Prologue

You have to sit up and take notice when your Momma--a simple  Pentecostal woman, born and bred in the piney woods of East Texas--predicts the death of a local beauty queen over a chicken fried steak dinner.

But then, when the evidence turns up and is pointing its finger (I won’t say which one) directly at your sister, well, you feel duty bound to protect your dear sibling's honor by finding the real killer. No matter that your sibling is the town floozy, and doesn’t appear to have the sense God gave a goat.

Now, mind you, I knew I had absolutely no business sticking my nose into a murder investigation--my resume boasting only a recent history of lawyer’s wife once removed, preceded by medical office manager. Not real impressive by any stretch of the imagination. Let alone the impetus to base a crime fighting career upon.

Did that stop me? Heck, no. Once I got the bug under my bonnet, I began acting like I was Miss Marple on steroids.

Ruth, aforementioned sister, keeps telling me fate brought me back home to Destiny, Texas to save her spandex-clad derriere from life in the big house. I know differently, though. It was a Ford Explorer.

You see, a few years ago I packed my bags--and my three year old daughter Emma--and left "Bliss" in my rearview mirror. The move was brought about when I decided to return to my roots, and free room and board. Which happened immediately after Emma's father decided he was wired for two-20's instead of one-40.

Well, I am not 40 yet, and he had more than two 20 year olds, but you get the idea. Also, please note, I am not bitter. I just detest him. I digress, sorry.

Anyhow, truth be known, I wasn’t looking for trouble. It just found me. Minding my own business, wallowing in low self-esteem, wondering how much chocolate it would take to raise the scales a few more pounds. Yes, it could safely be said I was having a tough time dealing with the fact that I no longer abided in Suburban Bliss; a house in the burbs, six figure income, and by all appearances a loving husband.

Pathetic? No… Anyone would have felt overwhelmed suddenly waking up every morning as a single Mom, who had a child with a deadbeat dad, nurturing a blind cat with incontinence issues, while living in a garage apartment located behind the house of her parents (who, by the way, also had incontinence issues).

Oh well, just another character-building life experience. It taught me to be a responsible adult.

All right, “responsible” may have been stretching it. I mean, I ran home to Mommy and Daddy. That kind of negated the responsible, didn't it?

Not that I was ungrateful, because I wasn’t. I was very thankful that I had a loving family to welcome me and my offspring with open arms. But sometimes it was hard to remember the thankful part with the pity party in full swing.

You see, when my parents, Grover and Addie Fogarty, offered me a respite and insisted I make use of their garage apartment I reluctantly, but swiftly accepted their offer. And for employment, well, The Fogarty Lodge at Lake Fork seemed like an ideal place to get in touch with reality and unleash the happy person I had trapped deep inside.

At the time it seemed like the perfect solution. Mom and Dad weren't getting around like they once did so I would be helping them out by becoming the caretaker (maid) of the lodge and they would be helping me out (yet again) by giving me gainful employment. I mean, really, how hard could it be to clean five lake cabins?

We all felt sure this would precipitate the happily-ever-after ending they so badly wanted for me. None of us ever imagined that trouble would follow me back home.

And after a couple of years, I was naïve enough to have been lulled into a false sense of security. I was convinced I actually did leave him, I mean them, behind (but I guess troubles aren't allowed back in Bliss).

Although, my experiences ended up teaching me a lot--including that when returning to your roots you may eventually end up with a lot of dirt--which is where my sister Ruth fit in. Thanks to her, trouble caught up with me.

I won’t be too hard on Ruth though. After all, she was providing entertainment for us and allowed me to live vicariously through her. You see, while I was busy trying to re-establish my relationship with
her, she had been busy trying to establish relationships with most of the men in town.

She was heavily into enjoying her new-found freedom from espousement; or as interpreted by some town folk "she's become a loose woman." But we love her anyway, as do most of the men in town.
All that’s changed now though, since that fateful day at Rushing’s Memorial Home.
 
Who even remembers who threw the first stone,– but it was a darn good thing Ruth didn’t live in a glass house. Those darn stones started flying left and right and before you could blink an eye Ruth was in deeper than a rancher’s boot in a full pasture.  

In came Miss Marple. Putting my nose here, there, and everywhere. I was looking in closets, digging for dirt. 

Then, much to my amazement the townsfolk soon rallied round. The deeper I would dig, the more shovels they would bring. I mean for every person I questioned, five more would appear on my doorstep with information, ideas, hearsay, and well, just plain gossip. I would stop for gas and
the old men would put down their dominoes and come pump it for me. The Pentecostal sisters would bake me pies and the Catholic women would light candles for me.

And yes, it also helped my previously shattered self-esteem. Fed some need I had for acceptance. The attention made me feel needed and loved. The whole city was proud of me and I was proud to be part of something. They became a driving force catapulting me into action.

True to form though, as things came to a frenetic climax I ate my way to the answer.

You see, it was because of my inability to resist chocolate in any form or fashion (that chocolate bar really was calling my name) that I was able to unwrap the identity of the murderer.

Or, maybe it was the sugar and caffeine keeping me up all hours of the night with nothing to do but read my favorite murder mysteries. Fact remains, though--whether it was by chocolate, Catherine Coulter, or my newfound deductive prowess--the killer no longer has a death grip on Destiny.