From Library Journal
Struggling but spunky New York author Tori Miracle returns to Lickin Creek, Pennsylvania (see Death Pays the Rose Rent, LJ 7/94), to visit her long-distance boyfriend, hunky local police chief Garnet. Their plans to vacation together are interrupted when someone kills a man who promised to sell acreage to a controversial proposed nuclear waste facility. Tori investigates but only after agreeing to speak to the literary society, act as "celebrity" judge for recipe entries in the local apple festival, and consider becoming temporary editor of the newspaper. Likable, eccentric characters, frothy hullabaloo, and humorous situations.Copyright 1997 Reed Business Information, Inc.


From Kirkus Reviews
Can you imagine? A nuclear waste dump may be the new kid on the block in that apple of God's eye, Lickin Creek, Pennsylvania. Looks like the demonstrators from CANLICK (Citizens Against Nuclear Waste in Lickin Creek) will make it impossible for horror novelist Tori Miracle, visiting from the Big Bad Apple, to keep her mind on her duties as celebrity judge of the Old Fashioned Apple Butter Festival. But then--wouldn't you know it?--rich old Percy Montrose dies suddenly (of aplastic anemia, his benighted physician sniffs) shortly after deciding to sell his land to the dumpers, and it's off to the races for Tori. Well-hated Percy leaves plenty of suspects in his wake--his covetous son Chaz, his wheeler-dealer partners Avory Jenkins and Aldine Schlotterbeck, CANLICK stalwart Greta Gochenauer (the sister of Tori's adorable cop boyfriend), and eccentric herbalist Haggie Aggie Haggard (who tells Tori she knows who killed Percy). In addition to Percy's departure, the canvas is crowded with two subsequent homicides, and with blackmail, incest, drugs, repeated attempts on the heroine's life (and her pets), and of course that horrid nuclear dump. But Malmont (Death Pays the Rose Rent, 1994) continues to make Lickin Creek such a never-never land of Amish heartiness that you know nothing serious will go wrong. Just the thing for readers who need their blood-pressure checked before tackling the rigors of Tamar Myers's comparatively racy Penn Dutch stories. -- Copyright ©1997, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.


Review
"Valerie S.  Malmont's sense of humor is crisp and Tori Miracle is good fun."
--Courier Journal (Louisville, Ky.)

"Malmont has introduced a likable heroine whose adventures are worth reading."
--Albuquerque Journal


Review
"Valerie S.  Malmont's sense of humor is crisp and Tori Miracle is good fun."
--Courier Journal (Louisville, Ky.)

"Malmont has introduced a likable heroine whose adventures are worth reading."
--Albuquerque Journal


Book Description
Tori Miracle has her cats, her sexiest nightgown, and the highest hopes a jaded New Yorker dares have as she sets off for Lickin Creek, Pennsylvania. Chosen as a celebrity judge of the annual Old Fashioned Apple Butter Festival, Tori is really looking forward to spending quality time with police chief Garnet Gochenauer. Then the dying begins.The first victim was poisoned. Or so Tori is told by an eccentric herbalist who lives outside of town. When Tori discovers the next body, skeletons start coming out of closets. Now the good housewives of Lickin Creek are readying their recipes and Tori is sleeping with her cats in her coziest nightwear. Because she and her chief of police aren't looking for a night of passion anymore, they're looking for a killer. . . the one who has a recipe for murder--and a Miracle on his mind. . . .


From the Inside Flap
Tori Miracle has her cats, her sexiest nightgown, and the highest hopes a jaded New Yorker dares have as she sets off for Lickin Creek, Pennsylvania.  Chosen as a celebrity judge of the annual Old Fashioned Apple Butter Festival, Tori is really looking forward to spending quality time with police chief Garnet Gochenauer.  Then the dying begins.

The first victim was poisoned.  Or so Tori is told by an eccentric herbalist who lives outside of town.  When Tori discovers the next body, skeletons start coming out of closets.  Now the good housewives of Lickin Creek are readying their recipes and Tori is sleeping with her cats in her coziest nightwear.  Because she and her chief of police aren't looking for a night of passion anymore, they're looking for a killer. . . the one who has a recipe for murder--and a Miracle on his mind. . . .


From the Back Cover
"Valerie S. Malmont's sense of humor is crisp and Tori Miracle is good fun."
--Courier Journal (Louisville, Ky.) "Malmont has introduced a likable heroine whose adventures are worth reading."
--Albuquerque Journal


About the Author
Valerie S.  Malmont is the author of Death Pays the Rose Rent.  She lives in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania.


Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Saturday Morning

My day began in New York with such bright promise.  From nine to eleven I had a book signing scheduled at Books and More Books, Inc., in midtown Manhattan, and after that I was to fly to the tiny borough of Lickin Creek, Pennsylvania, for a week's vacation.

For breakfast, I cleaned out the avocado-green refrigerator and ate the last slice of cold pizza and drank flat Coke while sitting on the brown sofa with bright orange flowers I'd picked up for a song at the Salvation Army Thrift Store.  I looked around me, taking in the grim apartment from the black and gray tiles on the floor of the living room-kitchen combination to the shabby blue velour recliner in front of my TV.  As usual, my home-sweet-home was cluttered with books and papers, which were piled up everywhere and anywhere there was a flat surface.  I'd been here, in this third-floor walk-up in Hell's Kitchen, for nearly ten years.  How had that happened? I'd only planned to be here a couple of years after college--just until I won my first Pulitzer.

It was time, then, to go.  I began hauling my stuff down the dark stairwell.  Dark because the landlord had given up replacing the burnt-out lightbulbs since the new ones were stolen immediately.  I was out of breath by the end of the second trip, and I still had more to bring down.  I vowed, once more, to start my diet tomorrow.

At the door, Sarge, the homeless man who'd been living on the front stoop ever since I could remember, handed me a couple of letters and a catalogue.  I handed him a buck in return.  He tipped his army camouflage cap and asked, "Where you off to?"

"Right now, I'm going to a bookstore to sign copies of my book.  I'd like to drum up a little interest in it before it goes out of print."

"I keep telling you--you ought to write my story.  It'd be a best-seller, for sure.  I can tell you things about the CIA you never dreamed of.  Why in Nam once--"

I interrupted his familiar story.  "After that, I'm leaving for Pennsylvania for a week--be sure to give my mail to Murray.  Could you flag down a cab for me while I get the rest of my stuff?" Because I planned to leave directly for the airport from the bookstore, I had to take a taxi I could ill afford.  Along with my brand-new felt-tipped pen for autographing copies of my book, The Mark Twain Horror House, I had with me my new suitcase (new to me, if not the Goodwill store), my cats, Fred and Noel, in hard plastic carrying cases, their litter boxes in a grocery sack, a bag of litter, a larger bag of Tasty Tabby Treats, and that last of the dinosaurs: my portable typewriter.

Displayed in a neat pyramid in the front window of the Midtown bookstore were twenty copies of the The Mark Twain Horror House, godawful cover and all, depicting a gorgeous young maiden, scantily clad in a flowing white nightgown, fleeing from a Gothic mansion.  What did people think, I wondered, when they read the book and discovered it was about a New York brownstone without a maiden in sight? And there was a large picture of me there, too.  Tori Miracle, overweight author with a bad haircut.  That'd pull the people in, for sure.

Inside the small store, near the doorway, stood a card table, flanked with potted palms, with more books stacked on it in three uneven piles.  On another card table were a glass bowl full of red punch with lime sherbet floating in it and an aluminum tray stacked high with bakery cookies.  I smiled at Elisa DeCaprio, the owner of the shop.  Life was good!

Elisa suggested I put the cats and their belongings in the storeroom.  After I got them settled, I squeezed past the palms, sat on the metal folding chair, and took my new pen from my purse.

"I liked your book," Elisa said.  "Sort of a cross between H.  P.  Lovecraft and Oliver Onions."

I chose to take it as a compliment.

We chatted for the first hour and ate about half the cookies.  At last, the little bell over the front door signaled the arrival of the day's first customer.  Self-consciously, I touched my hair, trying to smooth it into the short, sleek, sophisticated Liza Minnelli-style hairdo I'd paid for.  As usual, it had resisted the best efforts of the stylist and snapped back into a mess of black poodle curls as soon as I'd left his salon.  That was yesterday.  Today was worse.

False alarm--mailman.  Elisa exchanged one pile of envelopes for another, and he left with a cheery wave in my direction.  Elisa went behind the counter, where I could hear her ripping open envelopes, unfolding papers, and occasionally groaning.  Bills--I recognized her anguish.

I had a cup of punch--not too bad--and balanced my checkbook.

Next in was a kid so young she should have had a truant officer on her tail.  She glanced at me with little interest, bought a copy of The Prophet, and left.

