Deadly Summer Read online

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN The next morning Dixie and I were at the Darling Investigation office two hours before our call time. News had broken that I’d helped bring down a dirty Sweet Briar policeman due to my PI work, and my manager, Justin, had set me up with several morning news programs to talk about it. I had agreed as long as Dixie was allowed to sit with me. Since we already had a film crew, it was decided that they would hook their cameras up to the live feed and handle it themselves. When we walked in, the crew was already there waiting for us, with the exception of Bill and Lauren. Bill was currently in the Sweet Briar Hospital recovering from a gunshot wound to his chest, but thankfully the bullet hadn’t hit anything vital, and he was expected to make a full recovery. I hadn’t spoken to Lauren since the night before, but during all the questioning with the sheriff’s department, it had come to light that Bill had taken a lot of video of our side investigation, including the showd

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Summer Butler was born on a hot June day in 2016. I was looking ahead to wrapping up my Magnolia Steele series and was starting to think about a replacement. So while I was driving from Orlando, Florida, to Jacksonville, with four of my kids in the car, my developmental editor, Angela Polidoro, and I spent an hour brainstorming. We’d both agreed to think of ideas to discuss, but when she called, I had nothing. (I’d just spent two days pitching my book One Paris Summer to librarians at ALA.) But it worked out because Angela had two ideas—one, that the protagonist was a PI in a reality TV show, and the second was that the protagonist was also a former teen star. Since I’d just binged two seasons of UnReal, I was intrigued. We discussed several other ideas and ended the call with several potential plots. Since I was headed to the beach for a vacation with my kids, I told her I’d send her a synopsis soon. I suspect she didn’t expect one the next day. But once the wheels sta

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR Denise Grover Swank is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author of the Rose Gardner Mystery Series, the Magnolia Steele Mystery Series, The Wedding Pact Series, The Curse Keepers Series, and others. She was born in Kansas City, Missouri, and lived in the area until she was nineteen. Then she became a nomad, living in five cities, four states, and ten houses over the course of ten years before moving back to her roots. Her hobbies include witty Facebook comments (in her own mind) and dancing in her kitchen with her children (quite badly, if you believe her offspring). Hidden talents include the gift of justification and the ability to drink massive amounts of caffeine and still fall asleep within two minutes. Her lack of the sense of smell allows her to perform many unspeakable tasks. She has six children and hasn’t lost her sanity—or so she leads you to believe. For more information about Denise, please visit her at www.denisegroverswan

  Other Titles by Denise Grover Swank

  Rose Gardner Mysteries

  TWENTY-EIGHT AND A HALF WISHES

  TWENTY-NINE AND A HALF REASONS

  THIRTY AND A HALF EXCUSES

  FALLING TO PIECES (Novella)

  THIRTY-ONE AND A HALF REGRETS

  THIRTY-TWO AND A HALF COMPLICATIONS

  PICKING UP THE PIECES (Novella)

  THIRTY-THREE AND A HALF SHENANIGANS

  ROSE AND HELENA SAVE CHRISTMAS (Novella)

  RIPPLE OF SECRETS (Novella)

  THIRTY-FOUR AND A HALF PREDICAMENTS

  THIRTY-FIVE AND A HALF CONSPIRACIES

  THIRTY-SIX AND A HALF MOTIVES

  Rose Gardner Investigations and Neely Kate Mysteries

  FAMILY JEWELS

  TRAILER TRASH

  FOR THE BIRDS

  Magnolia Steele Mysteries

  CENTER STAGE

  ACT TWO

  CALL BACK

  CURTAIN CALL

  Bachelor Brotherhood

  ONLY YOU

  UNTIL YOU

  ALWAYS YOU

  The Wedding Pact

  THE SUBSTITUTE

  THE PLAYER

  THE GAMBLER

  THE VALENTINE

  Off the Subject

  AFTERMATH

  REDESIGNED

  BUSINESS AS USUAL

  The Curse Keepers

  THE CURSE KEEPERS

  THIS PLACE IS DEATH (Novella)

  THE CURSE BREAKERS

  THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING (Novella)

  THE CURSE DEFIERS

  THIS IS YOUR DESTINY (Novella)

  The Chosen

  CHOSEN

  HUNTED

  SACRIFICE

  REDEMPTION

  EMERGENCE (Novella)

  MIDDLE GROUND (Novella)

  HOMECOMING (Novella)

  Blood Borne Series

  SILVER STAKED

  WOLF BITE

  On the Otherside

  HERE

  THERE

  Stand-Alone Novels

  ONE PARIS SUMMER

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Denise Grover Swank

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542048217

  ISBN-10: 1542048214

  Cover design by Faceout Studios

  To Trace: you’ve always been too devious for your own good.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  This felt a lot like rock bottom.

