A Teeny Bit of Trouble [NOOK Book]

Overview


In this hilarious follow-up to GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN, Charleston pastry chef Teeny Templeton witnesses a murder and discovers that her laywer-boyfriend, Coop O'Malley, has been keeping secrets.

It’s not every day that I bake a dozen Red Velvet cakes, learn my boyfriend may have a love child, and I witness a murder.
 
After Charleston pastry chef, Teeny Templeton, witnesses a murder, she discovers ...

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A Teeny Bit of Trouble

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Overview


In this hilarious follow-up to GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN, Charleston pastry chef Teeny Templeton witnesses a murder and discovers that her laywer-boyfriend, Coop O'Malley, has been keeping secrets.

It’s not every day that I bake a dozen Red Velvet cakes, learn my boyfriend may have a love child, and I witness a murder.
 
After Charleston pastry chef, Teeny Templeton, witnesses a murder, she discovers that her lawyer-boyfriend, Coop O’Malley, has been keeping secrets: the victim’s ten-year-old daughter may be his child. As more lies explode, Teeny finds herself trapped in Bonaventure, Georgia, a zany“little Savannah,” where she must deal with her commitment phobia, gather DNA from a ten-year old child genius, outwit a stalker, decode an encrypted diary, and fend off advances of an ex-beau, a handsome plastic surgeon who’s crazy-in-love with her.  Teeny’s life gets maddeningly complicated by a series of not-so-teeny troubles: an uneasy love triangle, a gossip-mongering tarantula breeder, an wise-cracking Southern Belle with early Alzheimer’s, Coop’s loveable Chihuahua-toting granny, and clues that point to the illegal trafficking of human organs. But when a suspect is arrested, the bodies keep piling up and Teeny doesn’t know who to trust. As the murderers close in, Teeny unearths a revelation that becomes a game-changer and flips her world upside-down.



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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
In West’s madcap second novel featuring Charleston, S.C., baker Teeny Templeton (after 2011’s Gone with a Handsomer Man), Teeny is certain—well, almost certain—she witnessed the murder of Barb Philpot, an old high school frenemy. Barb’s body disappears, surfacing much later in the guise of a suicide victim. Meanwhile, Barb’s now motherless 10-year-old daughter might be the long-lost offspring of Coop O’Malley, who’s currently engaged to, that’s right, Teeny. Only a DNA test will tell what Coop’s been keeping secret. As for the killer, could Barb’s less than broken-up widower, pharmacist Lester Philpot, have been the man in the Bill Clinton mask Teeny saw strangle Barb? Or maybe it was Lester’s shifty brother, who may or may not be involved in illegal human organ harvesting? The plot continues to thicken as West tosses one red herring after another into an already deliciously roiling stew of blind alleys. Author tour. Agent: Ellen Levine, Trident Media Group. (Apr.)
From the Publisher

Praise for Michael Lee West:

“Full of dramatic action, clever red herrings, and humorous moments, this debut mystery by a well-regarded novelist will please any reader but particularly fans of Jennifer Crusie or Mary Kay Andrews.” —Library Journal (starred review)
 
“Gone with a Handsomer Man is fun, funny, and fabulous!”
—Janet Evanovich

“Fluffy as a buttermilk biscuit...charming...” —People

“Michael Lee West fans, rejoice! Gone with a Handsomer Man has a fresh, funny, and delightfully flawed heroine that you’ll fall in love with from the get-go. By turns sweet and surprising, it’s a  wonderful, quirky escape.” —Joshilyn Jackson, New York Times bestselling author of Backseat Saints

“Great cook—though reluctant detective—Teeny Templeton keeps the pot bubbling...delicious.”
—Lee Smith, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Girls

“By turns acerbic and sweet, poignant and funny, with great sex, bad boyfriends, and Do Not Try This At Home recipes. However you slice it, Gone with a Handsomer Man is as addictive as red velvet cake.” —Harley Jane Kozak, Agatha, Anthony, Macavity Award-winning author of Dating Dead Men

