The Silver Sleigh

By Dorothy Bodoin
Mystery/Crime, 397 pages, cover art by Pat Evans
 
Blurb:
Rosalyn Everett was missing and presumed dead. Her dogs had been rescued, and her house was abandoned. But a blue merle collie haunts her woods and a figure in bridal white traverses her property.

How do the mysteries at River Rose connect to Jennet's purchase of an antique silver sleigh?

Excerpt:
Every time I stepped on River Rose land, the snowswept expanse seemed more bizarre.

Or was 'bizarre' the best word to describe it? Haunted would be better; forbidding better yet. Once before I'd had the feeling that Rosalyn's abandoned house didn't want us invading its rooms.

Now that was bizarre.

This afternoon the usual otherworldly silence greeted me. Scattered animal prints and fallen branches marred the snow. The festive Christmas wreath still adorned the front door in mid-January, its ribbon crisp and bright. A discernible pall hung over the deserted kennel buildings, and the dark woods behind the house rose to meet a sullen sky. They appeared to issue a voiceless warning:

Don't come any closer.

Leaving the Taurus idling, I grabbed a bag of beef chunks and made my way up to the house calling Icy's name loudly.

An echo flung it back to me, an echo followed by a deep bark. Then another. I'd hoped for a response but hadn't expected one.

I called again. "Icy! Treat!"

He emerged from the side of the house near the blue spruce where I'd first seen him. And oh, he was magnificent! Large and majestic with a silvery-blue coat that shone in the last of the afternoon light as if it had been freshly bathed and brushed. Impossible, of course.

The Quicksliver Collie.

I held my breath, hoping he wouldn't move.

A piece of light green material dangled from his mouth. A rag?

"Are you hungry?" I rattled the bag, a sound that unfailingly drew my dogs from all corners of the house.

He tilted his head, licked his chops.

I tossed a chunk of beef into the snow. He lounged for it, swallowed it in one gulp, and stared at the bag in my hand.

"Poor hungry baby."

I tossed two more pieces and eyed the material that had fallen into the snow.

Focused on devouring the beef, the collie didn't object when I bent down to pick it up. Wet and torn, definitely the worse for wear, it was still recognizable as a woman's blouse or shirt, probably silk.

Whose?

The leap was inevitable. Who but Rosalyn Everett would have worn this blouse found on her property?

From somewhere a snippet of information floated into my mind. Sue Appleton saying, "Rosalyn often wore green. It was her favorite color."

Icy had apparently brought the blouse from the woods. If I could find the place… There might be other garments there. There might be a grave.

I showed Icy the empty bag. "No more. Sorry."

He sniffed at it warily, then dashed off back to the yard, up the incline, and into the woods.

Still carrying the blouse, I followed him, followed his imprints in the snow, crossing treacherous roots that reached out of the ground cover to entrap me. Soon I'd lost sight of the dog but not his tracks. He must have come and gone this way often enough to create a path of sorts.

The trees grew close together. Hungry branches reached out for me, snagging my sleeves. In an alarmingly short time, my breath grew ragged and my heartbeat raced. Just when I thought I could go no farther, I caught sight of Icy. He had come to a stop in a clearing at a large nest of branches. His makeshift home or…

Something had disarranged the neat order of the branches, scratched or clawed them aside to expose more green material.

I stopped quickly and grabbed onto the trunk of a slender tree for support, still breathing heavily as the significance of the discovery caught up with me. This was Rosalyn's grave. I had found her.

The collie lay down close to the nest, panting, waiting with the air of one who has completed his mission.

Rosalyn's grave. At last. But shouldn't I make certain her body lay beneath the branches?

Yes, but I didn't want to touch a corpse unless there was no alternative. Not when I was alone in the woods except for a dog who wasn't mine. Not when I had my cell phone in my pocket and access to an officer of the Foxglove Corners Police Department.

Just move the branches aside with your boot, I told myself. You won't have to touch anything.

No. I couldn't be that disrespectful.

Keeping my eye on the gravesite and the guardian collie, I called Lieutenant Mac Dalby.