I ate some more cookies and read three chapters of the summer's number-one best-seller.  The sherbet in the punch bowl had turned into a pea-green foam resembling something I'd once seen along the tide line on the Jersey shore, when two women entered and headed directly for the refreshment table.  I beamed at them encouragingly.  To my surprise, they went in together and bought one book, which I signed, "To Bess and Lorraine, Best Wishes, Tori Miracle."

"It's Lorrayne with a y," one of them said.  I slipped the book under the table and signed another.  What were the chances that I'd ever find another Bess and Lorraine with an i to sell that book to?

During the next hour, we sold two more books as well as the best-seller I'd been reading.  At eleven, the door tinkled open and my neighbor, Murray Rosenbaum, the "Nearly World Famous Actor/Italian Waiter," entered.

"I borrowed a car to take you to the airport," he said.

"Bless you." Murray was my best friend in New York.  The kind of person who's always there when you need a friend, but who doesn't push himself on you when you want to be alone.

I gave Elisa a good-bye hug and assured her that I didn't feel bad at all about the poor turnout.  I hoped my smile wasn't as insincere as my statement.

Murray placed the cat carriers in the backseat of the 1964 Cadillac convertible he'd borrowed from a fellow actor.  I dropped my suitcase in the trunk.  "Not a real great day, I take it," Murray said with a kind smile, as he attempted to start the car.

I had to struggle to hold back tears.  "It's an author's worst nightmare.  You hold a book signing and only your mother shows up.  Only as you know, in my case, my mother can't go anywhere."

"How's she doing?" The engine finally coughed on.

"No change.  I went to D.C.  about six weeks ago to see her.  Same old thing, tall and thin, blond, patrician, impeccably made up, the consummate diplomat's wife.  She thought I was the British ambassador coming for tea."

"I'm sorry.  But try to cheer up.  Things will get better for you, Tori.  You're a good writer.  Readers will find you."

"They'd better find me pretty soon, Murray.  As usual, I'm down to my last nickel.  If it wasn't for that series of articles I'm writing for American Scenes magazine, I'd be sharing the front stoop with Sarge."

"You could consider some economizing.  Like giving up cable, for one."

"No way.  I'd go crazy without old movies to watch.  Did you catch The Hideous Sun Demon last night? It's the ultimate anti-sunbathing movie."

We had the top down to enjoy the glorious September morning.  It was absolutely the best kind of day: sunny, but not too hot; the kind of day that recalled memories of good times gone by and hinted at more to come.

The car was the size of a small yacht, but Murray negotiated the busy streets with surprising skill, considering he hardly ever drove in New York.  "So you're going back to that odd little town in Pennsylvania.  May I assume the attraction this time is your long-distance boyfriend, that good-looking policeman with the odd name of Garnet?"

I felt the flush creep into my cheeks.  I knew I shouldn't have worn a jacket on a hot day like this.  "I guess you could say that.  He's got the week off, and since we've only had two weekends together since I met him in July, it seemed like a good opportunity to get to know each other better.  And, of course, there's Alice-Ann.  I haven't seen her since July.  Besides," I babbled on, "all that wonderful fresh country air is so good for the cats."

Murray had a funny little smile on his face, one I'd never seen before.  "I have an uncomfortable feeling about this, Tori.  Like maybe you'll get there and decide to stay.  I don't know what living in New York would be like without you."

"Cut it out, friend.  I'll only be away for a week.  Don't forget to water Charlotte, the spider plant, and make sure the stove from hell isn't leaking gas again.  I'll be back before you know it."

I didn't think it necessary to mention I was hesitant about getting into another serious relationship too quickly.  Having been dumped twice, I wasn't anxious to repeat the experience.

I hoped that taking a break from the city would recharge my battery; I really needed to get started on the outline for my second book, tentatively titled The Thomas Edison Horror Machine, based on this past summer's events in Lickin Creek.  And, I had to admit, I was very eager to spend some real time with Garnet, since we'd only begun to get acquainted.  The two occasions he'd been able to leave his one-and-a-half-man police force unattended had been wonderful but all too short.  We'd met in July when I'd gone to Lickin Creek to visit my best friend from college, Alice-Ann, and her then-husband, Richard MacKinstrie.  While I was there, Richard had been murdered, and during the investigation I'd met the town's sexy, intelligent, well-educated, witty, and sometimes obnoxiously macho police chief, Garnet Gochenauer.

