But first let's read her blurb.
Mrs. Williamson rubbed her eyes with her the tips of her fingers, another indication of her frazzled state of mind. After a few good scrubs, she stopped, hands still resting on her cheeks, and looked at me. “I invited my relatives over today to discuss which of them would inherit the necklace. I took it out of the freezer and placed it on my nightstand while we enjoyed some refreshments and chatted a bit. It’s been over a year since we were all together. When I went to show them, I discovered it was missing.” She dropped her hands to her lap and her let her shoulders droop. I was reminded of a deflated balloon. She drew a deep, quivery breath then said, “I’ve looked everywhere. I just know it’s gone forever.”
“Come with me,” I said, taking the woman by the hand, tugging her up off the chair and herding her toward her back door. “We’re calling the police.”
“No, you don’t understand,” she said, pulling away from me. The first tear appeared on her cheek and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. She dipped her head and softly whispered, “I have a feeling one of the girls took it.”
It went unspoken that she didn’t want the Williamson address printed in the weekly crime statistics, or for it to get around the neighborhood that one of her relatives was a thief. In a tight-knit neighborhood such as East Beach, appearances were very important, especially for Mrs. Williamson.
“You’re so very clever, writing your mystery novels,” she said, laying her hand on my arm. “I want you to find out what you can. And I trust you to keep this our little secret.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a request, or a threat.
Carrie Hannover solves mysteries—in the literary sense. She’s a writer. But when valuable jewels go missing from her landlady’s home, Carrie finds herself embroiled in a real mystery…one fraught with real danger.
Wow! Don't you want more with that?
Well here's a bit more, check out an excerpt from her story.
Well here's a bit more, check out an excerpt from her story.
Mrs. Williamson rubbed her eyes with her the tips of her fingers, another indication of her frazzled state of mind. After a few good scrubs, she stopped, hands still resting on her cheeks, and looked at me. “I invited my relatives over today to discuss which of them would inherit the necklace. I took it out of the freezer and placed it on my nightstand while we enjoyed some refreshments and chatted a bit. It’s been over a year since we were all together. When I went to show them, I discovered it was missing.” She dropped her hands to her lap and her let her shoulders droop. I was reminded of a deflated balloon. She drew a deep, quivery breath then said, “I’ve looked everywhere. I just know it’s gone forever.”
“Come with me,” I said, taking the woman by the hand, tugging her up off the chair and herding her toward her back door. “We’re calling the police.”
“No, you don’t understand,” she said, pulling away from me. The first tear appeared on her cheek and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. She dipped her head and softly whispered, “I have a feeling one of the girls took it.”
It went unspoken that she didn’t want the Williamson address printed in the weekly crime statistics, or for it to get around the neighborhood that one of her relatives was a thief. In a tight-knit neighborhood such as East Beach, appearances were very important, especially for Mrs. Williamson.
“You’re so very clever, writing your mystery novels,” she said, laying her hand on my arm. “I want you to find out what you can. And I trust you to keep this our little secret.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a request, or a threat.
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