Point of No Return

By Diana J. Febry
Mystery/Crime, 284 pages, cover art provided by author

Blurb:
The significance of the noose left hanging outside James Palmer's barn is obvious to everyone in the village. When threats turn to violence DCI Peter Hatherall has to unmask a master of disguise determined to have their revenge.

Excerpt:
Detective Chief Inspector Peter Hatherall stretched his legs out, interlocked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. The last two weeks spent with Sally and the boys at her mother's house in Cornwall had been wonderful. With unlimited time together, free from other pressures, they'd talked and found one another again. The genuine love and concern in Sally's eyes still made his stomach muscles curl up in unworthiness.

When they had discussed it together, it made perfect sense for Sally to stay in Cornwall with the boys until the end of the school holidays. Since his return home alone, old doubts and fears had crept into the corners of his mind and they continued to relentlessly churn away in the background.

He dreamt last night she'd telephoned and asked for a divorce. They'd come pretty damn close to going down that route. The fear it left behind prevented any hope of sleep for the rest of the night.

Story of his love life, he   thought, always coming pretty damn close. Like he'd nearly started an affair with Fiona, his junior officer. With closed eyes, he speculated about what could have happened if he'd taken that step.

"Hatherall!"

Peter dropped his hands abruptly, leaving his head unsupported and he was momentarily disoriented as he was dragged from the warm floating place between consciousness and sleep. Superintendent Rogers looked less than impressed. Peter looked over for some support, only to see Detective Inspector Fiona Williams sitting primly in front of her lap top, looking the perfect teacher's pet, leaving him to play the role of the class dunce.

"Hatherall, I know you work in unusual ways, but could you at least try to appear awake?" Rogers said.

Peter pulled his legs in and crossed them, trying to look suitably contrite.

"What are you working on, if anything, at the moment?" Rogers asked.

Peter pulled the yellow post-it note from his laptop screen. "Mrs Archer of Frampton is very concerned about the theft of her daffodil bulbs."

Rogers frowned and looked down at Peter through his spectacles. Undeterred, Peter carried on, "They dug them up in the night from her garden."

"Peter! Pass it to uniform. You're not paid to concern yourself with flower arrangements."

"The village-in-bloom committee view it as a most serious matter."

"Well, as you're not busy with anything else…"

"I'm tying up the loose ends on the Bert Jones case and waiting for preliminary dates of his hearings. We're also trying to capture the underwear thief of Littleton."

"So, nothing new. Good. I'd like you to visit a Mister James Palmer, out at Lamington." Rogers handed over a thin file to Fiona, but spoke directly to Peter. "He's received a number of threats and is experiencing problems with petty vandalism on his farm. He thinks the two are linked and is claiming there is some sort of local vendetta against him. He's a fellow member of the Kendleshire Golf Club and I'd like him reassured we are taking his concerns seriously. Give him some advice on security and leave him feeling his taxpayers' money is being used wisely."

"So he'll stop bothering you on the nineteenth hole. And that's more pressing than daffodil bulbs and stolen underwear?" The look of annoyance on Rogers' face warned Peter his humour wasn't appreciated. He pulled himself up straight and asked, "What's he like?"

"I don't know him well. He seems a nice enough chap and he's always generous at the club bar, although a little flirtatious with the female members." Rogers turned and smiled at Fiona. "I'll leave it in your capable hands," he added, leaving the room.

Peter furrowed his brow into a pained expression. He walked towards the window while Fiona studiously ignored him, flicking through the thin file left on her desk. He leant one arm against the window pane and watched life happening down below on the busy high street of Tibberton. He turned from the window. "Well, that's a pleasant morning arranged for us. A drive through the countryside followed by us saying all the right words over a civilised cup of tea."

"It's the next village along from Littleton. There could be a connection to the thefts from washing lines."

In The Lake

By Joel Jurrens

Mystery/Crime, 297 Page

Cover Art by Richard Stroud

Playboy billionaire Dyslin Coakler and his porn star girlfriend are famous for their Friday night sex parties at their mansion on the north end of Burgess Lake. When a wealthy regular partygoer is found floating in the lake with a single stab wound, the suspects start popping up like cards from a gambler’s sleeve. Is the woman a victim of sex games that went too far? Or did a jealous girlfriend of one of the woman’s local boy toys seek revenge?