Murray hugged me at JFK as if he really did believe he'd never see me again.  I boarded the little commuter plane, took my seat next to the window, and prayed the cats would be okay in the baggage hold.  A few minutes later, we were skimming the tops of the skyscrapers.  I clutched the armrest nervously, and looked to my seat companion for consolation, but he reclined his seat, and a moment later little, soft, cigar-scented puff-puff-puffs of air erupted rhythmically from his slack lips.  I envied him.  Flying, to me, is about as pleasant as a trip to the dentist.  I could never relax on a plane.  Unfortunately, bus service had been discontinued into Garnet's hometown, leaving access only by plane or car.

We were out of the city now.  Floating high above the lush gold and green farmlands of central Pennsylvania.  The flat fields soon gave way to softly verdant hills that quickly changed into mountains.  I held my breath as we crested a peak.  I was positive I heard the airplane scrape an evergreen tree.  We crossed several mountain ranges before the plane began its circular descent into the secluded valley where Lickin Creek was located.  Lickin Creek, Pennsylvania--a little Brigadoon of a town, nestled in a quiet valley--where nothing ever changed.  Where hardly anyone ever visited, and people rarely left.  I experienced an odd sensation in the pit of my stomach.  What was it? Motion sickness? That same feeling I always got when coming home after a long time away.

A bump, the screech of brakes, and we were on the tarmac of the Lickin Creek Regional Airport.  The door was opened, and the few passengers filed out.

A small crowd stood at the foot of the wobbly steps.  I spotted Garnet Gochenauer immediately, and my heart skipped a beat.  He wore a white cotton shirt with a badge pinned on the pocket and navy blue uniform trousers.  An enormous bouquet of red roses was cradled in his arms, and his blue eyes were warm with welcome.  I rushed down the steps into his muscular embrace.  It felt wonderful to lean against his sturdy body and smell the familiar, spicy scent of his aftershave.

After a few happy minutes, we broke apart, grinned at each other, and went to retrieve my baggage.  "All this?" he asked, surveying the pile.

I looked it over.  "Seem to be missing the cat food.  Oh, there it is."

Loud yowls from the cat carriers proved that Fred and Noel had survived the journey.  Garnet took off his hat and scratched his sandy brown hair, which, as usual, was a little too long.  "I didn't know you'd be bringing the cats, Tori."

"Is it a problem?" I asked, innocently.

"No, I don't think so.  At least, not if they get along with German shepherds."

He led the way to the baby-blue police cruiser with the magnetic sign on the door that said LCPD.  Garnet told me once that the department couldn't paint its decal on the car because it was on loan from the local Ford dealer.

We got into the front seat, and he turned and kissed me with a passion that had me tingling all the way down to my toes.  "Mmmm, you taste good," he murmured into my ear.

"It's the pepperoni pizza I had for breakfast."

He threw his head back and laughed.

It was good to be with him again!

As we rattled along the brick-paved street toward downtown, I sighed with pleasure as I saw the familiar sights.  At the square, Garnet paused at the town's only traffic light, and I took in the courthouse, the library in the old post office building, the Old Lickin Creek National Bank, and the drugstore with the ancient orange-and-blue Rexall sign over the door.  All the charming pre-Civil War buildings were painted in soft pastels.  Sparkling water sprayed from the fountain in the center of the square.  And the fountain's base was surrounded with pots of golden chrysanthemums, courtesy of the Lickin Creek Garden Club, according to the large sign stuck in the grass.  I smiled.  I really did feel as though I'd come home.

We bumped over the railroad tracks and crossed a single-lane limestone bridge, with badly scarred sides, which arched the Lickin Creek.  That was where the town's illustrious founder had fallen in and decided to build a town rather than fix his broken wagon wheel.  Heck, if I had a flat tire in the middle of nowhere I'd probably do the same thing.  There was supposed to be a historic marker, but all I could see were trees and overgrown underbrush.

The sky was a bright, crisp, azure blue with only a hint of a cloud overhead, and the mountains that rimmed the valley were softened by an amethyst haze.  I reached out to touch Garnet's hand.  "I'm glad to be here," I said.

"I'm glad you're here." He squeezed my fingers and left his hand where it was.

We seemed to be driving away from town.  Before I could ask him where we were going, Garnet turned the car into a long, unpaved driveway, which wound through a pasture full of cows.  The drive itself was bordered with three flimsy strands of wire that didn't look as if they could hold in anything, much less a herd of huge black-and-white animals.  "Where are we?" I asked, not recognizing any of this.

"Foor's Dairy.  The Foors loan their pasture to the borough each year for the Apple Butter Festival.  There's someone special waiting for you here."