  I was sitting at the bar in Magnum, an upscale Vietnamese and Portuguese fusion restaurant, sipping a glass of white wine while I tried not to dwell on the fact that the restaurant was named after a condom. Okay, so it probably wasn’t named after a condom, but it might as well have been. I hadn’t had a decent job in almost eight years, and I was trying to decide whether to accept a nude photo shoot or star in my own personal version of hell—a reality TV show. I’d been looking for signs everywhere, and this seemed like a flashing billboard.

  My grandmother was the one who’d gotten me into the habit of looking for signs. As a lifetime member of Sweet Briar, Alabama Calvary Baptist Church, I was positive she would tell me to run far away from the photo shoot, regardless of the name of the restaurant. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t talked to my grandmother in years—nine, to be exact. She always seemed to pop up in my head when I needed tough love.

  But morals and principles didn’t pay the bills, and I was d
rowning in them.

  While I was finishing my backstroke in my Olympic-size pool of self-pity, I heard a woman shout in excitement, “Oh, my God! It’s Isabella Holmes!”

  It didn’t matter that my name was Summer Butler, and Isabella was a character I’d played in a teen show called Gotcha! nearly a decade ago. As far as the world was concerned, we were one and the same.

  Maybe if I ignore her, she’ll go away. Sometimes it worked.

  The bartender stopped in front of me and leaned his elbow on the counter, lowering his face to mine. “Want me to get rid of her?”

  I studied him, wondering what he wanted. Everyone wanted something. The woman behind me probably wanted a selfie with me. The producer I was supposed to meet wanted to capitalize on my notoriety—former teen-superstar actress, now nearly bankrupt and unemployable, her life in the gutter. Alpha Magazine wanted to use my good-girl persona to sell lots of copies after they slutted me up. Justin, my manager, wanted to milk the little that was left of my career.

  Ah. Judging from the gleam in his eyes, the bartender in front of me wanted in my pants, or up my dress, as the case may be. Men loved to screw Isabella Holmes.

  At least I knew where I stood.

  “No,” I said, holding his gaze, “I can handle her.” I had to admit he was a good-looking guy, but the perfectly styled hair screamed wannabe actor. I’d met more than my fair share who were hoping to use me as a launching pad to a career, which I found amusing given that my career was currently in the shitter.

  He winked. “She’s heading this way. Let me know if you want me to intervene.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced over my shoulder as two women in their thirties charged toward me.

  “Oh, my God,” one woman said in a gush with her phone in her hand. “You’re Isabella Holmes!”

  I offered her a polite smile. “Actually, I’m Summer Butler. But yes, I did play Isabella several years ago.”

  “Whatever,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal. “I can’t believe it’s you. TMZ said you were homeless.”

  I forced a laugh. Talk about bad acting. No wonder I couldn’t get a job. I lifted my brow into a playfully amused expression. “Don’t you know you can’t believe everything you read in those tabloids?”

  I was pretty proud of how I’d delivered the line, but the girl’s friend didn’t look convinced. “But Perez Hilton said your house is in foreclosure.”

  I lifted my wineglass to my lips and took a sip, giving the woman a patient look even though I was seething inside. Perez Hilton was right—or at least he would be soon enough. But my house was the least of my worries. I was desperate to save my family’s legacy, but that was something you’d never learn about on a gossip site. Not even my grandmother knew.

  Before my grandfather had died nine years ago, he’d swallowed his pride and asked me and my mother to cosign a loan to bail out the family farm. Only he’d asked us to keep it from my grandmother and my extended family, making me swear I’d never tell.

  Several months later, my grandfather, aunt, and uncle had died in a fire, my fifteen-year-old cousin, Dixie, was charged with arson and three counts of manslaughter, and I had a major falling-out with my mother. When she headed back to our hometown of Sweet Briar, Alabama, under the guise of helping her mother and her dead brother’s children, she ran off with most of my money, leaving me with the tatters of a career she’d spent the previous two years sabotaging in her greed for more money. Oh, and the responsibility for the loan my grandfather had taken out on the nearly two-centuries-old family farm. Now I was broke and nearly homeless, and there was an upcoming balloon payment on the farm, which I had no means of paying.

  So it was pose nude or embarrass myself on TV. Either way I lost.

  But at the moment, I needed to shut down this conversation. “My attorney is currently determining what legal action we can take for the defamation of my character.”

  They eyed me up and down, and even though it irritated the shit out of me, I let them look. My long blonde hair hung in loose waves, and I was wearing my size 1 thrift-store-find ivory Prada dress and Louboutin pumps; I’d dressed to impress. Small victories. I took them anywhere I could. I daintily set my wineglass on the bar. “Like I said, you can’t always believe what you read.”