Library Journal
Hallelujah! Teeny Templeton (Gone with a Handsomer Man) has returned, and she's been served another plateful of crazy to boot. Cooper O'Malley's high school girlfriend, Barb Philpot, draws Teeny into trouble with an outrageous lie: Coop, who is now Teeny's beau, is fooling around with Barb behind Teeny's back. Teeny's attempt at surveillance goes horribly wrong when she is spotted by Barb and, worse, when she witnesses Barb being strangled by a masked man. Before her death, Barb ditched her ten-year-old daughter Emerson on Coop. Returning the girl to her legal father in Bonaventure, GA, Teeny's hometown, brings more than bad memories for Teeny; there, she finds coded messages sent from the grave and discovers a black market of human parts. VERDICT West's second mystery rises to the occasion by following a surefire recipe for adventure: a dash of quirky heroine, a pinch of deadly secrets, and a lovely dollop of sweet romance, all carefully folded into a story of clever twists, turns, and red herrings. Readers already under Teeny's spell will be relieved to find everything they were hoping for and more; newcomers will be racing back to the first book to discover what they've missed. [See Prepub Alert, 11/11/11.]—Stacey Hayman, Rocky River P. L., OH
Kirkus Reviews
Second installment in the adventures of freelance baker and reluctant sleuth Teeny Templeton. Now comfortably ensconced at her late Aunt Bluette's Georgia peach farm, which she's been able to save thanks to a windfall inheritance from her now-deceased ex-fiancé, Teeny is finding that her tiny hometown of Bonaventure is a hotbed not only of petty gossip but murderous machinations. When Teeny inadvertently witnesses the strangulation of her high school nemesis Barb at the hands of a lanky stranger in a Bill Clinton mask, her current fiancé (and Barb's former lover) Coop, a lawyer, advises Teeny to lay low. In the first installment (Gone with a Handsomer Man, 2011), incredibly precocious 10-year-old Emerson, Barb's daughter, showed up on Coop's doorstep to claim he is her real father, not creepy pharmacist Lester, whom Barb married on the rebound from Coop. Lester, only too eager to disown Emerson, demands a DNA test. As Teeny investigates Barb's death, aided by a trail of cryptic clues Barb planted, she encounters a cast of characters and potential villains straight out of Southern Novel central casting: at least two foulmouthed, hard-drinking old ladies, two middle-aged former cotillion debutantes who still see Teeny as trash, and diverse exemplars of Southern manhood. Teeny rebuffs every effort of laconic and lean Red, Coop's private eye, to keep her out of trouble. Son, now a successful plastic surgeon, once almost supplanted Coop in Teeny's heart. Then there is repellant lothario Josh, who runs Bonaventure's mortuary, and Norris, Lester's equally creepy brother whose medical license has been yanked for sexual assault. A number of healthy people, many of them Son's patients, have been dying of mysterious causes after hospitalizations for minor injuries or elective surgery: Could Barb's anagrams, decoded by Emerson, indicate that Bonaventure's newest industry is organ trafficking? Far too many characters and a large school of red herrings impede the flow, but snarky repartee, and the continuing conceit of Teeny's recipes for disaster, keep the comedy afloat.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781250014023
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 4/10/2012
  • Series: Teeny Templeton Mysteries , #2
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 336
  • Sales rank: 124,916
  • File size: 503 KB

Meet the Author


Michael Lee West is the author of six novels, including Crazy Ladies, Mad Girls in Love, American Pie, and She Flew the Coop, as well as a food memoir, Consuming Passions. She lives with her husband on a farm in Lebanon, Tennessee, with three bratty Yorkshire terriers, a Chinese crested, assorted donkeys, chickens, sheep, and African Pygmy goats. Her faithful dog Zap was the inspiration of a character in Mermaids in the Basement


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Read an Excerpt

one

 

It’s not every day that I bake a dozen red velvet cakes, learn that my boyfriend has a love child, and I witness a murder. To calm down, I invented a whole menu based on the Miranda warning. My favorite is Anything-You-Say-Can-Be-Used-Against-You Quiche. It calls for onions, smoked ham, and pepper cheese. Place ingredients in a deep-dish crust and add heavy whipping cream, salt, and pepper. Bake in a 400-degree oven until the filling is nicely browned. Serve with You-Have-the-Right-to-Remain-Silent Salsa and You-Have-the-Right-to-an-Attorney Pita Dippers.

