The Haunted Beach (Tropical Breeze Cozy Mystery Book 4) Read Online Free
Author: Mary Bowers
Mankind. They always triumphed in the end, but at a terrible cost. Still, they went forth into each new adventure with undaunted courage, corny jokes, and lots of really cool weapons.
“We’ll just dust around him as usual,” Rosie whispered.
“Won’t say a word,” Poppy promised.
“And we won’t peek,” Rosie added with an impish lilt.
The twins were big fans of Parker Peavey’s Stormchildren of Zhizzarr series, and they had autographed copies of all of his books. Peggy Peavey’s much more tame romances occupied the next shelf down, looking sweet in pastel colors. She published under her maiden name, Margaret Mary Moser, which fit them much better than Peggy Peavey would have. Peggy Peavey just wasn’t upper-crusty enough. She was the girl next door, not the next Baroness of Brixhamptonmoor.
Sometimes, as she looked down the long lines that formed at her autograph tables in book stores, she wished she could just dash off her married name and be done with it. By the end of the day, as she got more tired and her writing got wilder, “Margaret Mary Moser” began to take up the entire flyleaf. But it was worth it to achieve just the right tone on her book covers.
As romances went, hers were very classy. High-toned. No sweaty bodies grinding around before they even say hello, and certainly no pornographic gymnastics, like you got in those grope-and-hope romances. Margaret Mary Moser did her research, which focused on fashion, not biology. Margaret Mary Moser dressed her characters accurately according to the era, right down to the shoe buckles. And Margaret Mary Moser’s name never came exploding through flames of desire on her book covers. Her heroines were spunky virgins, clever but kind, and they always got married , usually to royalty.
That might have gagged today’s jaded readership, but Peggy saved her books from banality with a sparkling sense of humor. Those who didn’t laugh at the intended jokes could laugh at the unintended ones. Peggy didn’t care. Either way, she got paid, and her royalties were almost equal to her husband’s.
“What about the vac?” Rosie asked, still whispering.
Peggy widened her big blue eyes and considered, much as one of her own heroines might have considered a proposition from a handsome rascal (the prince, lightly disguised).
“Last thing, when you’ve finished everything else,” she said finally. “Maybe by then he’ll break for lunch.”
“Gotcha.”
The twins went forth with mops, sponges and dust rags. The vacuum stayed in the foyer.
They didn’t have to wait until lunchtime. The Daisy Slicers were embedded in gel-sacks and jettisoned to the other side of the universe by 11:15, and when Parker Peavey staggered out of his office, tired but happy, looking for a fresh cup of coffee, Rosie fired up and went in with the vac and was done in no time.
The Peaveys were still at the breakfast bar when the twins finished cleaning and prepared to leave.
Much recovered, Parker asked them what was new in their little corner of the world.
The twins glanced at one another, lifted one eyebrow each and got ready to enjoy themselves.
“You can’t tell anybody about this,” Rosie began.
“Not a word,” Parker promised. He always looked forward to their gossip. He was a good-looking middle-aged man with dark hair, expressive brown eyes and a moustache. He had a cute way of showing nice, white teeth below the moustache, like a friendly beaver. The twins liked him a lot.
“We got Mr. D-D on the job,” Poppy said. “About what we told you about. You know,” she added largely, “ the lady who won’t go away .”
“The terrifying Frieda,” Parker said with relish. “Sit yourselves down, girls, and tell us all about it.”
After the twins had left, the Peaveys had a more open discussion on the matter.
“Oh, come on, Parky. Frieda is dead. She’s not running around dancing on the beach at night.”
“Then who is Dolores painting those
“We’ll just dust around him as usual,” Rosie whispered.
“Won’t say a word,” Poppy promised.
“And we won’t peek,” Rosie added with an impish lilt.
The twins were big fans of Parker Peavey’s Stormchildren of Zhizzarr series, and they had autographed copies of all of his books. Peggy Peavey’s much more tame romances occupied the next shelf down, looking sweet in pastel colors. She published under her maiden name, Margaret Mary Moser, which fit them much better than Peggy Peavey would have. Peggy Peavey just wasn’t upper-crusty enough. She was the girl next door, not the next Baroness of Brixhamptonmoor.
Sometimes, as she looked down the long lines that formed at her autograph tables in book stores, she wished she could just dash off her married name and be done with it. By the end of the day, as she got more tired and her writing got wilder, “Margaret Mary Moser” began to take up the entire flyleaf. But it was worth it to achieve just the right tone on her book covers.
As romances went, hers were very classy. High-toned. No sweaty bodies grinding around before they even say hello, and certainly no pornographic gymnastics, like you got in those grope-and-hope romances. Margaret Mary Moser did her research, which focused on fashion, not biology. Margaret Mary Moser dressed her characters accurately according to the era, right down to the shoe buckles. And Margaret Mary Moser’s name never came exploding through flames of desire on her book covers. Her heroines were spunky virgins, clever but kind, and they always got married , usually to royalty.
That might have gagged today’s jaded readership, but Peggy saved her books from banality with a sparkling sense of humor. Those who didn’t laugh at the intended jokes could laugh at the unintended ones. Peggy didn’t care. Either way, she got paid, and her royalties were almost equal to her husband’s.
“What about the vac?” Rosie asked, still whispering.
Peggy widened her big blue eyes and considered, much as one of her own heroines might have considered a proposition from a handsome rascal (the prince, lightly disguised).
“Last thing, when you’ve finished everything else,” she said finally. “Maybe by then he’ll break for lunch.”
“Gotcha.”
The twins went forth with mops, sponges and dust rags. The vacuum stayed in the foyer.
They didn’t have to wait until lunchtime. The Daisy Slicers were embedded in gel-sacks and jettisoned to the other side of the universe by 11:15, and when Parker Peavey staggered out of his office, tired but happy, looking for a fresh cup of coffee, Rosie fired up and went in with the vac and was done in no time.
The Peaveys were still at the breakfast bar when the twins finished cleaning and prepared to leave.
Much recovered, Parker asked them what was new in their little corner of the world.
The twins glanced at one another, lifted one eyebrow each and got ready to enjoy themselves.
“You can’t tell anybody about this,” Rosie began.
“Not a word,” Parker promised. He always looked forward to their gossip. He was a good-looking middle-aged man with dark hair, expressive brown eyes and a moustache. He had a cute way of showing nice, white teeth below the moustache, like a friendly beaver. The twins liked him a lot.
“We got Mr. D-D on the job,” Poppy said. “About what we told you about. You know,” she added largely, “ the lady who won’t go away .”
“The terrifying Frieda,” Parker said with relish. “Sit yourselves down, girls, and tell us all about it.”
After the twins had left, the Peaveys had a more open discussion on the matter.
“Oh, come on, Parky. Frieda is dead. She’s not running around dancing on the beach at night.”
“Then who is Dolores painting those
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