Excerpt:

The storm came out of nowhere. One minute the sky sparkled with stars and a moment later a dark curtain of clouds crept across it and blotted them out. On the far side of the lake a streak of lightning flashed, snaking down at the water in a crooked white streak. A few seconds later, thunder shook the air. As if the cage restraining it had been smashed, an enraged wind stormed across the lake. In an instant the lake’s walleye chop became a fury of whitecaps with foaming waves engulfing each other.

Caught by the sudden wind, the boat swung sharply to starboard, and waves splashed over its side. The boat’s automatic bilge pump kicked in with a low hum for a few seconds before shutting off again.

Straightening the boat with an expert hand on the motor’s tiller, he thought he heard the tornado sirens go off in the town of Burgess. He listened for a moment, but didn’t hear them again. It wouldn’t have made any difference. He couldn’t stop now.

The cold wind mixed with the smell of impending rain made him shiver. The waves were scary-high. The boat came off the top of one and banged down in the trough between the waves, the propeller growling between crashes as it lost contact with the water and flailed in the air. With each bounce of the boat, water sprayed him. In a moment his soaked shirt dripped water onto his pants, soaking them, too. Rain gear lay snug and dry in the center storage compartment, but he didn’t have time to dig it out. He turned his shoulder to the waves and adjusted the motor’s trim to try to smooth out the ride. It didn’t help. The lake tossed the boat around like a gorilla swatting at a tennis ball.

This is trouble, he thought. The weather report had said a chance of thunderstorms when he checked it in the afternoon. Normally he would have looked at the weather radar before coming out, but he didn’t have the luxury of time. If he could have seen the lake clearly, he knew he would have been scared to death. But he couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction, except occasionally the lights on shore peeking at him from the darkness as he crested a wave, and disappearing as he came down off of it. Running without lights, he could actually see better not having to fight their glare than if they had been on, but still he couldn’t see. He navigated by watching the lighted screen on his GPS/fish finder.

The contour lines on his fish finder showed Lone Goose Bar fast approaching. He changed his course and headed out over deeper water. With these waves he’d rip out the motor’s lower unit if he tried to cross the shallow bar.

When the boat had passed the bar, he angled back toward Five-mile Bar. The thick clouds overhead abruptly shut down his GPS as it lost contact with the satellites. Running just by the map of the lake he had in his head and the small compass beside his seat, he watched the depth line on his fish finder as it fell away.

Deadly Bayou

By A. C. Mason
Click on above line for buy link.

Mystery/Crime, 357 pages
Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald

Blurb:
Cypress Lake Chief of Police Jim Foret is found critically wounded near the place his father committed suicide and dies later at the hospital. Evidence at the scene suggests his gunshot wound is also self-inflicted. His widow, Susan believes he has been murdered. Will she end up a victim herself before the killer is brought to justice?

Excerpt: Cypress Lake, Louisiana, Monday, July 22

I took one look at Sheriff Danny Marchand standing in the doorway and knew immediately something was terribly wrong. My usually easy-going neighbor had the most somber expression I’d ever seen on his face.

“You look so serious. What’s wrong?”

He took a step inside, ducking his head slightly to accommodate his over six foot height as he came through the doorway. “Jim’s been shot.” His voice sounded official.

My heart thumped loud and fast. I could hardly breathe. “How…?”

“He’s at West Lake Memorial in surgery. Come on. I’ll drive you there.”

“The kids are across the street…”

“Don’t worry. Rachel will take care of them.”

I moved in a daze out the door. Before I realized, the city had whizzed by the car windows in a blur.

The siren sounded muted in my ears. Danny refrained from speaking; I was thankful for his consideration. Even though I wanted to know how this had happened, I wouldn’t have been able to carry on an intelligent conversation. All my thoughts centered on this nightmarish scenario. My husband Jim, the Cypress Lake police chief, had been shot and was lying on an operating table. Maybe those were also Danny’s thoughts.

