Death Takes a Honeymoon

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TO SURVIVE THE WEDDING OF THE SEASON…
Wedding planner Carnegie Kincaid can feel the heat when she reunites with an old flame in the wealthy resort community of Sun Valley–but handsome smoke jumper Jack Packard is about to marry Carnegie’s former best friend, now a famous TV actress. With a star-studded ceremony to pull off, a noncommittal boyfriend back in Seattle, and a supercilious Frenchman barking orders, ...
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Overview

TO SURVIVE THE WEDDING OF THE SEASON…
Wedding planner Carnegie Kincaid can feel the heat when she reunites with an old flame in the wealthy resort community of Sun Valley–but handsome smoke jumper Jack Packard is about to marry Carnegie’s former best friend, now a famous TV actress. With a star-studded ceremony to pull off, a noncommittal boyfriend back in Seattle, and a supercilious Frenchman barking orders, Carnegie has no time for carnal urges. Especially once murder joins the party.

YOU’VE GOT TO TAKE THE PLUNGE.
The victim was a local hero who leapt from planes to fight fire. But was his impromptu skydive a smoke screen for something sinister? With her florist going AWOL, her bride going ballistically Hollywood, and her curiosity running wild, Carnegie may be in over her head: Someone in Sun Valley is a killer–and it’s up to Carnegie to grill the guests and unmask the villain…or watch her glitzy job go up in flames.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Deborah Donnelly blends humor and romance with a clever mix of murder and mayhem. The result is high-speed suspense and wicked fun.”
–Rachel Gibson, USA Today bestselling author
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780440241300
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 4/26/2005
  • Series: Dell Mystery Series
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Pages: 335
  • Product dimensions: 6.86 (w) x 4.24 (h) x 0.98 (d)

Meet the Author

Deborah Donnelly is a sea captain's daughter who grew up in Panama, Cape Cod, and points in between. She's been an executive speechwriter, a university librarian, a science fiction writer, and a nanny. A longtime resident of Seattle, and a bloomingly healthy breast cancer survivor, Donnelly now lives physically in Boise, Idaho, and virtually at www.deborahdonnelly.org.
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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR, THAT'S WHAT THEY SAY. And whoever they are, they were certainly right this time. When I wished for heat, serious heat, I got what I wished for and then some.

It all started in the middle of a Sunday morning in the middle of June, as I stood in my houseboat sulking up a storm. A rainstorm, to be precise. This was Seattle, after all.

Huddled in sweatshirt and jeans, I leaned my forehead against the sliding-glass porch door and glared outside. Beyond my narrow wooden deck, the surface of Lake Union was the color of pewter. Dull, wet, rain-speckled pewter.

In addition to sulking, I was sipping hot strong coffee and yearning for hot strong sunshine. I wanted clear skies and high temperatures, the higher the better. You call this June?

Even in Seattle, June should bring at least a hint of summer. An arched eyebrow, a mischievous wink, a suggestive nod in the direction of halter tops and sun screened shoulders and watermelon leaking pink through paper plates. Was that so much to ask?

This June we had sunscreen, all right: a coffin lid of cloud that screened the sun like an SPF 30 lotion. For weeks now, the temperature had been just high enough for cotton clothing, just low enough to skip the gin and tonics after all. Day after day after day of Mostly Cloudy, Some Chance of Showers, and I was Pissed Off, No Chance of Smiles.

The phone jangled--the business line. On a Sunday? Business wasn't all that good, so I set down my mug and answered briskly.

"Made in Heaven Wedding Design."

"Relax, it's me. Jeez, Muffy, you sound a hundred and three years old."

Please understand, my name is not now, nor has it ever been, Muffy. It's Carnegie Kincaid, and I'm about seventy years shy of a hundred and three. But this wasn't a wrong number. The familiar voice, as raucous as a magpie and as subtle as an elbow in the ribs, was Brenda Jervis, better known as B.J.