Coop O’Malley is my lawyer and my boyfriend. He just started working at a big firm here in Charleston. The job comes with an ulcer, which is why I was home on a Saturday afternoon baking cakes instead of eating sweet tea scallops at Palmetto Place. We were supposed to meet there to celebrate Coop’s thirty-first birthday, but he’d phoned on my way out the door.

“Hey, Teeny,” he’d said. “I hate to cancel at the last minute, but my boss asked me to work overtime.”

I had no reason to doubt him. Coop was a by-the-book kind of guy. Loyal, meticulous, and hard working. That’s what had drawn me to him in the first place, way back when we were kids. I’m a spontaneous, trouble-prone gal, and he’s a cautious, rule-following guy. His personal motto is engraved on the back of his watch, semper paratus, always prepared. My motto is merda accidit, shit happens. Opposites attract, right?

I spent the rest of the day getting my order ready for The Picky Palate—that’s a café in the historic district. I’m a freelance baker. This is a dream job for a self-taught cook like myself, especially since this city is filled with professional chefs. I work at home and tote my pastries to the café, which sells everything on consignment. The red velvet cakes go into a revolving glass case with other Low Country favorites—shrimp and grits martinis, Benne Wafer Trifle, Pluff Mud Pie. At the end of the day, the shelves were empty.

Late that afternoon, I put the cakes into my beat-up turquoise convertible and drove to the café. The smell of buttered corn bread pulled me down the aisle, past shelves that overflowed with raffia-tied jars—gourmet jellies, lemon curd, pickled okra.

My boss stepped out of her office and put her freckled arm around my waist. “I’m going back to chef school,” Jan said. “I’m selling The Picky Palate. Would you like to buy it?”

My knees wobbled. A few months ago, I couldn’t afford a peach martini, much less a whole café. Then, on a fluke, I’d inherited the Spencer-Jackson House on Rainbow Row, along with a trust fund. I hadn’t decided what to do with either one. I’d been raised by hardcore Southern Baptists, women who were deeply suspicious of earthly treasures, and they’d taught me that the Lord was a tad capricious about giving and taking. So I hadn’t quit my job, nor had I sold my peach farm in Georgia.

I didn’t know doodly squat about running a business, but I promised Jan I’d think about her offer. As I drove home, the August heat punched against the top of my head like a fist. The minute I stepped into my kitchen, the phone rang. Before I could say hello, a lady shouted, “Quit spying on me, Teeny Templeton!”

Each word burned my ear, as if scalding water had spurted out of the receiver. I recognized the voice immediately. It belonged to Barb Browning Philpot, Coop’s high school sweetheart. They’d broken up eleven years ago, right after he’d gone away to college.

“Why are you calling me after all this time?” I asked. “And why do you think I’m spying?”

“Drop the Miss Innocent act,” Barb said. Each word left a smoking imprint on my brain. “Come near me and my daughter again, and I’ll hit you with a restraining order.”

The only thing that needed restraining was Barb’s tongue. I lifted the caller ID box. The screen showed a number with a South Carolina area code. My hand trembled as I set down the box. What was going on? I’d moved away from Bonaventure, Georgia, six months ago, but Barb still lived there with her pharmacist-husband and their ten-year-old daughter. I’d never seen the child. Or maybe I had.

Six weeks earlier, on a hot June afternoon, a little girl had shown up at Coop’s beach house, claiming he was her daddy. He’d told me that his old college roommate was behind it. Barb’s name hadn’t come up. Nor had the child returned to Coop’s house. Now, just remembering that day made my lungs flatten. I reached into my apron pocket, pulled out my asthma inhaler, and took a puff.

“Poor Teeny,” Barb said. “You can’t catch a break—or your breath. And you never will. Coop wants to dump you just like he did in high school. He’s sick of your dead rat pussy.”

I let that comment pass. “Barb, I don’t have a reason to spy on you.”