"Alice-Ann? I wondered why she hadn't met me at the airport."

Garnet grinned.  "She's been ro

A short, round woman picked her way across the rough field, hailing Alice-Ann as she tottered toward us in ridiculously high heels.  Despite the humid afternoon heat, she had a full-length mink coat draped over her shoulders.  She was yoo-hooing and calling Alice-Ann's name in an ear-shattering falsetto.

Alice-Ann groaned for my benefit but threw the approaching woman a brilliant smile.  "That's Bathsheba Butterbaugh," she said to me under her breath.  "The nominal director of the festival.  You know, the one who doesn't do any work and gets to make all the speeches." More loudly, "Mrs.  Butterbaugh, how nice to see you here.  I'd like you to meet my dearest friend from my college days, Tori Miracle."

Bathsheba Butterbaugh squinted at me and extended a hand, heavy with diamond rings.  "Just the person I wanted to see," she announced.  "When I heard you'uns was coming to town, I talked it over with my sister, Salome, and we decided you should be the Celebrity Apple Recipe Judge for the festival.  We always like to get someone sort of famous.  Last year it was that .  .  .  who was it?" she asked Alice-Ann.

"The county extension agent," Alice-Ann said, hiding a smile behind her hand.

"What's involved in the judging?" I asked, feeling quite flattered.  Me, a Celebrity Judge!

"Not a whole lot.  I'll let folks know they can drop their dishes over to Gochenauer's.  You just see to it they hand you their five-dollar entry fees and a copy of the recipe wrote so's a body can read it.  You decide what tastes the best.  Then you make that there recipe yourself, so you know there aren't no mistakes in it.  Last year, Mrs.  Rathenberger didn't do that, and the recipe we printed up and sold at the Fest called for baking soda instead of baking powder."

I didn't know the difference between the two, but she shuddered as if the memory were too horrible to contemplate.  "And, of course, at the final weekend of the Apple Butter Fest, you're the one who awards the trophy to the winner."

"It's very kind of you to ask," I said.  "But I won't be able to accept your offer.  You see, I'm only going to be in town for one week."

Alice-Ann threw Garnet a strange glance.  Something was up.  I turned to Garnet and waited for an explanation.

Garnet cleared his throat.  "Actually, Tori, I meant to speak to you about this when we got home.  My part-timer, Cindy, called in sick this morning with the chicken pox.  That means I'm going to have to be on duty after all.  I tried to call you, but you'd already left.  But she should be back at work next Monday, so if you can stay an extra week we can still have our time together.

"I'm so sorry, but I'm stuck.  I promise to make it up to you.  Please say you'll stay, Tori." He had an adorable hangdog look on his face that I couldn't resist.

I knew that running a police department with one and a half employees was not exactly a dream job.  Besides, I had nothing pressing in New York.  I was writing an article for American Scenes magazine about the National Hard Crab Derby and Miss Crustacean Pageant in Crisfield, Maryland, and I also needed to get started on the outline for my second novel, based on the tragic events that had occurred in Lickin Creek when Alice-Ann's husband was murdered.  I could work on both here in Lickin Creek.

I took Garnet's hand.  "No problem," I said.  "I totally understand.  And Mrs.  Butterbaugh, I shall be honored to be your recipe judge."

"Of course you will" was her reply.  "The money we raise from the entry fees will go to the Historical Society, and since you burned it down I figure you should be happy to help us rebuild it."

"I didn't burn it down," I protested.  "It was an accident." That, too, had happened during the summer when I tracked down Alice-Ann's husband's murderer through the caves under the borough.

"No need to apologize, dear." The woman left, and I stood there basking in the afternoon sunshine and the warm glow of feeling a part of the local community.  At least I basked until Alice-Ann snickered.  "I would have warned you if we'd had more time to talk," she said.

"I think it'll be fun," I said, still enjoying the sense of belonging.

Alice-Ann grimaced.  "Shall I tell her, or will you?" she asked Garnet.

"What?" My glow was beginning to fade.

"People take the recipe contest very seriously," she said.  "Mrs.  Harkins, who's famous for being the best cook in town, won for twenty-three years in a row.  Then two years ago, an out-of-towner awarded the grand prize to a man.  The poor judge was nearly run out of town."

"Oh, great.  I was hoping this would be something I could do to get to know people."