B.J. was my high-school buddy from Boise, Idaho, where I grew up and where my mother still taught school. She and I and a third girl, Tracy Kane, had called each other "Muffy" throughout the long, hilarious, hot-blooded college summer that we spent working at the Sun Valley Lodge. Tracy was younger, a tagalong friend, but B.J. and I were bonded for life.

The resort village of Sun Valley is a two-hour drive from Boise, but just ten minutes up the road from the mountain town of Ketchum. Tracy's mother, Cecilia--"Call me Cissy"--lived in Ketchum, and Cissy Kane wanted to give her teenage daughter a little freedom after her graduation from high school. So she kept a tolerant eye on the three of us--blonde Tracy, brunette B.J., and redheaded me--as we shared a cheap apartment and waited tables at the venerable old Sun Valley Lodge.

The Muffy thing was a private joke that summer, to lightly mock the tanned and pampered ladies who played tennis and rode horses and had pedicures at the resort, while the three of us humped platters and flirted with the line cooks and drank too much beer. B.J. and I still used the silly name in our occasional phone calls and e-mails, but I hadn't heard from Tracy, the junior Muffy, in years.

Not until Tracy's wedding invitation arrived, in the soggy April preceding this soggy June. And it was as stiffly impersonal as an invitation could be. On vellum thick as cream, in the curliest of curly engraving, the honor of my presence was requested on Midsummer's Day--this coming Saturday--at the union of Tracy Marie Kane and John Holland Packard III. Someone even dug up my top-secret middle name, Bernice, to address the envelope. But there was no personal note for Muffy.

I had declined the invitation, and that's why B.J. was on the phone. She lived in Ketchum herself now, and she was in cahoots with the mother of the bride.

"Cissy told me you're not coming! What's the matter, Muffy, no date? Did that short guy dump you?"

"He's not short, B.J., he's just shorter than me." Which isn't hard; I'm a six-footer in heels. "Nobody's dumping anybody."

"Not yet, huh?"

"Oh, B.J." How many times had I said her name in precisely that tone of affectionate exasperation?

"Well, you used to rave about this guy and now he's the Invisible Man. You never mention him. Matt and I want to look him over and ask him embarrassing questions."

"I thought Matt was still in Germany."

"He'll be back just in time for Tracy's wedding. Which you will be attending, with Shorty or without him, if I have to come over there and drag you."

"His name is Aaron, all right? And we're still seeing each other." I flopped onto the couch and pulled an afghan over my bare feet. "I'm just too busy to make it. I put a note in with my RSVP, but Tracy didn't answer, so that's that. I can't change my mind less than a week before the wedding, it would be rude."

"Tracy never answers anything. And Cissy says there's plenty of room. Half the guests are bringing guests. It's going to be the party to end all parties. You've got to come! Listen to this menu . . ."

As B.J. regaled me with the lamb chops in phyllo and the roasted pears with pecorino cheese, my thoughts drifted. Too busy to make it was a blatant falsehood, and seeing each other was hardly an adequate term for my current relationship with Aaron Gold.

Driving each other crazy was more like it. Good crazy--that was the sex. And bad crazy--that was just about everything else.

You see, back on New Year's Eve, at an intimate bistro under a Miami moon, Aaron had gazed into my eyes and presented me with a box. A little velvet box. The kind that might, just might, contain a diamond ring.

Actually, the box was just a thought too large for a ring, but at the time I wasn't thinking any thoughts. I was revved up on romance, and the diamond ring idea zoomed straight from my imagination to my mouth without pausing for a pit stop in my brain.

Major mistake. Because the box contained, of all things, a banged-up steel cigarette lighter. Aaron's chain-smoking had been a problem for me from the day we met, and giving me the lighter was a dramatic way to announce that he meant to quit.

Well, fine. Wonderful. Only by the time I realized that, I was already in mid-blurt.

"Oh! I . . . thought it was a ring."