“No?” Her voice screaked up. “I saw you peeking through my window last night.”

“That’s impossible,” I said. “I was with Coop last night.” And I’d fed him shrimp tacos, red rice, and strawberry shortcake with lots of whipped cream.

“He’ll be with me tonight,” she said.

“Wrong,” I said. “He’s working.”

“Is that what he told you?” She laughed, a blade-sharp sound that cut right to my soul.

I hung up and dialed Coop’s cell phone. Not that I believed Barb for a second, but when he didn’t pick up, I felt all woozy-headed and my rear end hit the floor. I just sat there, breathing through my mouth. My bulldog, Sir, pushed his cold nose against my arm. He’s brown and white, with a smooshed-in, wrinkled muzzle. A creamy stripe runs down the center of his head, as if he’d collided with a bowl of royal icing. Normally, he calms me down, but I kept shaking.

I punched in the number to Coop’s law firm. The answering service informed me that everyone had left for the day. My throat clenched, as if I’d accidentally swallowed a cocktail onion. Was I reaching for trouble or was trouble reaching for me?

The afternoon wore on and wore me out. I called Coop three more times; he didn’t pick up, and I didn’t leave voice mail. If he wasn’t at the office, where was he? And what about that little girl who’d shown up on his porch a few weeks ago? Was she Coop’s long-lost child? He was an honorable man. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d gone back to Barb so he could help her raise their daughter. And he just hadn’t found the words to break up with me.

Don’t get me wrong—I love children. But I hate liars. A while back, I’d promised Jesus that I would tell the truth, and I began keeping a yearly record of my fibs. Every January first, I start a new tally, and I end it twelve months later on New Year’s Eve. This year, I’d told eighteen lies, and it was only mid-August. If I got cornered, my score could rise into the triple digits.

Coop was one of the few people who understood my preoccupation with the ninth commandment. When I was eight years old, my mama, Ruby Ann Templeton, had abandoned me at the Bonaventure Dairy Queen. She told me to run inside and buy two cones. When I came out, her car was gone. I never saw her again. Mama’s older sister, Bluette, raised me. My aunt promised to never leave, but cancer is an asshole disease that doesn’t honor promises. Last winter, she died, but she’d become my moral compass. What would she think about my dilemma?

One of her favorite mottos was “Believe but verify.” That’s what her hero, President Ronald Regan, used to say about the Russians. I wasn’t sure it applied to boyfriends, but a little verification wouldn’t hurt—just as long as the verifier wasn’t caught. I’m not a violent person. But tonight might be a different story if I found Coop and Barb doing the horizontal boogie.

I waited until 10.00 p.m., when it was full dark outside, then I opened my laptop and did a reverse search on Barb’s phone number. I got a hit for a Sullivan’s Island rental on Atlantic Avenue, a ritzy address, just 10.4 miles from me and six miles to Coop’s house on Isle of Palms.

First, I MapQuested the directions. Next, I went upstairs and dug through my closet. The rack was filled with consignment store finds: raspberry dresses, lime skirts, tangerine blouses. Unless I wanted Barb to spot me, I’d need to wear something less colorful. I pulled out a black scuba suit. A few weeks ago, I’d found it at a garage sale, and my head had filled with visions of a tropical, snorkeling vacation. Thank goodness I’d bought it, because it was my only black outfit. I put it on and stuffed my hair into a Braves baseball cap. I cringed when I passed by the foyer mirror. All I lacked was a harpoon and I could go after Moby Dick. But I wasn’t gunning for a whale. I was going after the truth and a tall, blond bitch.

I drove my convertible across the Ravenel Bridge. By the time I reached Sullivan’s Island, the wind had sucked out strands at my hair, and I looked like a rabid possum. I parked on the beach access road and walked to Barb’s rental. The night arched above me, dark as a mine shaft. A storm was blowing in from the Atlantic, and the air reeked of dead fish and pluff mud.

It wasn’t too late to turn back. I could go home and watch a Cary Grant movie, Suspicion or Charade, and plow through a gallon of peach ice cream. I didn’t have to be a stalker-girl.

No, Teeny. Keep going. You’ve got to verify.

