Birthday Cake, Beach Days & Book News

Chapter 1

Nobody offers me sweet tea and I’m okay with that.

I’m Danica Death, tax collector for the town of Palmetto Holler, South Carolina. I’m also the town’s biggest coffee addict.

The town’s original name was Palmetto Hollow. The guy ordering the sign spoke with a strong Southern accent and this is what we got. It was cheaper for the town to change its name to match the sign than to send it back. We’d been Palmetto Holler ever since.

Talking to people about their taxes was the biggest challenge of my day job. When I came calling to their homes most of the residents avoided me at all costs. I’ve been at this job long enough to spot the clues. The front room curtains that twitch without settling, barely hiding the silhouette of the home’s residents behind them. The porch light that clicks off the moment my county sedan rounds the corner. The way a whole street can go quiet between one heartbeat and the next, like it does when a hearse passes, waiting to see which door I’ll knock on.

It’s nothing personal. I have a job to do. The town hates it when I do my job, but I don’t have a choice.

This morning I parked at the curb on Main Street before the sun had fully committed to showing up. Some people get up with the chickens. I crawl out of bed as my automated coffee pot stirs to life before dawn. The church bells rang out seven times to let the town know that the county offices would open to the public in an hour.

The county tried to get me to wear a pencil skirt and a blouse, but I’m a tax collector, not a librarian. As I got out of the car, I smoothed the wrinkles out of my khakis and adjusted the bright pink necktie around the collar of my white dress shirt. If the townsfolk are going to talk then I might as well give them something to talk about.

“That color is all wrong for you,” a voice called from above. Tempest, my pet crow, had flown behind the car. I let her ride inside the vehicle once. She got carsick. A second invitation to ride to work with me wasn’t going to happen.

Without looking up, I replied, “Good morning to you too.”

“Pink makes you look like a Valentine’s card saleswoman. You should have gone with the midnight blue. That’s a color that commands authority.” Tempest punctuated the statement with a loud caw-caw.

I snorted but didn’t give her the satisfaction of arguing. She liked when I wore ties that matched the color of her feathers. It had been that way since she first flew into my life six years ago, the day after Daddy died.

At the cemetery, upset that I was now the last person in my family line, I’d wished for someone to come into my life who felt like family. Bright and early the next morning the universe sent me a talking crow, but not just any talking crow. Only I could understand what Tempest said. The other residents of Palmetto Holler saw her as the sassy bird who followed me everywhere I went. Lucky them.

“Who died?” Tempest asked when I grabbed a manila file folder from the backseat of my car. Unlike the other folders I carried, this one had a big, red stamp across the front. There was only one reason for the county to use the big, red stamp.

I replied, “Blain Gibson.”

The sound she made was somewhere between a gasp and a cackle. “Blain Gibson? Are you serious? Oh, this is going to be fascinating.” She spread her wings briefly, resettled them, and fixed me with a look of barely contained delight.

“Go ahead. Spill whatever news you have. We both know you’re going to do it anyway.” I started walking.

Tempest hopped along beside me. “Do you know what I heard last spring from the mockingbird who nests behind the Gibson property? Well, I say heard, fair warning, she’s a terrible gossip, absolutely no discretion, but she does have ears everywhere despite not having ears, and she told me—”

“Tempest,” I broke in with a tone of warning.

She kept babbling, “—that there was something going on with that well. The one on the east side of the property. People coming and going at odd hours. A permit that got filed. And then, poof! Blain was gone. Six feet under in the town cemetery.” She clicked her beak the way a human would snap their fingers.

“Wait a second. What do you know about the well?” I stopped walking and stared at her.

She stopped and blinked at me with enormous innocence. “I just told you what I know.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all from that source. The cardinal on Marsh Road did mention something about a man in a big truck who kept driving past the property at night. She couldn’t make out the plates but you know how nearsighted cardinals are, bless her heart.”

A woman walking her teacup poodle gave me a wide berth on the sidewalk. I couldn’t blame her. She saw me as the county tax collector standing on Main Street first thing in the morning, gesturing at a crow big enough to make a snack out of her tiny purse dog.

Once we were safely out of earshot I muttered, “You could have led with that.”

“I could have, darling,” Tempest agreed pleasantly. “But then what would we have talked about?”

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Cozy mysteries with caffeine, chaos, and charm.
Romantic stories with heart, hope, and absolutely zero heat.
The only thing steamy in here is the coffee.
www.beckymuth.com

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