By Tamar Myers

ISBN-10: 0061348805

ISBN-13: 9780061348808

ISBN-10: 0380811898

ISBN-13: 9780380811892

Pickled...Then Potted

All that is still of Lula Mae Wiggins-who drowned in a bath of inexpensive champagne on New Year's Eve-now sits in an alleged Etruscan urn in Savannah, Georgia. additional north, on the Den of Antiquity old store in Charlotte, North Carolina, plucky owner Abigail Timberlake is astonished to benefit that she is the only real inheitor of the Wiggins property. past due Aunt Lula Mae used to be, in any case, as far away a relative as family members can get.

Arriving in picturesque Savannah, Abby makes a few startling discoveries. First, that Lula Mae's ultimate resting pot is extra American affordable than Italian vintage. And moment, that there has been a really precious 1793 one-cent piece taped to the interior lid. maybe a coin assortment worthy thousands is hidden one of the deceased's worldly possessions-making Lula's passoing extra suspicious than orginally surmised. With the unusual visual appeal of a voodoo preistess coupled with the stressful disappearance of a enjoyed one-and with nasty kin skeletons tumbling from the timber like acorns-Abby must locate her penny auntie's killer p.d.q...or she'll be as much as her ashes in critical trouble!

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Sample text

No doubt I had the best sleep of all of us. Lord knows, I was going to need it. 5 y plan was to grab a toasted bagel in the City Market and walk to Dewayne Kimbro’s office. J. and Wynnell, and early morning, if I’m awake, is my favorite time to be alone. But when I got to City Market, I stumbled into a wonderful place called Seasons and had an Eggs Benedict breakfast served with champagne. The bubbly seemed particularly appropriate, given the means of my cousin’s demise, but rest assured, I did not drink to the point of inebriation.

I grabbed Mama’s elbow and steered her into Mr. Kimbro’s building. A group had exited the courthouse and two of them were headed our way. I wasn’t about to let strangers hear what was undoubtedly going to be a very personal, if not embarrassing confession. The exterior of Dewayne Kimbro’s three-story building was red brick and perhaps two hundred years old. To reach the front door one had to go up a flight of steps flanked by black wrought-iron handrails. The thick glass pane in the front door was etched, depicting a scene of egrets perched on dead tree limbs.

There was no chair. On the wall behind the desk was last year’s calendar. To either side of the desk was a door, and I followed him to the left into a room only slightly better furnished. He gestured at a vintage wooden chair with sweat-stained armrests. I took the seat. His chair behind the desk was black leather, but a short strip of electrical tape placed diagonally across the back was the sure sign of a tear. “It isn’t as bad as it looks,” he said. I nodded, surprisingly at a loss for words.

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