"I'll help you.  Everything will be all right," Alice-Ann said, patting my shoulder reassuringly.  "And speaking of getting to know people, I'm having a few friends over for coffee and dessert tonight to meet you.  Mostly people from the festival committee.  I've already spoken with Garnet about it.  Hope you don't mind."

"Sounds wonderful.  Thanks."

Before we could talk any more, a young woman carrying a hammer and saw charged up to us.  "Mrs.  MacKinstrie, where do you want me to set up the candied-apple booth?"

Alice-Ann let out a prolonged sigh, tempered with a smile.  "Come on, Freda.  I'll show you.  I'll see you later," she said to me.  "Right after the town meeting." She led Freda across the field.

Town meeting! Things were getting better all the time.  Despite Alice-Ann's warning, I was still quite flattered to be asked to be the apple recipe judge, and now I was going to go to a town meeting.  I was becoming an active participant in small-town American life.

Inside the dairy building, a pleasant-faced woman greeted us in typical Lickin Creek fashion: "How're you'uns doing?" As I wondered if the correct response should be "We'uns is doing fine," Garnet answered, "Fine, thanks."

She waited patiently for us to make up our minds.  I had trouble making a decision for there were dozens of yummy-looking choices, but at last I selected my favorite, peanut butter chocolate swirl.  While she packed it into the cardboard container, I studied her clothes.  She belonged to one of the religious denominations the locals call "Plain," which included, but wasn't limited to, the Amish and the Mennonites we've all heard about.  She wore a simple, long cotton dress, crisp white apron with no visible buttons, black stockings and shoes, and a starched white cap covering her light-colored hair.  Her outfit looked strange and old-fashioned to my New York eyes, but she appeared comfortable.

"How's Mr.  Foor doing these days?" Garnet asked as he passed his money over the counter.

"No change, Chief.  Don't think he'll ever get any better.  But thanks for asking."

As we drove east, back toward town, I asked Garnet what was wrong with Mr.  Foor.

"A stroke," Garnet said.  "Mrs.  Foor takes care of the dairy all by herself.  Quite a job."

I felt a pang of sympathy for the Foors.  It's lucky we don't know what life has in store for us.  Changing the subject, I asked why Lickin Creek had chosen to celebrate apple butter.

"We needed something different.  There are way too many regular apple fests around in the fall, like the ones in Arendtsville and Martinsburg.  And Winchester does an Apple Blossom Festival in the spring."

He'd been maneuvering the car over the brick-paved downtown streets as he spoke, and we were now on the street of grand mansions known as Lickin Creek's Historical District.  Garnet's home was the largest of them, sitting on a low hill, dominating all the others.  Like most of the houses in the district, it had started life two hundred years ago as a simple log cabin and then had been added to by succeeding generations until it had become a rambling, attractive blend of Colonial, Federal, Queen Anne, Victorian, and Neo-Classical styles.  The immensity of it told of days when people had help.

A porch wrapped all the way around the first floor, recalling a time when people sat out on summer evenings.  A row of ten windows on the second floor sparkled in the afternoon sunlight.  A gabled roof rose above them, with more windows looking out from the attic.  White gingerbread trim dripped like birthday-cake icing from the eaves overhanging the Corinthian columns on the wraparound porch.  On each corner of the building, a cylindrical brick tower, topped with an onion-shaped dome, soared high above the slate-shingled fish-scale roof.  It was a house for big families, homey despite its grandeur.

Garnet parked under the porte cochere and lifted my suitcase and cat paraphernalia out of the trunk, while I carefully removed the cat carriers from the backseat.  The poor dears were too worn out to complain anymore, but they glared at me through the door grates as if threatening some awful kind of cat retribution.  I knew they'd sulk for a day or two, then get over it.

The heavy oak double doors were wide open and from deep inside the house came the pulsating voice of a country-western singer.  Garnet opened one of the screen doors and yelled, "Greta! We're here!"

He held the door, and I stepped past him into the dim foyer, where the fireplace, faced with pale yellow tile, was the only touch of lightness.  The ceiling was dark red, the walls were paneled in brown mahogany, and the floor was covered with a navy blue Oriental carpet.  I blinked and squinted and hoped I wouldn't trip over anything.  Then Garnet flipped a switch near the door and the hanging Tiffany lamp blazed to life, filling the square entry hall with brilliant swirls of many colors.

To my right was a broad staircase, with railings and balusters of elaborately carved chestnut that rose to the second floor.  And flying down the staircase came Greta.  She grabbed me by the shoulders and held me at arm's length, studying me carefully.