Major, major mistake. Aaron went instantly to Red Alert, I got mad to cover my embarrassment, and we had one of those ghastly exchanges that make you cringe at the memory.

"A ring! Are you nuts? I just got divorced."

"I know you're divorced, Aaron. You told me right after you casually mentioned that you were married."

"Are we back to this? OK, so I didn't tell you about Barbara right away. I was wrong. How much longer are you going to throw it in my face?"

"I'm not throwing anything. But if you think you'd be nuts to marry me--"

"I didn't say that. I just didn't know you were so eager to plan your own wedding."

"I'm not! Don't be ridiculous. I'm not ready to get married, to you or anyone else. I was joking."

"Really?"

"Of course."

"Oh. OK. You want another pina colada?"

"Of course."

So we went on with our dinner, and then on with our vacation. The sun and sand and exotic birds made an effective distraction, but from that moment forward, everything changed. The ominous M-word had been spoken, and a faint but persistent self-consciousness lingered in the air between us like the acrid smoke of a snuffed candle. Except in bed, and you can't stay in bed forever, can you? Though Aaron certainly gave it a shot.

After the vacation, back home in Seattle, we got busy with jobs and friends and the dailiness of life, but we had to work a little too hard at being casual. We spent most of our time together, but remained deliberately vague about the future. Passionate in what we did, but cautious in what we said.

What bothered me most is that Aaron somehow stopped saying "I love you." And I was damned if I'd say it--or bring up the subject of marriage--until he did. But he didn't, and maybe never would. I had to admit it: we were having Commitment Issues. It was trite and tedious and absurd--and I couldn't stop thinking about it.

On top of that there was the smoking, or absence thereof. Aaron was naturally a high-voltage guy, with an electrical wit and energy to burn. But with no tobacco to burn, he was by turns preoccupied, touchy, and just plain glum. Once in a while he'd fall off the wagon, and though I disliked the smell of cigarettes, I secretly enjoyed what they did for his disposition.

"So?" B.J.'s voice tugged me back to the present. "Have I talked you into coming?"

"Um, not sure. Who's going to be there? Mostly Tracy's TV crowd?"

"Yes, indeed." B.J.'s voice dropped a tone. "I'm hoping for that hunky guy who played the veterinarian in the pilot episode. He's still a Maybe, but lots of other actors are coming for sure. Eye candy, yum, yum."

Tracy, you see, had hit the big time. After the Muffy summer, only two of us finished college. I went on to a public-relations job for a Seattle bank, while B.J., whose thumbs were both green, became assistant manager of a garden center in Ketchum. But Tracy dropped out in her freshman year and went back to waiting tables.

Those tables, however, were in Los Angeles, and between shifts she haunted auditions. Her wide, up tilted blue eyes and sultry purr won her a few TV commercials, then bit parts in the soaps. And then, triumph of triumphs, she landed the lead role in a prime-time comedy about a single, sexy, zany dog walker.

So now, ten years or so later, the Muffies were making their mark. I owned Made in Heaven, B.J. owned High Country Gardens, and Tracy Kane owned the hearts and minds of the Wednesday night audience for Tails of the City.

"The guest list is huge," B.J. was saying. "Cissy has been clucking around town like a smug little hen, playing mother of the bride. It's hysterical."

Sam and Cissy Kane, the wily old real-estate developer and his shopaholic wife, were longtime fixtures in Ketchum. Like so many residents of the Wood River area, they lived in California and came to Idaho when they pleased, in winter for the skiing and in summer for the golf. But unlike many, they were born Idahoans. Sam had even run for governor once, or so I'd heard. Even now the Kanes kept a hand in local affairs, chamber of commerce and town planning on Sam's side, arts events and charities on Cissy's.