Barb’s house sat on a jetty, a three-story brown clapboard that lorded over the cozy, old-fashioned bungalows. They were dark and shuttered, but her windows glowed with curry-colored light. I walked to the backyard and stopped beside a clump of sea oats. A wooden deck ran down the length of the house. The floodlights came on, and bright cones splashed across the grass. I moved back into the shadows, congratulating myself on my smart attire. My dark suit was the perfect camouflage.

A skinny blonde flung open a door and stepped onto the deck, her white caftan snapping in the wind. She held a martini glass, and the liquor shimmered like a melted apple. Her eyes darted this way and that way. Over the years, I’d seen Barb’s photograph in the Bonaventure Gazette’s society pages, but I’d forgotten how pretty she was in person.

I blinked. What had gone wrong with her perfect life? Why was she living in a rental? And where was her little girl? The beam from the Sullivan’s Island lighthouse circled toward me, and I dove into the oats. My cap flew off and honey-colored frizz exploded around my shoulders.

“Teeny?” she called. “I know it’s you because I recognize your shitty hair. If you damage my sea oats, I’ll shave your head.”

I grabbed my Braves cap and stepped toward the deck. I pressed my tongue against the thin gap between my front teeth and grinned. Not because I was amused. This was my “oh shit I want to die” smile. It was involuntary, like a sneeze, and held back a slew of emotions.

Barb skewered me with a look, her eyes cold and sharp as sea glass.

“I’m not spying,” I said, and raised my lie tally to nineteen.

“Then why are you here?”

“I lost my dog.” Lie number twenty.

I thought you were a dog.” She spoke in a slurry voice. As she veered to the edge of the deck railing, the martini sloshed out of her glass. “Why are you wearing that stupid wet suit?”

“It’s the latest style.” Lie number twenty-one. I was on a roll.

“Maybe at SeaWorld.” She laughed, a high, tinkly sound.

I dragged my shoe through the sandy grass. If only I’d brought that harpoon, I could have pinned her to the deck and force-fed her benne wafers.

She clawed her hair out of her face. “Coop just left. But he’ll be back.”

Her voice hit me like unripe peaches, each one piling up on my chest, crushing my lungs. What would it take to bring her down? Two harpoons and a Russian sub wouldn’t be enough.

“You’re making this up,” I said.

“I don’t care if you believe me. But you shouldn’t believe Coop, either. The truth doesn’t matter to a lawyer.” She put her martini glass on the deck railing, then she pulled a BlackBerry from her pocket and squinted at the keypad. “I’ve got proof he was here. Want to see his picture? Step a little nearer. But not too near or I’ll call 911.”

I squinted up at the phone and my stomach tensed. Coop’s image filled the little display screen. He sat on a white sofa, red kilim pillows heaped around him. I dragged my gaze away from the phone and looked into the living room. The same white sofa. Same pillows.

Barb flashed a triumphant smile. “I’m sorry it has to be this way. But you’re better off. You shouldn’t be with a man who doesn’t love you.”

More hard, knotty peaches landed on my chest. I wanted to toss them back, but I couldn’t move.

“Poor Teeny. You have such a look of pain in your eyes. But you’ll feel more pain when I call the police and report you for trespassing.” Barb spoke without malice, but hate blew off her in clear, wavy sheets like steam rising from a boiling soup pot. She glanced down at her phone again, her finger poised over the keypad. “You’ve got two seconds to get off my property.”

She walked back into her living room and closed the patio door. She stood there, watching me.

Tears burned the backs of my eyes as I walked around her house, through the shadowy yard. When I got near the driveway, I heard footsteps. A tall, rangy guy in a Bill Clinton mask strode toward Barb’s front door. The mask was rubber and fit over his whole head, hiding his face and hair color. The wind kicked up his black Windbreaker, showing a baggy jog suit and skinny legs. One gloved hand held a key. He opened the front door and stepped into Barb’s house.

Coop? I thought. Is that you? My stomach cramped and I bent over double. Why did he have a key? How long had he been seeing Barb? Believe but verify, Teeny.

