With a jack-o'-lantern grin on her face, Betsy Bigmouth clomped into the house where the critique session was to be held, deposited several big bakery bags of goodies on the dining room table and a twelve-pack of twelve-pack of soft drinks on the floor beside it.
"I told you I'd supply everything," she bellowed, beaming at the women seated around the room. They stared at her in shocked surprise. Not again. It was a familiar pattern: first, Betsy exploded with anger, then dripped sweetness like wounded sugar cane.
Betsy pulled one of the boxes out of a bag and opened it to a dozen chocolate-iced to reveal a dozen-iced doughnuts. Suddenly, she wailed in pain, grabbed at her stomach, and fell to the floor, the doughnuts tumbling around her in a hail of pastry. One of the critique attendees, who wrote romantic suspense knew what to do in desperate circumstances, knelt down and held the mirror of her compact under Betsy's nose.
"I think she's dead. We'd better call the authorities."
The police arrived within minutes, the studly one still in charge. Every woman in the room took mental notes for future novels as the medical examiner checked out the corpse.
Finall, he stood to announce his findings.
"Massive sugar rush on top of acidic vitriol." He looked down at Betsy and shook her head. "It's a deadly combination."
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