The arts included opera, an interest that she shared with my mother. Mom called Cissy Kane the silliest woman she'd ever met, but she was fond of her, nevertheless. And everybody who met Sam liked him. Tall and rawboned, Sam ambled along like an animated scarecrow and rarely removed his cowboy hat except for sweeping salutes to the ladies, including his plump little wife. If not the king and queen of Sun Valley, Sam and Cissy were certainly the duke and duchess.

And they were certainly putting on a royal affair. Tracy's vellum envelope had bulged with engraved cards, maps, and RSVP slips for various festivities throughout the wedding weekend, from ice skating to spa treatments to a bachelor baseball game. A destination wedding, as we say in the business, with no expenses spared.

Most of the preliminary events, and the guest accommodations, were at the Sun Valley Lodge, but the ceremony and reception would take place somewhere I'd never heard of, the White Pine Inn. When I asked B.J. about that part, she was scornful.

"You really are out of touch, aren't you?" To B.J., Seattle was just some distant, mildewed city of exile for those who couldn't find honest work in Idaho. "White Pine is Sam's new project up in the mountains. It's not finished yet, but it's going to be a luxury resort."

"Have you seen it?"

"No, but I'm dying to. I hear it's spectacular. You go up a long private road through a canyon, then it's a big complex along the top of a ridge, with incredible views and a hot spring and everything. I can't believe you're missing this just to work! What kind of wedding are you doing? Is it Saturday or Sunday?"

"Well . . ." Old habits die hard. B.J. had always bullied me a little, and I had never been able to lie to her with any success. "It's more that I'm working on weddings that are scheduled for later on."

"And you have to do that on a weekend? Come on, Carnegie, 'fess up. Couldn't you come if you really wanted to?"

"Well . . ."

"Don't you remember our vow? That the Muffies would dance at each other's weddings? You came to mine."

"But Tracy didn't."

"Hey, she was in Belize with that cute producer. I couldn't blame her. Come on, Carnegie. It's not just actors, some old friends of ours will be there. I bet you haven't seen your cousin in ages."

"My cousin?"

"Hel-lo, your cousin Brian? He just moved to Ketchum to start smoke jumping."

"Second cousin," I reminded her. "Or maybe it's once removed, I can't remember. Anyway, I never see him, which is fine with me. What does Matt think about your old boyfriend showing up?"

I meant that sarcastically. Matt was B.J.'s husband, a mining engineer and a hunk in his own right, who traveled a lot for his job but treated her like a goddess when he was home. They'd been inseparable during the Muffy summer, except for a brief interlude when Brian Thiel came through town with a fire-fighting crew. Brian was tall, dark, and devastating, his own biggest fan. A few dates with him and his ego had sent B.J. back to Matt.

"Oh, please," she retorted. "That's ancient history. I just thought you'd like to know you have a smoke jumper in the family now."

Here in misty Seattle we don't think about it much, but across the intermountain West, summertime is the time of fire. Generations of men--and now women--had enlisted in the standing army of wildland firefighters, making full-time careers or just part-time cash working for the Forest Service or the Bureau of Land Management or the National Parks. They're strong and skilled and dedicated, and they seemed very glamorous to a couple of young waitresses.

Actually, they still seemed kind of glamorous, especially the ones who reach their fires from the sky. But it would take more than that to polish Brian Thiel's image in my eyes. I just didn't like the man.

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Table of Contents

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First Chapter

Death Takes a Honeymoon


By Deborah Donnelly

Random House

Deborah Donnelly
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0440241308


Chapter One

Chapter One


BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR, THAT'S WHAT THEY SAY. And whoever they are, they were certainly right this time. When I wished for heat, serious heat, I got what I wished for and then some.

It all started in the middle of a Sunday morning in the middle of June, as I stood in my houseboat sulking up a storm. A rainstorm, to be precise. This was Seattle, after all.

Huddled in sweatshirt and jeans, I leaned my forehead against the sliding-glass porch door and glared outside. Beyond my narrow wooden deck, the surface of Lake Union was the color of pewter. Dull, wet, rain-speckled pewter.

