Cover Copy
Things are looking up for single mom Colbie Summers. After relocating back to her California hometown with her adolescent son and taste-testing feline, Trouble, she’s ready to take her gourmet cat food company to the next level. Until helping a teenager gets Colbie mixed up in a fresh case of murder…
Trying to balance her hectic family life with her growing business—including a coveted contract with the local organic food store—leaves Colbie scrambling to keep all her balls in the air. But when a Sunnyside resident is found dead, she takes on a new role: harboring a suspected killer.
The eighteen-year-old murder suspect, a former foster kid and Colbie’s part-time chef, had a powerful motive to snuff out the high-profile businessman. The real question is, who didn’t? Sifting through the victim’s sordid history unearths a cat’s cradle of crimes, including criminal business practices and abuse. Now, to clear an innocent girl’s name, Colbie must sniff out the truth before a killer who smells trouble goes on the attack again.
Books by Kathy Krevat
THE TROUBLE WITH MURDER
THE TROUBLE WITH TRUTH
The Trouble with Truth
Kathy Krevat
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND
Kensington Publishing Corp.
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Kathy Krevat
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First Electronic Edition: August 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0299-0
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0299-1
First Print Edition: August 2018
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0302-7
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0302-5
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my mother, Pat Sultzbach, who instilled in me a love of reading and writing. She loved all animals and rescued many dogs and cats during her life. She loved her family and friends very much, especially her children and grandchildren, and is greatly missed.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank Jessica Faust, my awesome agent for making my publishing dreams come true, and Tara Gavin, my wonderful editor, for making this book so much better.
This book wouldn’t exist without the help of my critique group, the Denny’s Chicks: Barrie Summy and Kelly Hayes. I would not be writing today if it wasn’t for the gentle editing of my first critique group, Betsy, Sandy Levin, and the late Elizabeth Skrezyna.
I can never express the gratitude I feel toward all of the family and friends who support my writing career:
Lee Hegarty, Manny and Sandy Krevat, Donna and Brian Lowenthal, Patty Disandro, Jim Hegarty Jr., Michael and Noelle Hegarty, Jeremy and Joclyn Krevat, Matthew and Madhavi Krevat, James Bedell, Lori and Murray Maloney, Lynne and Tom Freeley, David Kreiss and Nasim Bavar, Lori Morse, Simone Camilleri, Amy Bellefeuille, Sue Britt, Cathie Wier, Joanna Westreich, Susan O’Neill and the rest of the YaYa’s, my Mom’s Night Out group, and my book club.
A special shout out to Terrie Moran, author of the Read ‘em and Eat mystery series, for her friendship and encouragement, and to Dru Ann Love for her friendship and support of the cozy mystery community.
Special thanks to the following experts for unselfishly sharing their knowledge:
Cecelia Kouma, Executive Director, Playwrights Project, an amazing nonprofit dedicated to advancing literacy, creativity, and communication by empowering individuals to voice their stories through playwriting programs and theatre productions.
Jim Hegarty, for website and technical assistance
Katie Smith, NewRoad Foods, for her knowledge of making organic pet food
Dr. Susan Levy, for her medical knowledge
Judy Twigg, for being a typo-finding guru
Jim Dutton, for his knowledge of the CASA program
Any mistakes are my own!
Mountains of gratitude and love to my brilliant, beautiful, and creative daughters, Devyn and Shaina Krevat, and to Lee Krevat, the love of my life!
Chapter 1
The rabbit was back. And he was eating my strawberries. Again.
His face was unapologetically stained red, looking like a zombie bunny from one of Elliott’s horror novels.
My cat Trouble pressed against the screen door overlooking the backyard, her orange tail at full bristle with rage. She growled as if to say, Let me at him!
I agreed with the sentiment. My son, Elliott, and I had planted those strawberries in late June, soon after we’d decided to make the temporary move into my dad’s house permanent. It was late in the season to start, but the nursery guy assured us we’d see some berries in about six weeks. Which was now.
The raised bed I’d built—with the enthusiastic help of my twelve-year-old and the more competent help of our farmer neighbor—meant more than a bunch of berries. We’d nurtured and watered and weeded that little patch of ground for weeks. August in Sunnyside, California, twenty miles inland from San Diego, where we’d spent the first twelve years of Elliott’s life, meant a landscape of brown hills in the distance and desiccated lawns in the neighborhood. But our tiny strawberry field—with a Strawberry Fields Forever sign in the middle—was green. We were basically city folk, amazed when the tiny buds became green berries. And just when we were about to harvest something, anything, the little monster was ruining it.
“Calm down, tiger,” I told Trouble. “I’ll call Bug Off! again.”
I opened the door, used my foot to block the cat from leaving, and shooed the rabbit away. I knew it was the same darn rabbit that had supposedly been relocated far enough away never to return because he had a white spot on his side that looked exactly like Australia. It probably was thinking Cheers, Mate! I waited until it ran out of sight behind the garage before going inside.
My dad’s house backed up to a small farm with a large field