Hospitals with their stark and sterile environment always depressed me. Today West Lake Memorial Hospital seemed even more austere. I wanted to see Jim, to know he was still alive. Touching him wasn’t possible at the moment. All I could do was say prayers.

Several of Jim’s officers, along with a couple of sheriff deputies, milled around in the hall outside the waiting room. Their facial expressions conveyed sympathy for me. I didn’t want sympathy—I wanted my husband.

I took a seat in one of the padded chairs in the waiting room. Danny sat next to me and clasped my hand in his much larger one.

Finally summoning the courage, I asked, “Tell me the truth. How bad are his injuries?”

“Pretty bad,” he said. “Critical, in fact—a shot to the abdomen.”

Chills ran up my spine. The worst nightmare a policeman’s wife could imagine was her husband getting wounded in the line of duty.

“Where did this happen?”

Danny averted his gaze for an instant. “Out by Bayou Jean Baptiste.”

My heart raced. The location his father had chosen to commit suicide. “What happened?”

“We don’t know anything right now.” He looked uncomfortable.

“What do you mean? Was he alone?”

“As near as we can tell. The scene’s still being investigated. A couple of fishermen discovered him and called nine-one-one.”

“How’d he get out there?”

“We found his boat tied up nearby.”

“His boat?”

“You didn’t notice it was gone?”

I shook my head. “He kept the boat in that little shed in the back yard. I had no reason to look over there.”

He nodded. “So he left the house before you woke up.”

“Yes. In fact I didn’t even hear him leave.” Something about Danny’s demeanor told me he wasn’t telling the whole story. “Danny, I want to know everything.”

“There’s nothing more I can tell you right now,” he said in a gentle, but still official voice.

I persisted, “I know you’re not telling me everything.”

A Scent of Almond

By Richard Whitten Barnes
Click on above line for buy link.
Mystery/Crime, 302 pages
Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald

Blurb:

A serial killer at large.

Detective Andy Blake’s life couldn’t have been better. Her love life with Grant Stacey is on track, and she is happy in her new job with the Ontario Provincial Police. But her tranquil life on beautiful St. Joseph Island is interrupted with a simple request to take over the investigation of a two year old poisoning death.

The routine case turns complicated when curiously similar unsolved deaths are discovered over a period of several years, and cyanide is a common thread. Adding to the turmoil is Dan Graves, a renaissance man if there ever was one, and a contender for Andy’s affections. She finds herself pulled in all directions before coming to grips with the A Scent of Almond.

Excerpt:

Pauline Acardi opened the door to her unexceptional house near the Desbarats ice rink. She couldn’t have been much over thirty, her trim figure dressed in a halter and shorts, as if celebrating the unexpectedly beautiful weather. “Yeah?”

Andy flashed her ID. “I’m Detective Blake—” she began.

“Thought someone would show up. I heard they found Vinny.”

“May I come in?”

She was led into the parlor furnished in an eclectic collection of pieces—modest, but decently kept. She scanned the room, but found no trace of Vincent Acardi. The shelf over the propane heater bore none of the framed photographs of family. Mrs. Acardi appeared a bit defensive, standing with her mouth set, arms folded across small breasts, feet braced apart.

“What are your feelings about your husband being finally found?”

The question wasn’t expected. “I…guess…I’m curious. Yeah.”

“Curious?”

“Yeah. The constable said he was found in a house on St. Joe. Been dead since he went missing. That’s weird.”

“I read the report of your calling the OPP back then. You and Mr. Acardi were having some problems.”

“Vinny was a skinny little shit, but he was big enough to knock me around. The last time was just too much, and I called to get a…” She searched for the term.

Andy already knew. “Restraining order.”

“Yeah. I was embarrassed to go to work all bruised up like that. He was doing it for years. My friends said I better call the OPP. Then one night he just don’t come home.”

“Where were you that night?” Andy asked.

“Here … with a friend.”

“Andy checked her notes. Mrs. Hanks?”

“Claudia. Yeah.”

“Why was she here?”

