Double shot

Review by Booklist Review

Colorado caterer Goldy Schulz pulls off a memorial luncheon despite having been hit from behind and her kitchen trashed the morning of same; a screaming match with her vicious ex at the same luncheon doesn't make it better. Her slimy doctor ex-husband turns up dead soon after. Of course Goldy finds the body, and of course discovers herself a suspect. Goldy never slows down, however: not a slew of sleazy secrets, most involving the nefarious ex; not approaching Colorado wildfires; not even her son's teen angst and genuine grief at his father's death keep her from cooking what needs to be served. Even for a Davidson, this plot is overstuffed by half and as crammed full of recipes as Goldy's walk-in freezer. --GraceAnne DeCandido Copyright 2004 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

The divine diva of the culinary cozy returns with a crime novel that will have fans of Goldy Bear Schulz, caterer and caffeinated sleuth, cheering as they race for the nearest pastry shop. The 12th carb-laden installment of Goldy's adventures (Chopping Spree, etc.) offers as its main course a toothsome corpse -du jour: Goldy's abusive ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman ("the Jerk"), whose shenanigans have annoyed a long-suffering Goldy and enlivened Davidson's series since its debut 14 years ago. After Goldy arrives at her new catering center to prepare for a memorial luncheon, she's attacked; when she comes to, she discovers that her kitchen is full of spoiled food and overrun with mice. She immediately suspects her longtime nemesis Korman, who's out of prison after serving less than a year for aggravated assault and living lavishly in Aspen Meadows with Sandee Blue, his "fifty-fourth conquest"-a young stripper, according to his other ex, Marla, Goldy's entertaining sidekick. When Korman attends the almost-sabotaged event, he argues with Goldy over their son, Arch. Shortly afterward, he turns up dead alongside Goldy's missing gun, making her a prime suspect in an aromatic brew of murder and mayhem. This marks a turning point for Davidson, as the elimination of Korman provides a much needed jolt to the series. Her latest noir-flavored cozy may attract new readers to a sleuth who feverishly cooks through any crisis and whose recipes are now gathered at the back of the book. (Warning: do not read on an empty stomach!) Agent, Sandra Dijkstra. 9-city author tour. (On sale Oct. 19.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Starred Review. This is the 12th book about caterer/amateur sleuth/former abused wife Goldy Shulz. The series has shown her ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman (better known as "The Jerk"), involved with shady business deals, losing his practice to an HMO, accused of murder, and, finally, in prison for beating up an ex-girlfriend. Now he's back, pardoned by the governor for saving a prison guard's life. What else could Davidson do with the man? Kill him, of course. Naturally, Goldy is the one to discover the body, her gun on the ground nearby. Once again, Barbara Rosenblat, audio reader extraordinaire, does an excellent job, although in a somewhat less exuberant style than usual. This is one tired series, but retread or not, Double Shot is still better entertainment than many "cozies" sold today. Recommended for all public and academic audiobook collections.--I. Pour-El, Des Moines Area Community Coll., Boone, IA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Once again, an attack on Goldy Schultz precipitates a cascade of calamities that disrupt her home life and her catering business. Goldy, the victim of sniper fire in Sticks and Scones (2001), is knocked down and beaten up on the way to the Roundhouse, where she's preparing a funeral luncheon for Dr. Albert Kerr, former colleague of her ex-husband, John Richard Korman. That was way back before Kerr got religion and shipped off to do missionary work in Qatar, and Korman hit a subsequent girlfriend and landed in the state pen. Now, Korman, newly freed, visits the luncheon just long enough for a knock-down-drag-out with Goldy over visitation with their son, Arch. But when Goldy brings Arch to the upscale rental Korman shares with stripper Sandee Blue for the disputed visit, she finds her ex dead in the garage, his body alongside a gun that looks suspiciously like her own .38. Her best friend Marla, Korman's other ex, hires hotshot attorney Brewster Motley to represent Goldy when she's questioned by the police, and Goldy's detective husband Tom investigates other leads on his own. Still, it's touch and go whether she'll end up serving her signature pork chops brined in kosher salt (one of 13 appended recipes) to guests at Nan Watkins's retirement party--or to fellow inmates. Keeping the spotlight trained on so-familiar Goldy prevents Davidson from developing the other characters and plots she sketches in so intriguingly. