The strongest, sexiest, and sassiest debut contemporary romance we've seen since Rachel Gibson! The quality of Dixie's writing combined with the pure romance of the story guarantees that Avon Romance has just acquired a new star.Debbie Sue Overstreet is still the best-looking gal in Saltlick, TX-and her ex-husband Buddy is still the best-looking sheriff. Thanks to a thriving gossip mill (also known as Debbie's hair salon), there isn't a thing in Saltlick that she doesn't know about before anyone else. That is, until somebody offs snooty Pearl Ann Carruthers. With Buddy on the case, the woman who has to know everything is stumped by not just one, but two questions: first, who killed Pearl Ann and why, and second, how on earth did she ever let Buddy Overstreet get away? Lucky for Saltlick and Buddy both, she means to find out the answers, no matter what it takes!

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Since You're Leaving Anyway, Take Out the Trash

Chapter One

Debbie Sue Overstreet sat at thepayout desk of the Styling Station, staring at thebalance column in her big black checkbook. Fromthe bottom line of check stub #938, a fat goose eggglared back at her. She groaned. The payment onher pickup truck was past due again.

Okay, so opening a beauty shop—that is, asalon—in Salt Lick, Texas, hadn't been the mostprofitable decision she had ever made. Butcouldn't anything go right? She was twenty-eightyears old and had been a failure at everything shehad tried. Marrying, mothering, rodeoing, andnow, beauty shopping. Maybe she should havefinished college.

Her mental calculator churned into action. If shecould do a dozen perms and/or coloring jobs betweennow and the end of the week, she could getthe pickup payment in the mail on Saturday andat least avoid the tacky phone calls from those collection people. Add a few drop-in haircuts, andshe might even be able to buy a pizza and a sixpackSaturday night. Or maybe she would get reallylucky, and Pearl Ann Carruthers would comein for the works, head-to-toe. If that happened,she might make two pickup payments.

A disc jockey blathered froma radio in the background."Sun's up, folks. Eight-thirty, temperature'sninety-two degrees, no rain in sight. Here'sa blast from the past by Joe Diffie, all about the devildancing in empty pockets. How many out therein our K-Country audience can relate to that one?"

Debbie Sue stared at the radio. Was that DJpsychic?

Eight-thirty. Ninety-two degrees. Another hourand the salon's air-conditioning system would betaxed to the max by the relentless September heatof West Texas. The little dial adding up kilowattson the electric meterwould be spinning out of control,kicking the power bill into the stratosphere.

Thank God for the blue-hairs who came in oncea week, rain or shine, hell or high water. Their bighair, dyed and teased to the extreme, paid the utilitybills.

She slapped the revolting checkbook closed andwalked over to the four-foot-square mirror in frontof her station. Her chestnut hair with its carefullyplaced sun-in highlights hung to the middle of herback and felt like a horse blanket. Hot. One ofthese days she intended to cut the mane on herhead within an inch of her scalp.

She grabbed up a giant plastic clip and pinnedmost of the thick mop into a twisted roll. Instantlya few sheaves escaped, giving her the bed-headlook. Oh well. Some of her best customers strovefor the popular style.

She had left the house without makeup thismorning, so she dug in a drawer for cosmetics.The owner of one of the only two beauty salons inSalt Lick couldn't appear before her customerslooking like something the dog dragged in. Sheapplied a few flicks of black mascara and a swipeof Coral Reef lipstick. She gave up on herself then,snatched a bottle of Windex off the shelf under thecounter, and turned her attention to the smudgeson the mirror.

As she fogged the mirror with cleaner, a cardoor slammed outside. That would be Edwina,Debbie Sue's only employee and one of her twobest friends in the whole wide world. EdwinaPerkins manned the Styling Station's second chairand was as much a fixture in the salon as the rowof four dryers with teal padded seats or the twomaroon shampoo bowls in the back room.

Edwina had been a hairdresser in Salt Lick forover twenty years. Debbie Sue hired her hopingshe had a following, and indeed she did, but puttingthe Styling Station's books in the black wouldtake a heck of a lot more customers than either sheor Edwina could pull in. Maybe she could set off abomb under the competition down the street.

The front door flew open. The Christmas bells tied to the knob whacked the door and clattered asif in pain. Edwina charged in, super-sized plasticcup in hand, cigarette clamped between her teeth.In addition to a following of loyal salon patrons,Edwina had an addiction to Marlboro Lights andDr. Pepper.

The five-foot-ten brunette's wooden platformheels clomped like horse hooves across the vinylcoveredfloor. Panting for breath, she placed hercigarette on the edge of her station's counter infront of her mirror, then set down her drink andpurse. "She finally done it. She's gone."

"I don't believe it." Debbie Sue rose on her tiptoesand swiped Windex off the top of her mirror.

"Well, believe it, girl. I heard Harley's brother atthe Kwik-Stop tell Marsha while she rung up hiscoffee. She didn't come home last night."

The fact that she and Edwina could read eachother's thoughts and carry on gossip without usingnames came from living a lifetime in thesame town, knowing the same people and placesand recycling the same rumors year after year."Humph. Just because she didn't come homedoesn't mean she's gone. She could be shackedup somewhere."

Edwina gave her a flat look. "With Harley intown? I don't think so."

Edwina's smoldering cigarette was searing abrand onto the teal Formica counter. Debbie Sueglowered at it and doused it with a squirt of Windex. "Cri-ma-nee, Ed, you're gonna set thisplace on fire."

"Hey, I might've won the bet." Edwina ignoredboth the reprimand and her extinguished smokeand rummaged in her tray of permanent waverods and brightly colored curlers. She came upwith a folded paper on which a wagering grid hadbeen drawn. The Styling Station's faithful customershad maintained a pool, betting exactlywhen Pearl Ann Carruthers would finally leaveher husband ...

Excerpted from Since You're Leaving Anyway, Take Out the Trash by Dixie Cash
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