“She worked at the Legion Hall on the Island where Vinny and I would go once in a while. I got to know her. That night she comes to my house—tells me Vinnie’s been all over Debbie Wharton, a waitress who works there.”

That name wasn’t in the file. “Debbie…” Andy made a note.

“Wharton.” Pauline spelled it.

“So you think they had an affair?”

“Who knows? Debbie says no, I hear.”

“You said he’d been abusing you for years. Why didn’t you complain sooner?” Andy closed the file and walked to the door.

“I did, when we lived in the Soo. The police came to the house after the little bastard slammed me up against the side of the house. Actually, a neighbor called them.”

“You lived in the Soo?”

Pauline nodded. “Vinny was good with engines. Got a job at the marina on Kensington Point. We been here three years. I mean I been here that long now.”

Andy thanked her and began to leave, wondering how she was getting along without her husband, until a pickup pulled up at the curb and a man dressed in jeans and tank-top got out, and started up the walk.

Andy didn’t wait to be introduced, but it was apparent Pauline Acardi wasn’t pining away for Vinny.

Bells On Her Toes

By Diana J. Febry
Mystery/Crime, 439 pages
Cover art by Richard Stroud
Purchase Link

DCI Peter Hatherall is called in to investigate a shooting on the Earl of Ditchburn’s country estate. The Earl’s activities have angered animal rights and environmental groups but subsequent deaths suggest Elmsgrove Racehorse Yard is the target. There is more at stake than a horse race and time is running out for Hatherall to solve the case before the culprit kills again.

Excerpt:

Jolted from her reverie, Gladys withdrew from the window when the golf buggy came into sight. She called to Bert to come in for lunch and headed to the kitchen. The kitchen was like everything at Elmsgrove…over-sized, expensively decorated with solid wood furniture and plastered with horse images. Gladys placed the plates on the heavy oak table as the three men, her boys, scraped their chairs along the stone floor. It was like clockwork, every day of every year. Gladys was sure…if she ran away, her absence would register only after they looked down to see empty table mats. Only Bert had the decency to wash his hands before sitting down. She had given up insisting a long time ago.

Through a mouthful of food, Ben said, “Did you give a statement to the police?

Gladys put down her cutlery and finished chewing before replying. “I don’t think so. They spoke to me, but nothing was written down.”
“Poor sod, shot through the head they reckon,” Ben continued as he slurped his cup of tea.”

“Must be some Townie,” Mike said. “A drug dealer or an addict, I reckon. Maybe they screwed the bird of the local gang leader and got caught.”

“Michael, not at the table,” Gladys said. She watched the three of them with heads bent over their plates, shovelling in the food without tasting it.

“Bloody fools the police are,” Ben said, waving his fork. “Don’t know their asses from their elbows. Would you believe they started asking questions about my insurance claim from years back? Complete idiots.”

“I expect the proper police will appear tomorrow, Dad. Today’s lot were just the local bobbies who deal with shoplifting and stuff like that.”

Picking at her food, Gladys imagined her picture in the newspapers with the headline, ‘Resting actress solves murder mystery.’ The report went on to say, “Gladys, a well-loved member of the community, solved the case when the local police failed. She gave up her glittering career on the brink of stardom to support her husband’s dreams of training a winner. She was coy and modest when the chief of police thanked her publicly for her gallant bravery and fortitude.

“Gladys! Gladys! Are you listening, woman?”

“Sorry darling, what did you say?”

“I’m going to finish at least an hour late tonight, because of the time wasted dealing with the police.”

Gladys started to clear away the empty plates. “I’ll make supper an hour later, then, sweetie.”

“What are you planning to do this afternoon?”

Placing the plates in the dishwasher, Gladys said, “I might go out for a drive to look for clues.”

“Well for God’s sake, stay out of the way of the police.”

“Don’t worry, darling. I shall wear my invisibility cloak.”

Taking his coat from the stand in the hallway, Ben said, “I do wonder sometimes, what goes on in that daft woman’s head.”

“Nothing of any great interest,” Mike replied. Pulling on his work boots, he added, “I’ve arranged to go out with the lads tonight. Any chance you could lend me a few quid?”