"Don't you look wonderful!" she gushed.  "And so tiny! You mustn't have eaten a thing since last I saw you."

I loved her.  Absolutely loved her.  No one had ever called me tiny before.  Short, squat, shrimp, Munchkin, runt--all those depressing names I'd heard in school.  But tiny--never.  Tiny was Jane Powell in those wonderful old MGM musicals; tiny implied delicacy and thinness.  Tiny Tori.  Yes! My diet was working at last!

I grinned at Greta and stared up at her.  She was Garnet's height, about five-ten, but where he had a stocky, muscular body, hers was thin and angular.  Her deeply tanned face had many planes, all etched with wrinkles.  Her long, straight, gray hair was pulled back into a ponytail.  A skirt of multicolored Indian gauze twirled around her bare ankles.  A black T-shirt was cinched at the waist by a silver concha belt, and multiple strands of wooden and clay beads dangled from her neck.  And then there were the scarves--they hung from her like Spanish moss from a southern tree.  And--she still wore Earth shoes! Those strange shapeless blobs that made people look like they were always walking uphill.  Were they still being made? Or had Greta hoarded some since the sixties?

"Take her suitcase up to the Blue Room, little brother," Greta ordered.  She noticed the cat carriers.  "What on earth do you have there?"

"My cats." I opened the carrier doors and Fred and Noel stepped suspiciously onto the rug.

"How charming," she said.  I think she was sincere.  "Are they used to dogs?"

"Not to my knowledge," I said, bending down to smooth Fred's ruffled orange-and-white fur.

"Come on into the kitchen, Tori.  I made a fresh jar of sun tea just for you."

The cats and I trailed Greta as she led the way through an arch under the stairs and down a hallway as dim as the foyer.  But when Greta threw open the door at the end of the hall, the kitchen was sun-drenched and twice as large as I remembered it.  In fact, it was twice as large as my whole apartment.  In every window were old bottles that captured the light and glowed like jewels: sapphire, garnet, amethyst, emerald, aquamarine, and topaz.

In the center of the room stood an old table with a white enamel top and black legs.  "Sit down, Tori," Greta ordered.  "I'll fetch the tea.  Do you use sugar?"

The ringing of the telephone interrupted her.  "Hello? Yes, I'm all set.  Seven, at the theater.  Have you made your calls? We want a good turnout.  Yes, I know I don't know you." She chuckled.  "See you there."

As she was hanging up, something huge and dark flung itself at the screen door, almost breaking through.  "Oh, Bear, come on in." Greta opened the door, and Garnet's German shepherd bounded in, face covered with slobber.  The cats let out a unified shriek and shot out of the kitchen, with the dog close behind.

"He's going to kill them!" I screamed.

"Nonsense," Greta said.  "They're just getting acquainted."

Garnet entered the kitchen.  "He's supposed to be an outside dog; he just doesn't know it."

The dog charged back into the kitchen, from the direction of the dining room, yipping and whining.  This time the two cats were in hot pursuit of him.  Next thing I knew, all three had disappeared under the kitchen table and were still.  I dropped to my knees, prepared to wrestle with the beast, and saw all three curled up in one large, hairy ball, pretending to have been asleep for hours.  Fred opened one eye and yawned.

Garnet hauled me to my feet.

Greta smiled.  "Isn't it wonderful how fast they've made friends?"

We drank our iced tea out of Waterford goblets, slightly chipped but still bright with Irish fire.  They had been purchased at local auctions, I was told, of which Greta and Garnet were devotees.  Garnet promised to take me to one soon.  Another bit of rural Americana I could look forward to.

"Got to get back to work," he said, as he pushed his chair back from the table.  He planted a kiss somewhere between my nose and my right ear.  "I'll make this up to you, I promise."

"Will you be at the meeting tonight?" Greta asked him.

"You know damn well I will.  And, Greta, let me remind you I'll be there in my official capacity as Police Chief."

He smiled at me.  "If it's all right with you, I'll let Greta take you to the town meeting, and we can go to Alice-Ann's from there.  Don't let Greta wear you out with her war stories."

He left the kitchen with Greta close behind him.  Bear struggled out from under the table and rested his chin on my lap, and I stroked his soft muzzle while I listened to Greta and Garnet arguing in the front hall.

"Don't try to pull anything tonight," Garnet warned.

"I wouldn't dream of it, little brother.  Even those people have the right to speak."

"Please remember that those people represent the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and what they're doing is mandated by law."

A protracted sigh.  "I know.  I know."

