First in the fabulous new Candy Holliday Murder mystery series. 2010

Candy felt her legs go numb. Before they had a chance to collapse beneath her, she crossed to a chair and sat down heavily. Her fingertips were tingling and there seemed to be a buzzing sound in her ears.

Sapphire murdered? Ray arrested? How could that be?

She didn’t have much time to consider an answer, because the phone rang again. Candy rose shakily to answer it and sat back down.

“Did you see it?” Maggie asked breathlessly.

“I saw it. I don’t believe it, but I saw it.”

“Wasn’t that utterly, totally bizarre? The way they brought her body out on a stretcher like that? It was so undignified but at least she got her final moment in the spotlight. I half-expected her to jump up in her cowgirl outfit and start reciting poetry.”

“It doesn’t seem real,” Candy replied, leaning forward and putting a hand to her forehead. She felt hot.

“Oh, it’s real all right. Someone really, truly did it. Someone murdered our Blueberry Queen.”

Warmest thanks to Kae Tienstra for believing in the book, Leis Pederson for making it happen, George Feeman for his encouragement from the very beginning, and Officer Paul Gasper and Chief Neil R. Williams of the Cape Elizabeth (Maine) Police Department for the tour and invaluable information. Also, a special acknowledgment to Todd Merrill and Jen Dyer at Merrill Blueberry Farms, Ellsworth, Maine, for answering endless questions about blueberry farming. As always, big hugs for Sarah and Matthew for help with the manuscript and the website. For updates about Candy and Doc Holliday, Holliday’s Blueberry Acres, and Cape Wellington, Maine, as well as details about upcoming books, visit www.hollidaysblueberryacres.com.

He was falling.

A moment earlier he had been standing on solid ground, near the edge of the seaside cliff that dropped sharply to wet black rocks below. Now here he was, his face turned toward the night sky and nothing beneath him but open air. His arms windmilled back and his legs pumped wildly as the memories of a life well lived flashed before his eyes with such speed and vividness it made him gasp.

It really did happen like that, in the moments right before death. He could attest to the fact, if he lived long enough. But he knew he’d never get the chance.

He could still feel the spot on his chest, like a hollow wound, where the hand had struck him hard, coming out of nowhere in a stab of anger. It had caught him so suddenly, so unexpectedly that he’d lost his footing and stumbled to the edge of the cliff, where he’d teetered as a terrifying surge of panic swept through him. An instant later his feet lost contact with solid ground. Now, as he fell, his mind exploded with disbelief and regret, and his face tightened as his mouth pulled back in a death grimace. And underneath it all he cursed himself. He should have seen it coming. All the signs were there. He should have been more attentive. He shouldn’t have been standing so close to the edge. But he’d lost his bearings in the argument. He’d let his emotions drive the wits from him-a fatal mistake, he realized now, and his whole body shuddered at the hard, horrifying realization:

I have just been murdered!

How could this be happening? The surrealism of the moment threatened to overwhelm him, to send him into deep shock. His eyes rolled back, his fingers tingled unnaturally, and his chest felt cold, colder than he would have thought possible. His breath was pulled from him by the rushing air as he felt death closing in on him all too quickly.

In those last moments anger spewed forth from him, a hot blast of furor, and he tried to fling curse words back up at the shadowed figure that stood at the edge of the cliff above, watching him with a shocked expression, eyes wide, hands out, grasping at emptiness. But he could bring nothing forth-not a curse, not a scream, nor a grunt or even a spasm of sound. His throat constricted with preternatural fear, all words and sounds choked off, for death was racing toward him at an incalculable speed. How much time did he have left? A heartbeat? Two? Was his heart even still beating? He heard a roaring in his ears as he considered the question within the space of a millisecond. He decided to measure the remainder of his life not in heartbeats, nor in seconds, nor in the blinks of a watery eye, but in the beats of a hummingbird’s wings. Surely he had a few dozen of those left, perhaps even a hundred. It would give him a small bit of time to ponder his life before it was crushed achingly from him.

And there was much to ponder, for the memories were coming lightning fast now, like rapid bursts of fire from an automatic weapon. His first remembered glimpse of his parents’ faces, younger than he’d ever remembered them before. Touching tiny toes in a retreating wave at the beach. Seagulls whirling overhead. Skipping rocks on a quiet stream, fishing with his father, hockey on the ice pond, his first moments underwater in a wading pool. Then the passion that consumed him, compelled him through life, a life as a professional swimmer. Racing with his friends in the ocean’s rough surf-and always winning. Indoor pools at the YMCA, his earliest lessons, and soon after, his first formal swim meet. The cheers of the crowd and the odor of chlorine in his nostrils like the breath of life. The faces of coaches and trainers and myriad competitors, every face remembered. Endless meetings and practices, the tension and excitement of race day, followed by powerful surges of adrenaline for bare moments in the water that became his sole reason for existence. Controlling his rhythm and holding back just a bit of extra energy for the finish. The roars of the crowds growing louder as the crowds themselves grew. Awards and honors, “Oh Say Can You See,” feeling the tug of heavy medals draped around his neck, the way they gleamed in the spotlights. Sitting around the kitchen table, talking to his folks about the greater goal. The worry but determination on their faces as they considered the costs, the struggles, the uncertainty of such an unimaginable future. Driving in his dad’s old truck to statewide meets, his first time on a plane as he flew off to Nationals, then his first trip overseas with his father, to Europe. Where he won. And continued winning, so many meets, so many wins, so many steps along the way, all laid out like pages of an aged scrapbook that flipped rapidly across his vision. Then to Tokyo and the Olympic Village and the Parade of Nations, all passing by him with such detail, such clarity that he could remember the sounds and the smells as if he stood there now. And his eyes watered as he wondered where it had all gone, how it had slipped away too fast, too fast…

Back home, with the parades and speeches, the handshakes and hugs, the looks of pride, admiration, and often jealousy-those last looks were the ones he came to love the most, for they empowered him, gave him a sense of worth and accomplishment.

And the women. Lots of women. They had always come easily to him, attracted by his confidence, his skills, his lean body, his good looks, and that burst of unruly, always uncombed red hair that became his trademark. Even cut short for swim meets it was noticeable, but after his retirement he let it grow out again, and the women couldn’t keep their hands off it. Through all the years of traveling, of broadcasting and commentating, of commercials and special appearances, milking his celebrity for every cent he could get out of it, his hair was his calling card.