In addition to sulking, I was sipping hot strong coffee and yearning for hot strong sunshine. I wanted clear skies and high temperatures, the higher the better. You call this June?

Even in Seattle, June should bring at least a hint of summer. An arched eyebrow, a mischievous wink, a suggestive nod in the direction of halter tops and sun screened shoulders and watermelon leaking pink through paper plates. Was that so much to ask?

This June we had sunscreen, all right: a coffin lid of cloud that screened the sun like an SPF 30 lotion. For weeks now, the temperature had been just high enough for cotton clothing, just low enough to skip the gin and tonics after all. Day after day after day of Mostly Cloudy, Some Chance of Showers, and I was Pissed Off, No Chance of Smiles.

The phone jangled-the business line. On a Sunday? Business wasn't all that good, so I set down my mug and answered briskly.

"Made in Heaven Wedding Design."

"Relax, it's me. Jeez, Muffy, you sound a hundred and three years old."

Please understand, my name is not now, nor has it ever been, Muffy. It's Carnegie Kincaid, and I'm about seventy years shy of a hundred and three. But this wasn't a wrong number. The familiar voice, as raucous as a magpie and as subtle as an elbow in the ribs, was Brenda Jervis, better known as B.J.

B.J. was my high-school buddy from Boise, Idaho, where I grew up and where my mother still taught school. She and I and a third girl, Tracy Kane, had called each other "Muffy" throughout the long, hilarious, hot-blooded college summer that we spent working at the Sun Valley Lodge. Tracy was younger, a tagalong friend, but B.J. and I were bonded for life.

The resort village of Sun Valley is a two-hour drive from Boise, but just ten minutes up the road from the mountain town of Ketchum. Tracy's mother, Cecilia-"Call me Cissy"-lived in Ketchum, and Cissy Kane wanted to give her teenage daughter a little freedom after her graduation from high school. So she kept a tolerant eye on the three of us-blonde Tracy, brunette B.J., and redheaded me-as we shared a cheap apartment and waited tables at the venerable old Sun Valley Lodge.

The Muffy thing was a private joke that summer, to lightly mock the tanned and pampered ladies who played tennis and rode horses and had pedicures at the resort, while the three of us humped platters and flirted with the line cooks and drank too much beer. B.J. and I still used the silly name in our occasional phone calls and e-mails, but I hadn't heard from Tracy, the junior Muffy, in years.

Not until Tracy's wedding invitation arrived, in the soggy April preceding this soggy June. And it was as stiffly impersonal as an invitation could be. On vellum thick as cream, in the curliest of curly engraving, the honor of my presence was requested on Midsummer's Day-this coming Saturday-at the union of Tracy Marie Kane and John Holland Packard III. Someone even dug up my top-secret middle name, Bernice, to address the envelope. But there was no personal note for Muffy.

I had declined the invitation, and that's why B.J. was on the phone. She lived in Ketchum herself now, and she was in cahoots with the mother of the bride.

"Cissy told me you're not coming! What's the matter, Muffy, no date? Did that short guy dump you?"

"He's not short, B.J., he's just shorter than me." Which isn't hard; I'm a six-footer in heels. "Nobody's dumping anybody."

"Not yet, huh?"

"Oh, B.J." How many times had I said her name in precisely that tone of affectionate exasperation?

"Well, you used to rave about this guy and now he's the Invisible Man. You never mention him. Matt and I want to look him over and ask him embarrassing questions."

"I thought Matt was still in Germany."

"He'll be back just in time for Tracy's wedding. Which you will be attending, with Shorty or without him, if I have to come over there and drag you."

"His name is Aaron, all right? And we're still seeing each other." I flopped onto the couch and pulled an afghan over my bare feet. "I'm just too busy to make it. I put a note in with my RSVP, but Tracy didn't answer, so that's that. I can't change my mind less than a week before the wedding, it would be rude."