The door slammed.

In a moment another country song came on full blast, and Greta did a solitary line dance back into the kitchen.  She sank into a chair and tapped her fingers on the tabletop in time to the beat.  "Nothing like the country classics to relax by .  .  ."

The ringing of the phone interrupted her.  After saying hello, Greta covered the mouthpiece with one large hand.  "Why don't you get unpacked, Tori? You're in the

FROM THE PUBLISHER

Tori Miracle returns to Lickin Creek to rekindle a romance with the town's handsome police chief, and to judge the town's annual apple recipe contest - an honor not to be taken lightly. Yet upon Tori's arrival, the ordinarily quiet town is awash in madness, mayhem - and murder. The government is proposing to build a nuclear waste dump site in Lickin Creek and it's tearing the little community apart. Though most are adamantly opposed to the idea, some stand to make a handsome profit, and lately the feuding has become increasingly hostile and violent. Though Tori is warned to keep her nose out of trouble, when a rash of "accidental" deaths breaks out, she can't help but snoop around. Before long, Tori uncovers a slew of secrets that if exposed could ruin some of the town's most prominent members. As she gets closer to the truth, the killer closes in, and, like it or not, once again Tori Miracle finds herself running for her life in a town so small no one can be trusted.

FROM THE CRITICS

Publishers Weekly

In this sequel to Death Pays the Rose Rent, Manhattan author Tori Miracle returns to Lickin Creek, a small Amish town in Pennsylvania, where she investigates murder again. Controversy surrounding a proposed nuclear waste dump has developed since her last adventure in Lickin Creek. Tori's love interest, police chief Garnet Gochenauer, is caught up in the fight because his widowed sister, who's Tori's oldest friend, heads the opposition to the dump. Tori, on hand when one of the owners of the proposed site is dying, hears the man whisper that he's been poisoned. When the autopsy reports no trace of poison, only Tori is left believing the death was murder. Searching the outlying areas in her effort to prove that the landowner was purposefully killed, she finds a mountain woman who corroborates the poisoning. In her travels, she also stumbles across an abandoned cemetery within the dump site and runs into a nearby marijuana field. Alerting authorities to the field, she becomes a local hero and a target for revenge by the crop's owners. Then the mountain woman is killed, and Tori suffers a series of close calls, making her wonder who her true friends really are. As she and readers learn in this breezy, well-plotted cozy, even small towns can harbor unexpected murderers. (Aug.)

Library Journal

Struggling but spunky New York author Tori Miracle returns to Lickin Creek, Pennsylvania (see Death Pays the Rose Rent, LJ 7/94), to visit her long-distance boyfriend, hunky local police chief Garnet. Their plans to vacation together are interrupted when someone kills a man who promised to sell acreage to a controversial proposed nuclear waste facility. Tori investigates but only after agreeing to speak to the literary society, act as "celebrity" judge for recipe entries in the local apple festival, and consider becoming temporary editor of the newspaper. Likable, eccentric characters, frothy hullabaloo, and humorous situations.

Kirkus Reviews

Can you imagine? A nuclear waste dump may be the new kid on the block in that apple of God's eye, Lickin Creek, Pennsylvania. Looks like the demonstrators from CANLICK (Citizens Against Nuclear Waste in Lickin Creek) will make it impossible for horror novelist Tori Miracle, visiting from the Big Bad Apple, to keep her mind on her duties as celebrity judge of the Old Fashioned Apple Butter Festival. But then—wouldn't you know it?—rich old Percy Montrose dies suddenly (of aplastic anemia, his benighted physician sniffs) shortly after deciding to sell his land to the dumpers, and it's off to the races for Tori. Well-hated Percy leaves plenty of suspects in his wake—his covetous son Chaz, his wheeler-dealer partners Avory Jenkins and Aldine Schlotterbeck, CANLICK stalwart Greta Gochenauer (the sister of Tori's adorable cop boyfriend), and eccentric herbalist Haggie Aggie Haggard (who tells Tori she knows who killed Percy). In addition to Percy's departure, the canvas is crowded with two subsequent homicides, and with blackmail, incest, drugs, repeated attempts on the heroine's life (and her pets), and of course that horrid nuclear dump. But Malmont (Death Pays the Rose Rent, 1994) continues to make Lickin Creek such a never-never land of Amish heartiness that you know nothing serious will go wrong.

Just the thing for readers who need their blood-pressure checked before tackling the rigors of Tamar Myers's comparatively racy Penn Dutch stories.