A Haunted Souvenir Shop Mystery from the author of Murder Sends a Postcard --featuring Down-Home Dinner Menus. It’s winter in Keyhole Bay, Florida, and while the tourist trade is slow, souvenir shop owner Glory Martine is busy with her best friend’s wedding. But between managing preparations, the bride’s in-laws, and a haunted parrot named Bluebeard, Glory makes plans to catch a killer. As her friends Karen and Riley approach their wedding day, Glory could use a break from the nuptial madness. She takes a peaceful drive to Alabama’s piney woods to pick up the wedding quilt she ordered from a supplier. But the supplier, Beth, has disappeared along with the quilt and her husband, Everett. Glory learns that two men were found murdered near Beth and Everett’s home and that the couple is wanted for questioning. Believing they are innocent, Glory convinces them to cooperate with authorities. But when they’re thrown in jail, Glory vows to catch the real killer before one happy couple walks down the aisle and another gets sent up the river. Praise for the Haunted Souvenir Shop Mysteries "Author Christy Fifield creates the kind of characters that stay with you for a long time...Delightful amateur sleuth Glory Martine is back with her wisecracking parrot and charming group of friends in this thoroughly entertaining adventure. Don’t miss it."—Julie Hyzy, national bestselling author of the Manor House Mysteries and the White House Chef Mystery series "Definitely a series that's a promising addition to the 'cozy' genre."— Once Upon a Romance "I will definitely be reading more of the series.”— Novel Reflections Christy Fifield is a pen name of Christina F. York. Chris lives on the rugged Oregon coast, with her husband and fellow writer, J. Steven York. She is the author of the Haunted Souvenir Shop Mysteries ( Murder Sends a Postcard , Murder Hooks a Mermaid , Murder Buys a T-Shirt ). Acknowledgments Chapter 1 I stood in the center of my small living room, struggling to remain motionless. I wore a dark green satin dress that clung to me in an unfamiliar way, and tottered on a pair of matching heels far higher than anything I had ever owned. The sliding door to my miniscule balcony was open a crack, letting in a cool, late afternoon breeze. It was early November, and in the Florida Panhandle that meant seventy degree days. The temperature was dropping and I would have to close the door soon, but for now I welcomed the slight chill. It helped soothe my nerves, and I wasn’t the only one with an attack of nerves. My furniture had been pushed back to clear the center of the room, and Keyhole Bay’s radio star, Karen “The Voice of the Shores” Freed, paced like a caged animal. “Glory! Stand still,” Karen snapped. Normally I would find the contrast between her actions and her words amusing. But this wasn’t a normal day. I sighed, not even trying to hide my exasperation. Ever since I agreed to be her maid of honor, my so-called best friend had started channeling every bad bride I’d ever seen. And as the owner of a gift shop in the Florida Panhandle, I’d seen plenty of them on “destination” weekends, bossing their bridesmaids around and generally acting like what my memaw called “donkeys in horses’ harness.” “Seriously, Martine?” Karen said, her chestnut curls shaking in disbelief. “This poor woman is trying to mark the hem of your dress, and you can’t stop fidgeting.” She waved at her former and future mother-in-law, on her knees in front of me. To her credit, Mrs. Freed just laughed. “Easy, Karen,” she cautioned. “Glory already did this for you once, if you’ll remember. Not many friends would do it twice.” Karen reached down and hugged the older woman. “And not many women would be lucky enough to get you for a mother-in-law. Twice.” She took a deep breath and backed away. “I think I’ll go get us some coffee, okay?” Mrs. Freed nodded, distracted by the heavy green satin that pooled around my ankles. “Go on,” she said around a mouthful of pins. “I’ll be finished by the time you get back.” Karen shot me a last warning glance and hurried down the stairs that led from the small apartment to the gift shop below. True to her word, Mrs. Freed finished pinning the hem and I was comfortably back in my jeans and polo shirt by the time Karen returned. She carried a cardboard tray of paper coffee cups and a white bakery bag from Lighthouse Coffee next door. Setting the coffee on the kitchen table, she held the bag out to Mrs. Freed. “I really appreciate what you’re doing,” she said. “And Pansy says to tell you hello.” Mrs. Freed opened the bag and sniffed appreciatively. “Lordy, that woman knows her way around a cruller, doesn’t she?” She took a shiny glazed twist and passed me the bag. Still warm, the pastry was irresistible. “Careful,” Karen commanded. “You still need to fit into that dress.” “Do we really need to do all this?” I knew I was whining, but Karen’s wedding was still six weeks away. A lot could happen in that ti