The off-season blahs, a pyromaniacal mom, and a recently retired husband who is constantly underfoot have poor Judith McMonigle Flynn going stir crazy at Hillside Manor. So the harried R&B hostess leaps at cousin Renie's suggestion that Judith accompany her to Creepers—the stately estate of kindly old Leota Burgess. The wealthy senior is certain that someone is determined to do her in for money—most likely one of her disreputable relatives—and Judith and Renie have agreed to look into her allegations. And when they stumble upon Leota's bruised but still breathing body at the foot of the grand staircase, they realize the old lady's fears may be well-founded. But the decidedly dead corpse lying on top of Leota—his head bashed flatter than the proverbial French pancake—suggests that there's more to these homicidal doings than meets the eye. And now it's up to the cousins to follow the clues to the creep who's creeping around Creepers with murder on the mind.

Chapter One...

Judith McMonigle Flynn grabbed the fire extinguisher from the kitchen wall, aimed it at her mother's feet, and squeezed the lever hard. A thick cloud of white spray all but enveloped Judith and obscured the rest of the kitchen.

"Hey!" Gertrude yelled, dancing as much as her arthritic legs would permit. "Cut that out! I'm not on fire!"

"Then move," Judith yelled back. "You're standing right by the flames."

Gertrude coughed. "Nasty," she gasped. "I can't ... breathe."

"Good," Judith said as the flames died out. "You're the one who set the dishtowel on fire. It serves you right. I think you did it on purpose." She opened a drawer, got out some rags, and began to mop up the foamy residue left by the extinguisher.

The white stuff must have looked like whipped cream to Sweetums, who appeared from behind Gertrude's walker and put out an experimental paw. Judith lunged for the cat, slipped on the wet floor, and fell flat on her face.

It wasn't turning out to be a good day.

To Judith's dismay, Gertrude was chortling. "I love a good belly flop," she said, stopping to catch her breath. "You're not bad, kiddo. But you better get up. The cat's lapping up that funny-looking foam like it's dessert."

"He wouldn't!" Judith clambered to her knees and grabbed Sweetums. "That stuff's poison. I wonder if I can make him throw up, just in case."

Gertrude tipped her head to one side as she gazed at the squirming orange, yellow, and gray mass of fur. "He does that all by himself. Hairballs. Gruesome."

"I know that, Mother," Judith retorted, finally getting to her feet and carrying Sweetums to the sink. "Now if I can put my finger down his throat ... Oww! He bit me!"

"Can't say as I blame him," Gertrude remarked, turning on her walker. "What's for lunch?"

"Mother. . ." Judith eyed the tooth marks on her index and middle fingers, then decided she might as well give it another try.

Sweetums, however, had other ideas. With a sharp twist of his head and a terrible growl, he wrenched himself from Judith's grasp and streaked for the back door.

"Damn!" Judith cried. "He's gone. Now he'll probably go off into the shrubbery where we can't find him and he'll die."

"I've thought about doing that myself," Gertrude said. "The trouble is, I can't get down on my knees. I'm too stiff. It doesn't seem right to hide yourself standing up. On the other hand. . ." She stopped, and her small, wrinkled face went blank. "Did you say pickled beets?"

"What?" Judith's gaze was still fixed on the cat's door where Sweetums had beat his hasty retreat.

"For lunch. Pickled beets. They sound mighty tasty."

"Pickled beets?" The response came not from Judith, but from her husband, Joe Flynn, who had just come down the back stairs and into the narrow hallway that led to the kitchen. "I hate pickled beets, Jude-girl. You know that."

Judith whirled on Joe. "Then I quit for the day. You get dinner."

"Dinner?" Gertrude echoed. "I thought it was lunch."

"I can't," Joe said, his green eyes looking startled. "I'm going golfing with Bill."

"Golfing?" Judith was aghast. "You don't like golf. Neither does Bill."

"I didn't say we were going to play golf," Joe said. "We just go over to the lake and wander around the pitch-and-putt course."

Fists on hips, Judith glared at Joe. "Does Renie know what you and Bill do in your so-called retirement?" she asked, referring to her cousin Serena and her husband, Bill Jones.

"Sure," Joe replied. "It's exercise. Sometimes we walk around the lake. It's over a mile."

"Then why do you call it golfing?" Judith demanded.

"Because we always meet at the pitch-and-putt course", Joe said reasonably. "Say, did you know your hand is bleeding?"

"Oh!" Judith had...

Seattle native Mary Daheim began telling stories with pictures when she was four. Since she could neither read nor write, and her artistic talent was questionable, her narratives were sometimes hard to follow. By second grade, she had learned how to string together both subjects and predicates, and hasn’t stopped writing since. A former newspaper reporter and public relations consultant, Daheim’s first of seven historical romances was published in 1983. In addition to Avon Books’ Bed-and-Breakfast series featuring Judith McMonigle Flynn, Daheim also pens the Alpine mysteries for Ballantine. She is married to David Daheim, a retired college instructor, and has three daughters—Barbara, Katherine and Magdalen.

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