"Tracy never answers anything. And Cissy says there's plenty of room. Half the guests are bringing guests. It's going to be the party to end all parties. You've got to come! Listen to this menu . . ."

As B.J. regaled me with the lamb chops in phyllo and the roasted pears with pecorino cheese, my thoughts drifted. Too busy to make it was a blatant falsehood, and seeing each other was hardly an adequate term for my current relationship with Aaron Gold.

Driving each other crazy was more like it. Good crazy-that was the sex. And bad crazy-that was just about everything else.

You see, back on New Year's Eve, at an intimate bistro under a Miami moon, Aaron had gazed into my eyes and presented me with a box. A little velvet box. The kind that might, just might, contain a diamond ring.

Actually, the box was just a thought too large for a ring, but at the time I wasn't thinking any thoughts. I was revved up on romance, and the diamond ring idea zoomed straight from my imagination to my mouth without pausing for a pit stop in my brain.

Major mistake. Because the box contained, of all things, a banged-up steel cigarette lighter. Aaron's chain-smoking had been a problem for me from the day we met, and giving me the lighter was a dramatic way to announce that he meant to quit.

Well, fine. Wonderful. Only by the time I realized that, I was already in mid-blurt.

"Oh! I . . . thought it was a ring."

Major, major mistake. Aaron went instantly to Red Alert, I got mad to cover my embarrassment, and we had one of those ghastly exchanges that make you cringe at the memory.

"A ring! Are you nuts? I just got divorced."

"I know you're divorced, Aaron. You told me right after you casually mentioned that you were married."

"Are we back to this? OK, so I didn't tell you about Barbara right away. I was wrong. How much longer are you going to throw it in my face?"

"I'm not throwing anything. But if you think you'd be nuts to marry me-"

"I didn't say that. I just didn't know you were so eager to plan your own wedding."

"I'm not! Don't be ridiculous. I'm not ready to get married, to you or anyone else. I was joking."

"Really?"

"Of course."

"Oh. OK. You want another pina colada?"

"Of course."

So we went on with our dinner, and then on with our vacation. The sun and sand and exotic birds made an effective distraction, but from that moment forward, everything changed. The ominous M-word had been spoken, and a faint but persistent self-consciousness lingered in the air between us like the acrid smoke of a snuffed candle. Except in bed, and you can't stay in bed forever, can you? Though Aaron certainly gave it a shot.

After the vacation, back home in Seattle, we got busy with jobs and friends and the dailiness of life, but we had to work a little too hard at being casual. We spent most of our time together, but remained deliberately vague about the future. Passionate in what we did, but cautious in what we said.

What bothered me most is that Aaron somehow stopped saying "I love you." And I was damned if I'd say it-or bring up the subject of marriage-until he did. But he didn't, and maybe never would. I had to admit it: we were having Commitment Issues. It was trite and tedious and absurd-and I couldn't stop thinking about it.

On top of that there was the smoking, or absence thereof. Aaron was naturally a high-voltage guy, with an electrical wit and energy to burn. But with no tobacco to burn, he was by turns preoccupied, touchy, and just plain glum. Once in a while he'd fall off the wagon, and though I disliked the smell of cigarettes, I secretly enjoyed what they did for his disposition.

"So?" B.J.'s voice tugged me back to the present. "Have I talked you into coming?"

"Um, not sure. Who's going to be there? Mostly Tracy's TV crowd?"

"Yes, indeed." B.J.'s voice dropped a tone. "I'm hoping for that hunky guy who played the veterinarian in the pilot episode. He's still a Maybe, but lots of other actors are coming for sure. Eye candy, yum, yum."

Tracy, you see, had hit the big time. After the Muffy summer, only two of us finished college. I went on to a public-relations job for a Seattle bank, while B.J., whose thumbs were both green, became assistant manager of a garden center in Ketchum. But Tracy dropped out in her freshman year and went back to waiting tables.