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Double Shot Chapter One It's a funny thing about being hit in the head. Afterward, you're never quite sure what happened. You only know that something did. At five in the morning on June the seventh, I was pushing my dessert-laden old pie wagon up the walk to the Roundhouse, a failed restaurant I'd leased and was converting into a catering-events center. At half-past five, I was lying in the grass, wondering what I was doing there and why I was in so much pain. Reconstruct, I ordered myself, as I wiped gravel from my mouth. I hadn't fainted. But I had been knocked out. My head throbbed, my knees stung, and the back of my neck felt as if it had been guillotined with a dull blade. I groaned, tried to move my legs, and was rewarded with a wave of nausea. I rubbed my eyes and tried to think, but the memory remained out of reach. My husband, a cop, often tells witnesses to begin their story at daybreak on the day they see a crime. This gives folks a chance to talk about how normal everything was before events went haywire. So that's what I did. I closed my eyes and recalled rising at four, when mountain chickadees, Steller's jays, and all manner of avian creatures begin their summer-in-the-Rockies concert. I showered, did my yoga, and kissed Tom, to whom I'd been married for two years, good-bye. He mumbled that he'd be in his office at the sheriff's department later in the day. When I checked on my son, Arch, he was slumbering deeply inside his cocoon of dark blue sheets. I knew Arch would wait until the last possible moment before getting dressed to assist with that day's catered event. But at least he was helping out, which was more than most fifteen-year-olds would be willing to do at the start of summer vacation. I loaded the last of the event's foodstuffs into my catering van, made the short drive up Aspen Meadow's Main Street, and rounded the lake. A quarter mile along Upper Cottonwood Creek Drive, I turned into the paved Roundhouse lot, where I'd parked and unloaded. So far so good. I remembered merrily wheeling my cart up the gravel path toward the back door of my newly remodeled commercial kitchen. Peach pie slices glistened between lattices of flaky crust. A hundred smooth, golden, Tennessee chess tartlets bobbled in their packing. Threads of early morning sunlight shimmered on the surface of Aspen Meadow Lake, two hundred yards away. In the distance, a flock of ducks took off from the lake, quacking, flapping their wings, and ruffling the water. Recalling all this made the area behind my eyes sting. But when I tried to turn over, pain ran up my side and I gasped. The desserts, the lake, the ducks. Then what? As I'd steered the wagon toward the ramp to the back entry, I'd noticed something odd about the Roundhouse kitchen door. It was slightly ajar. A thread of fear had raced up my neck. My body turned cold and I stopped the cart, whose creaky wheels had been filling the morning silence. A thump echoed from out of the kitchen. Then a crack. As I reeled back on the path, someone leaped out of the kitchen door. A man? A woman? Whoever it was wore a black top, black pants, and a ski mask. The intruder lunged down the ramp. Wrenching the pie wagon backward, I teetered, then backpedaled furiously. He -- was it a man? -- shoved the cart out of the way. It toppled over. Pastries spewed onto the grass. The prowler loomed, then hand-chopped the back of my neck. The force of the blow made me cry out. With silver spots clouding my eyes, I'd registered crumpling, then falling. I'd bitten my tongue and tasted blood. Then there had been the terrible pain, and the darkness. Okay, so that was what had happened. But why had someone wearing a mask been in my kitchen in the first place? I did not know. What I did know was that lumps of granite and sharp blades of drought-ravaged scrub grass were piercing my chest. Again I tried to lift myself, but a current of pain ran down my body. When I thought, You have an event to cater in six hours, tears popped out of my eyes. Who could have done this to me? Why today, of all days? My business, Goldilocks' Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right!, was set to put on only our second event since I'd leased the Roundhouse. It was a big lunch following a funeral -- a funeral that might as well have been mine. Water burbled nearby: Cottonwood Creek, a foot below its normal flow. A car rumbled past -- the beginning of the morning commuter traffic from the stone and stucco mini-mansions that ranged along the upper part of the creek. Positioned as I was on the far side of the Roundhouse, it was unlikely that any of the lawyers, accoun-tants, or doctors making their way down to Denver would see me and call for help. With enormous effort, I pushed up to my elbows, fought queasiness, and got to my feet. The overturned pie cart lay a few feet away. Crusts and fruit slices littered the sparse grass. Tartlet filling oozed into the dust. I almost thought, Peachy!, but stopped myself. I limped to the van and climbed inside. Then I locked the doors, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out the thirty-eight I'd started keeping in there since the twenty-second of April. That was when my ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman, had had his prison sentence commuted by the governor of Colorado. He had been serving four years for aggravated assault and probation violation. Although he'd beaten me up plenty of times before I'd kicked him out seven years ago, the assault he'd been convicted for -- finally -- had been his attack on a subsequent girlfriend. Unfortunately, he'd been behind bars for less than a year. Double Shot . Copyright © by Diane Davidson. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Double Shot by Diane Mott Davidson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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