It’s Opening Night at the Ballantyne Foundation’s production of The Nutcracker, but it’s curtains for the Sugar Plum Fairy. When her body is found backstage, fatally poisoned by a cupcake she baked herself, rumors turn to suicide. But Elli Lisbon, director of the Ballantyne and coordinator of the ballet, smells something rotten amidst the sugar and spice.As Elli applies her PI-in-training skills on the troupe of suspects, she discovers an eccentric herbalist, a temperamental chef, a stalking choreographer, and a bevy of backstage secrets. Between her off-the-record investigation, duty as director, and highly-charged love life, she finds herself caught in a dance to stay one pirouette ahead of a half-baked killer. - - - - - - - - - - - - -SWAN DIVE by Kendel Lynn A Henery Press Mystery. If you like one, you'll probably like them all. Kendel Lynn is a Southern California native who now parks her flip-flops in Dallas, Texas. She read her first Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators at the age of seven and has loved mysteries ever since. Her debut novel, Board Stiff , was an Agatha Award nominee for Best First Novel. It features Elliott Lisbon, a mostly amateur sleuth who has a slight aversion to all things germy and is only five thousand hours away from getting her PI license. Along with writing and reading, Kendel spends her time editing, designing, and figuring out ways to avoid the gym but still eat cupcakes for dinner. Swan Dive An Elliott Lisbon Mystery By Kendel Lynn Henery Press Copyright © 2014 Kendel Lynn All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-941962-51-0 CHAPTER 1 (Day #1: Thursday Evening) I was sitting front row center of the Sea Pine Island Community Theatre waiting for Act II of The Nutcracker when I received a short text: Emergency. Sugar Plum Fairy dead. Dressing rooms. Now. It was from the artistic director. A drama queen if ever there was one. This was the fifth "emergency" in the last two hours. The fourth text included the words "catastrophe" and "maimed." One of the nutcracker soldier's tassels had popped off. "Another crisis backstage," I said to Matty Gannon, my second best friend, though we'd recently upped it to dating status. "Be right back." I hated leaving my perfectly placed, a perk of being Director of the Ballantyne Foundation. Of course, it's not that perfect when you have to depart while everyone else is still seated. I tucked my program into one of the deep pockets of my long skirt, carefully lifted it above my ankles, and made my way to the center aisle. It wasn't without casualties. I stepped on three feet, kicked two shins, and I'm pretty sure I felt up Zibby Archibald, the oldest member of the Ballantyne Board. A minute later I passed through the backstage door and into a world of harmonious chaos. A juxtaposition of beauty and industry: massive can spotlights, dangling ropes, and dancers swishing by in gossamer costumes with fanciful feathers. A girl dressed in a fluffy blue tutu and twinkly tiara grabbed my arm and pulled me to the side. "Is my crown straight?" she asked. "One of the mothers jammed it on my head and I'm locked out of the dressing room." "It looks lovely," I said. "Courtney! Places. Places now! Stop dillydallying," Inga Dalrymple said. The artistic director was a thick but tall woman, a mashup between a football linebacker and a basketball forward, and all dolled up for opening night. Black sequined long-sleeve top, matching sequined tuxedo pants and black ballet flats. The store bought kind, not the actual dancer kind. She smacked the foot of a carved wood walking stick onto the hard floor. "Go!" Courtney skittered away as Inga approached me. "Over here," she said and turned without waiting to see if I followed. We walked down a long corridor, past children dancers and their mothers, around rolling trunks and a tangle of cables to a plain brown door. The names "Lexie Allen" and "Courtney Cattanach" were typed on a sheet of paper and taped to the front. I peeked inside, glanced around the room. A large lighted mirror with big Hollywood movie star lights dominated the center with an assortment of makeup brushes in shapes I'd never seen before. A vase of pink roses sat on top near a tidy basket of fresh fruit and a platter of cupcakes. Costumes and shoes were scattered willy-nilly around the room, buried by clothes upon clothes, as if a closet exploded, coughing up garments and spitting out hangers. And there, dressed in sweats, nearly blended into the background, was Lexie Allen. Half on the sofa, half on the floor. Clearly dead. Her face twisted in agony, a light ring of foam on her top lip. I gasped and my hand flew to my mouth. "Oh my God ... Oh my God." The Sugar Plum Fairy was dead. Actually dead. Inga pulled me back into the hall and snapped the door closed. "The Mouse King found her about ten minutes ago," Inga said. "I checked, and she's not breathing." "Oh my God. Are you sure? What happened?" I leaned against the closed do