Those tables, however, were in Los Angeles, and between shifts she haunted auditions. Her wide, up tilted blue eyes and sultry purr won her a few TV commercials, then bit parts in the soaps. And then, triumph of triumphs, she landed the lead role in a prime-time comedy about a single, sexy, zany dog walker.

So now, ten years or so later, the Muffies were making their mark. I owned Made in Heaven, B.J. owned High Country Gardens, and Tracy Kane owned the hearts and minds of the Wednesday night audience for Tails of the City.

"The guest list is huge," B.J. was saying. "Cissy has been clucking around town like a smug little hen, playing mother of the bride. It's hysterical."

Sam and Cissy Kane, the wily old real-estate developer and his shopaholic wife, were longtime fixtures in Ketchum. Like so many residents of the Wood River area, they lived in California and came to Idaho when they pleased, in winter for the skiing and in summer for the golf. But unlike many, they were born Idahoans. Sam had even run for governor once, or so I'd heard. Even now the Kanes kept a hand in local affairs, chamber of commerce and town planning on Sam's side, arts events and charities on Cissy's.

The arts included opera, an interest that she shared with my mother. Mom called Cissy Kane the silliest woman she'd ever met, but she was fond of her, nevertheless. And everybody who met Sam liked him. Tall and rawboned, Sam ambled along like an animated scarecrow and rarely removed his cowboy hat except for sweeping salutes to the ladies, including his plump little wife. If not the king and queen of Sun Valley, Sam and Cissy were certainly the duke and duchess.

And they were certainly putting on a royal affair. Tracy's vellum envelope had bulged with engraved cards, maps, and RSVP slips for various festivities throughout the wedding weekend, from ice skating to spa treatments to a bachelor baseball game. A destination wedding, as we say in the business, with no expenses spared.

Most of the preliminary events, and the guest accommodations, were at the Sun Valley Lodge, but the ceremony and reception would take place somewhere I'd never heard of, the White Pine Inn. When I asked B.J. about that part, she was scornful.

"You really are out of touch, aren't you?" To B.J., Seattle was just some distant, mildewed city of exile for those who couldn't find honest work in Idaho. "White Pine is Sam's new project up in the mountains. It's not finished yet, but it's going to be a luxury resort."

"Have you seen it?"

"No, but I'm dying to. I hear it's spectacular. You go up a long private road through a canyon, then it's a big complex along the top of a ridge, with incredible views and a hot spring and everything. I can't believe you're missing this just to work! What kind of wedding are you doing? Is it Saturday or Sunday?"

"Well . . ." Old habits die hard. B.J. had always bullied me a little, and I had never been able to lie to her with any success. "It's more that I'm working on weddings that are scheduled for later on."

"And you have to do that on a weekend? Come on, Carnegie, 'fess up. Couldn't you come if you really wanted to?"

"Well . . ."

"Don't you remember our vow? That the Muffies would dance at each other's weddings? You came to mine."

"But Tracy didn't."

"Hey, she was in Belize with that cute producer. I couldn't blame her. Come on, Carnegie. It's not just actors, some old friends of ours will be there. I bet you haven't seen your cousin in ages."

"My cousin?"

"Hel-lo, your cousin Brian? He just moved to Ketchum to start smoke jumping."

"Second cousin," I reminded her. "Or maybe it's once removed, I can't remember. Anyway, I never see him, which is fine with me. What does Matt think about your old boyfriend showing up?"

I meant that sarcastically. Matt was B.J.'s husband, a mining engineer and a hunk in his own right, who traveled a lot for his job but treated her like a goddess when he was home. They'd been inseparable during the Muffy summer, except for a brief interlude when Brian Thiel came through town with a fire-fighting crew. Brian was tall, dark, and devastating, his own biggest fan. A few dates with him and his ego had sent B.J. back to Matt.

"Oh, please," she retorted. "That's ancient history. I just thought you'd like to know you have a smoke jumper in the family now."