Ben tousled his son’s hair. “Come and ask me later, after you’ve completed a full day’s work.”

Each to Their Own

By Diana J. Febry
Mystery/Crime, 369 pages
Cover art by Richard Stroud

Dan is determined to prove Kayleigh’s fall was not accidental. But when witnesses start to disappear it seems someone else is pursuing their own brand of justice. Dan must decide who to trust as he confronts the same dangers as Kayleigh to uncover the truth.

Excerpt:

I fire off a few urgent e-mails before stepping out of my silver Jaguar and heading up the driveway to Sunnyside Retirement Home. The sun makes a brief appearance but does little to soften the sharp chill of the frosty morning. My blazer would be more use on, than flung over my shoulder as I hurry across the car park.

Inside the foyer, the air is stale and overheated. I try to wrinkle my nose to block out the smell of decay and disinfectant and ring the bell on the reception desk. I give my perfect work smile as a young girl in a starched uniform appears. I read her name badge, “Hello Amanda, can you tell Mrs Fisher Anthony Lines is here to see her, please?”

I resist the urge to flick through the magazines on the low coffee table while I wait, preferring to stand looking out of the bay window at the sweep of the drive. This would make a perfect family home.

“Hello, Mr Lines,” Mrs Fisher says as she walks briskly towards me, hand outstretched. “It’s a pleasure as always to see you.”

Mrs Fisher has her camp firmly in the world of business rather than the caring profession. It is my cheque arriving each month that gives her pleasure, but the home is efficiently run and I’m happy my money is put to good use. I give her my customary smile, “Did the nurse from last night explain I’ve come to collect the package from last week before I pop up to see Father?”

With an equally professional smile painted on her face, Mrs Fisher replies, “Follow me into my office.” The sharp heels of her shoes clack along the sanitised corridor while mine squeak occasionally on the buffed surface. Once she’s ushered me inside and closed the door she repeats the smile, “Won’t you sit down?”

Her office is a comfortable sitting room over- looking the front drive and manicured gardens. A small desk, computer monitor and a heavily disguised filing cabinet, the only functional office equipment in the room, take up a small space in the corner. The main purpose of the room is to put relatives at ease when she gives news of death or an increase in costs due to a decline in health. Yet I feel a slight sense of unease as I sink deep into the sumptuous armchair, “I’m in a bit of a rush this morning, I’m afraid. I need to get home to the boys.”

Mrs Fisher takes up her seat on the end of the sofa. She perches with her ankles crossed, hands resting in her lap and a sympathetic look on her face, “Yes, of course. It’s a shame you haven’t brought them. There’s a definite change in Bill when he sees them.”

“Next time, I promise,” I reply quickly. I might be trapped in here all morning if I explain my concerns about Father’s deteriorating state of mind. The last time I brought Matt and Simon to visit, he’d skipped back a generation and thought it was me and Jamie sitting on his bed. That conversation I’d prefer to delay for a day I have time to waste, “Could I have the package, please?” I wait anxiously while Mrs Fisher plays with a stray thread from her woollen skirt. I’m guessing something has happened and the time for that conversation unfortunately is now.

“I’m afraid, Mr Lines, there has been a slight mix-up.”

“Go on,” I reply, thinking the package had been destroyed by accident.

“Yes, you see there was a new girl working and we’ve been so rushed off our feet I didn’t have a chance to explain about our little arrangement.”

“What?” I fight the gravitational pull of the armchair and try to lean forwards. Through a forced smile, gripping the arms of the chair, I pointlessly say, “But we agreed.”

“I know and I’m terribly sorry. I know how difficult it can be when our parents become confused. I understand you want to save him from embarrassment but I’m sure no real harm has been done. The recipient will probably throw it in the bin if it’s complete gibberish.”

I instantly regret the lie I told to ensure Father’s mail was intercepted.

“We really have been very busy recently.”

Gravity pulls me to the back of the chair once again as I let go of the armrests. It gives the impression I’m relaxed about the oversight. In reality, alarm bells are ringing loud and clear in my ears, “Is it possible to speak to the girl who posted it?”