Truth to tell, it fit a little tighter than it did when I tried it on at Suits R Us in Fairport, Connecticut, last summer. But I hope you won’t tell anyone I admitted that. Fortunately, from the way he was acting, Jim hadn’t noticed there was a little more of me to love these days.

  “Why don’t we go for a walk along the beach?” I suggested to my paramour of thirty plus years. “That way, we won’t feel guilty about ordering dessert back at the hotel.”

  “I went to a Jesuit school, in case you’ve forgotten,” Jim said, rolling over and getting himself to his feet. With some difficulty, which I pretended I hadn’t noticed. “Jesuits don’t believe in guilt. At least, not where dessert is concerned.”

  I laughed and took my husband’s hand. To help me up. I admit it.

  “Why don’t we walk that way?” I suggested, indicating a route that we hadn’t tried before. “It looks pretty level, and it’s in the direction of the parking lot, so if one of us gets tired, we’re close to the car.”

  I squinted, then said, “Wait a minute, Jim. Do you see something bright?” I sniffed. “It smells like something’s burning.”

  The next thing I remember, there was a loud whoosh sound. I’d never heard anything like it before.

  Jim grabbed my hand and pushed me into the sand. “Get down, Carol.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Our car’s on fire. If the flames hit the gas tank, it’s going to explode.”

  There was a deafening noise, then silence. I was lying face down in the sand, Jim on top of me. I opened my mouth to scream, but all that did was fill my mouth with sand. Ugh.

  I heard the sound of sirens in the distance, then several emergency vehicles careened into the parking lot at once. As Jim and I struggled to our feet, I heard someone scream, “There’s a person trapped in the car!”

  I felt sick to my stomach, and it wasn’t from the sand, either. Trust me, having a near death experience can do that to a person.

  Weeks later, when Jim and I were safely back home in Fairport, I still had trouble figuring out how our Florida adventure turned into such a nightmare. Except for the tiny fact (which I conveniently ignored) that it all began because of one of my very brilliant ideas.

  Chapter 1

  God made man before He made woman to give him time to think of an answer to her first question.

  “Good lord, Carol, I thought they’d never leave.”

  “Hush, Jim,” I said to my husband. “Phyllis and Bill will hear you. At least wait until they cross the street and are in their own house before you start to complain.”

  Jim grunted, which I took as a promise of temporary good behavior, and started to clean up the remains of the desserts—leftovers of what was one of the most boring evenings I’ve ever hosted.

  As if reading my thoughts, Jim said, “There’s nothing as dull as looking at other people’s vacation pictures. For hours. Why in the world did you invite them over? In all the years that we’ve been neighbors, we’ve never entertained them solo before.”

  “I had to, Jim,” I said, picking up two dirty wineglasses and heading in the direction of the kitchen. “Phyllis cornered me a while ago at Will Finnegan’s wake, and I had to get away from her. The only thing I could think of was to invite them both over here some night to share their vacation pictures. I was desperate. I stalled the visit as long as I could, but I finally ran out of excuses.”

  Perhaps some of you recall that encounter at Mallory and Mallory Funeral Home in the bucolic Fairfield County, Connecticut, town of Fairport that Jim and I have called home for most of our married life. If you don’t, never mind. I’ll fill you in another time.

  “Promise me that we won’t ever have to entertain them alone again,” Jim said, depositing the tray of leftover pastries on the granite island in our kitchen. “I hope you saved the box for these.”

  “For your information, Mr. Smarty,” I said, “I actually baked the brownies and the chocolate chip cookies myself. No box was harmed in the making of these desserts.” Except for the box that the brownie mix came in, but I didn’t need to share that detail with my husband. No sense in confusing the guy, especially at this late hour when we were both exhausted from feigning interest at all the pictures Phyllis and Bill had shared.

  “I’ll bet the oven was surprised,” Jim said. “And happy to be used after such a long time.”

  I swatted him with the dishtowel.

  “I didn’t make the ice cream, just in case you were wondering,” I added in a rare burst of complete honesty. “But I did make the ice cream bread. Which I haven’t made in a long time. Not since Jenny and Mark started to date again.” I gave Jim a smooch. “Thanks in part, to you, of course.”

  “Always happy to be of service,” Jim said, with a mock bow.

  Since his remark referred to a time when Jim was under suspicion for the death of his retirement coach, and our now son-in-law, Mark, was one of the policemen assigned to the case, I wasn’t sure how to respond. Which proves how exhausted I was. I always have a snappy comeback armed and ready in my arsenal.

  “I always thought Mark would be the perfect husband for Jenny,” I said, rinsing the wineglasses and putting them in the drainer to dry overnight. (They’re Waterford, and I’m always petrified I’m going to break one, so I let them air dry.) “Even way back when they used to do homework together at the kitchen table, I knew they were meant to be together,” I said. “But I had to let them figure that out for themselves.”

  I never interfere in my children’s lives, despite what you may have heard. And the fact that our second child, Mike, has chosen to live in Miami, Florida, far away from us in New England, is purely coincidental. I’m certain he only wanted to live in a warmer climate, not escape from his parents. Especially, me.

  “Do you want me to walk Lucy and Ethel one more time before I go to bed?” Jim asked. “Where are they, anyway?” Our two English cocker spaniels love to sleep on our bed, and don’t always like to share it with the humans.
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  “You must be kidding, Jim,” I said. “I’m sure they’re where they always are at this time of night. If you want to wake them up and take them out for a quick stroll, be my guest. I’ll check the living room to be sure I’ve cleaned up everything.”

  Jim nodded and headed toward the bedroom. I wondered if I were taking a chance. He looked so pooped that he probably would just collapse on the bed next to the sleeping canines and go right to sleep himself.

  Oh, well.

  I saw that Bill had forgotten one of his precious photo albums on the coffee table, which one of us would have to return to him in the morning. Which would inevitably lead to another long conversation about their trip.

  Rats. Maybe I could just leave the album on their front stoop and run away before they spotted me.

  I ordered myself to stop thinking mean thoughts. Phyllis and Bill had no living family, and they’d just taken a great trip to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary. They had no one to share the photos with, except us. It was very sad.

  I picked up the photo album and a handwritten card fluttered to the floor. To read, or not to read? That, indeed, was the question.

  Well, I could just take a quick peek. After all, there was no one around to stop me.

  For my darling Bill: Thank you for making the last fifty years so wonderful. You have shown me the meaning of true love. I look forward to making more memories with you for a long time to come.

  Always Yours, Phyllis

  My cheeks burned with embarrassment. I felt like a voyeur. Well, probably because I was one. Who would have suspected that crotchety Phyllis Stevens would express such tender feelings for the man she bosses around every waking moment of his life? I snuck the card back into the photo album, left it on the coffee table as a reminder to return it in the morning, and took my aching bones to bed.