  “Like those photos of you in In Touch Weekly,” her friend said, staring at me with wide eyes. “You looked terrible in those.”

  Everyone had fat rolls in a bikini if you were positioned the right—or wrong—way. To make matters worse, my body had been covered in a blotchy rash due to an allergic reaction to a new moisturizer. But I’d been stupid enough to let my best friend, Marina, talk me into going to the beach because “sunshine and vitamin D are nature’s cure for blotchy skin.”

  “The paparazzi haven’t followed you for months,” Marina had said. She would know. She’d stopped working as my paid assistant a year ago, but she still hung out with me often enough as a friend.

  Lucky for me the paps had followed Cameron Diaz, who’d ended up as the “star” in their beach-body roundup, and photographed me with a fat roll and blotchy skin. A designer who had been considering hiring me as the face of their new line canceled my lunch with the director of marketing the same afternoon the photos posted.

  I lifted a shoulder into a shrug. “Photoshop. You wouldn’t believe what tabloids do to have the latest scoop . . . even if it’s a lie. Gossip sells.”

  And that was the true name of the game in la-la land. Selling—movies, TV shows, magazines. Popularity. It didn’t matter what you were selling, as long as people wanted it. And no one had wanted me for nearly eight years.

  “Can we take selfies with you?” the first woman asked.

  I smiled even though I wanted to tell her no. I didn’t need any more bad press, although a small part of me wondered if the executive producer I was about to meet would have welcomed it. Bad press made for great reality TV.

  I plastered on my fan-photo smile as the first woman sidled up next to me and held her camera up over our heads, presumably to minimize her double chin. She lowered her phone and checked the image.

  “Can we take that again?” she asked.

  I gave her a gracious smile even though I was feeling anything but—I was nervous about meeting the producer, and I needed a few minutes to get myself together. But the sooner I got this over with, the sooner I’d be done with them. “Of course.”

  After half a dozen tries, she finally decided the first photo was the best. Her friend was less picky. She snapped a quick selfie of the two of us and then started to furiously tap on her phone.

  “Hey,” a middle-aged man said from behind her. He wore a button-down shirt covered in tiny palm trees and coconuts that screamed tourist. “You’re Isabella Holmes.”

  “Summer Butler,” I said with a forced smile.

  “You were really a bitch when you turned that guy down when he asked you to prom. He went to a lot of trouble to ask you.”

  I stared at him in disbelief, sure he was joking. But he stared right back, waiting for me to respond. “That wasn’t me,” I said patiently. “That was in a TV show.”

  “It still wasn’t nice.”

  “Maybe so,” I said, “but I was following the script I was given.” Not that I would have accepted had the actor asked me. I couldn’t stand Connor Blake, my former costar on Gotcha! Never content playing second fiddle to me, he’d gone out of his way to make my life hell—on the show and off. He’d loved every minute of pretending to be my boyfriend during our fifth and final season, especially since it had been the final blow to my relationship with my then-boyfriend Luke Montgomery.

  “You were much too sassy to your parents.”

  “Again,” I said, trying to remain calm and stave off a building headache, “I was following the script.”

  I turned back to my drink, resisting the urge to chug it down to calm my nerves. The last thing I needed was my photo on the cover of the National Enquirer. I could see it now—a photo
of me with my head tilted back to drain the last of my wineglass, plastered beneath the headline: “The Downfall of America’s Darling—Drugs, Booze, and Wild Orgies.” If only I had the courage to consider attending one of those wild orgies.

  “Can I ask you for just one more thing?” the first woman asked.

  Knowing what was coming, I lifted the wineglass to my lips to stall, muttering, “My firstborn child?”

  “What?” she asked in confusion.

  I set down the glass. “What do you need?”

  “Will you say it?”

  I knew my smile had to look forced, but I couldn’t find it in myself to care. I decided to play dumb. “Say what?”

  “You know,” she said in a tone that suggested I was an idiot. “The line.”

  I took another sip of my wine. “And which line is that?”

  “You know the line, sweetheart,” the palm-tree guy said in condescending tone. “The line from that show.”

  I knew I should just say it and get rid of them, but if they had any idea how many times I’d said that line over the last fifteen years . . .

  I shook my head, still playing dumb. “Which show?”

  “You know,” the man said in exasperation. He thrust his hips to the side, pointed his right index finger at me, and winked as he said, “Gotcha!”

  The hostess was making her way to me, so I stuck my credit card in the black folder to pay for my drink. The bartender knew I was waiting on a table, so I wouldn’t need to stay here for it to be returned. “That was really good,” I said enthusiastically. “Have you considered trying out for the remake?”