I hurried into her backyard, trying to ignore the tight, squished feeling in my chest. I was trespassing. But I wouldn’t do anything crazy, like throw sand. I’d just call them assholes, which was a perfectly legal thing to say, then I’d take my bulldog and leave town.

I tiptoed up the deck staircase and peered through the glass door. Barb and the masked guy were arguing. His gloves were latex, the kind favored by surgeons. Blue paper booties covered his shoes. No, he definitely wasn’t Coop. Not with those long, stringy legs.

He grabbed Barb’s neck and they veered into a table. A pottery lamp crashed to the floor and shattered. The man’s gloved fingers sank into Barb’s throat. Her face reddened, and her eyes bulged. He was murdering her. I dug my cell phone out of my rubber pocket to call the police. Before I could flip it open, my alarm went off, playing the stupid-ass theme song to The Twilight Zone. I cupped my fingers over the phone, trying to smother the sound, but the man had heard. His head swiveled. He dropped Barb and she crumpled to the floor. He stepped over her limp body. Then he lunged toward me.

Holy crap. He’d killed her and I was next. I vaulted down the deck stairs as if a jet stream were coming out of my butt, and I flew into the terrible night.

 

Copyright © 2012 by Michael Lee West

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 17 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 17 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 5, 2012

    Great read!

    I happen to stumble onto this author at the bookstore, love her writing. Teeny seems to always find herself in a bit of a pickle, but she does get her man. Can't wait to read the next installment.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 3, 2014

    This is the second book in the Teeny Templeton mystery series an

    This is the second book in the Teeny Templeton mystery series and it was just as good as the first. Great humor, drama, mystery...and all done in an authentic southern voice. Love, love, loved it!

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  • Posted May 24, 2013

    love this new series!

    This is the second book in a new series and I really love them. The first one was good and this one was even better! Can't wait for the third one to come out.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 25, 2013

    I'm surprised there aren't any 1-star ratings before mine! This

    I'm surprised there aren't any 1-star ratings before mine! This story is completely lacking in consistency, full of typos, and is so far-fetched I had a hard time finishing it. The only reason I did finish it was because I paid $9.99 plus tax. Too bad there are no refunds...

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 25, 2012

    Loved this book!

    The main character is a scream from her sass,to her recipes, to her zany clothes and not to mention she cant stay out of trouble.
    The mysteries keep you going and going.
    interesting times at the peach farm,anagrams,tarantulas,a 10 yr old suprise,freaky body parts mystery,so much more.

    Very much a fun read.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 22, 2012

    Michse Michael Lee's Best

    Perfect description of life in a southern small town like we grew up in. Thanks for a most entertaining read.

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  • Posted June 11, 2012

    Charming characters and setting and a funny heroine. Teeny Temp

    Charming characters and setting and a funny heroine. Teeny Templeton stole my heart. She's sweet and sassy but flawed. By the end of the book she'd come to terms with her child hood hangup about liars. The recipes were a bonus. Enjoyed it!!

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  • Posted May 19, 2012

    Teeny is one of those characters you want to smack some sense in

    Teeny is one of those characters you want to smack some sense into her, but then feels sorry for her at the same time. She has a murderer after her, her boyfriend is hiding something and she’s also dealing with his possible wayward and precocious ten-year old daughter. This was a good read that had me laughing at the situations that seems to find Teeny and kept me entertained as I unraveled the mystery that was presented. And oh my gosh, the names of recipes that Teeny comes up with for what she’s dealing with are a hoot. I can’t wait to see what exciting adventures await Teeny and her friends. Bonus recipes are included in the book.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 7, 2012

    Loved it.

    Loved it.

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  • Posted May 4, 2012

    Brilliant!

    I have been anxiously waiting for the second book in this series and I am so glad that it finally arrived. It is just as good as the first and Ms West delivers again. I love her descriptions, her recipes and Teeny's adventure. Fun and easy read for all. Definitely passing the word on this one.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 24, 2012

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    Posted April 13, 2012

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    Posted March 23, 2013

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    Posted May 2, 2013

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    Posted December 30, 2012

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    Posted April 26, 2012

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 17, 2013

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