Here in misty Seattle we don't think about it much, but across the intermountain West, summertime is the time of fire. Generations of men-and now women-had enlisted in the standing army of wildland firefighters, making full-time careers or just part-time cash working for the Forest Service or the Bureau of Land Management or the National Parks. They're strong and skilled and dedicated, and they seemed very glamorous to a couple of young waitresses.

Actually, they still seemed kind of glamorous, especially the ones who reach their fires from the sky. But it would take more than that to polish Brian Thiel's image in my eyes. I just didn't like the man.



Excerpted from Death Takes a Honeymoon by Deborah Donnelly Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Sort by: Showing all of 6 Customer Reviews
  • Posted April 19, 2011

    This book was 5 hours I can't get back.

    Everything you may or may not want to know about smoke jumping is in the beginning and end chapters. By chapter 6 you can already guess how the wedding will end. Plus the last sentence of the tells you nothing about what happened to one of the secondary characters. Did he die in the fire? Did he tell the groom he was just leaving? The last line is too vague and there is no clear meaning. I hung on through all of the boring stuff and my pay off is vagueness? No thanks. Since the next book shows no tie in, I will be skipping it.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 2, 2009

    great book!

    this book is entertaining from start to finish.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 17, 2005

    Another Delightful Mystery

    Deborah Donnelly's mysteries are always a treat, and this latest one is no exception. Were it not for the sudden death of her cousin while fighting fires wedding planner Carnegie Kincaid would not have even attended her friend's wedding. Instead, Carnegie finds herself involved in investigating the circumstances of the smokejumper¿s death, contending with her old boyfriend who happens to be the groom, working the wedding under the supervision of her rival wedding planner the ¿beautiful Beau,¿ and trying to repair her relationship with ambitious reporter Aaron. With a cast of eccentrics and full of humor and wit, Donnelly carries the mystery through to a heart-stopping conclusion. Carnegie has grown into being one of the more endearing characters in the mystery field and I can¿t wait for her next appearance.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 14, 2005

    Donnelly's Best!

    I've been enjoying Deborah Donnelly's series of wedding planner mysteries since I first stumbled on Veiled Threats. Death Takes a Honeymoon is number 4, and I really think it's the best yet! In addition to quirky characters and a great story, Donnelly's descriptions make you want to go to Idaho for your next vacation. I've been giving these books to friends and relatives to rave reviews - the set of 4 makes a great shower gift for a bride-to-be!

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  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    Refreshingly innovative and totally exciting

    Wedding planner Carnegie Kincaid is going through a rough patch professionally and personally. Her Seattle based businesses ¿Made in Heaven Wedding Design¿ is not making much money and her relationship with her commitment phobic significant other Aaron Gold is strained. She decides to attend the wedding of her college friend Tracy West because of the business contacts she will make there as Tracy is a big Hollywood star and her parents know all the movers and shakes............... When Carnegie learns her cousin died, she decides that the wedding is the perfect place to get some answers regarding his death. Although Carnegie wasn¿t close to her cousin Brian Theale, she wants to know if his death was an accident or murder. A professional who examined the body thinks he was murdered but the sheriff and the task force classified it an accident. Brian¿s fellow smoke jumpers who were with him shortly after he died will be at the wedding so Carnegie will have an easy time questioning the suspects. To her delight, Aaron comes up for the wedding and since he is a journalist with skills that are needed to question suspects, they team up to find out the truth behind Brian¿s death............... The heroine becomes the de facto wedding planner for the West wedding which gives her easy access to the suspects and her determination to find out if the cousin she didn¿t like was murdered is laudable. Doing her job while trying to scope out a murderer leads to some very funny situations and the comic relief is needed because the tension throughout the storyline is as tight as a high wire. Deborah Donnelly is a very creative writer whose mystery series is refreshingly innovative and totally exciting............... Harriet Klausner

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 8, 2011

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