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The Dead of Autumn - Jean Rabe The teen never made it to the party... mybook.to/DeadofAutmn @jeanerabe #booktwt#BookTwitter#BookBoost#BooksWorthReading#BookRecommendation#murdermystery#mysteryseries#bookseries #mysterythriller
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Sheriff Piper Blackwell is plunged into the dark heart of “idyllic” Spencer County, Indiana...
About the book: A teenager dressed as Tinker Bell never made it to the Halloween party. Her murders sends a ripple of fear through Piper Blackwell's rural jurisdiction. Investigating the crime, the young sheriff and her detective are drawn into an underworld they didn't know existed. Can the pair survive the trip into the dark heart of once idyllic Spencer County? Can they find the killer before more lives are are destroyed and he strikes again?
Dead of Autumn is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out here: http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries. Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series: mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio
Sheriff Piper Blackwell is plunged into the dark heart of “idyllic” Spencer County, Indiana...
About the book: A teenager dressed as Tinker Bell never made it to the Halloween party. Her murders sends a ripple of fear through Piper Blackwell's rural jurisdiction. Investigating the crime, the young sheriff and her detective are drawn into an underworld they didn't know existed. Can the pair survive the trip into the dark heart of once idyllic Spencer County? Can they find the killer before more lives are are destroyed and he strikes again?
Dead of Autumn is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out here: http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries. Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series: mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio
About the Author: USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief. From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers. She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur. Find out more about her at www.jeanrabe.com #NewRelease #mysterythrillerbook #booksrock #bookrecommendations #bookstagram #mysterybooks #mysterythriller #mysterythrillersuspense #mysterythrillerbookrecommendation #mysterythrillerbookslover #crimethrillermystery #smalltownmysteries #smalltownmurder #smalltownmysterybook #strongfemalecharacter
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Sheriff Piper Blackwell is plunged into the dark heart of “idyllic” Spencer County, Indiana...
About the book: A teenager dressed as Tinker Bell never made it to the Halloween party. Her murders sends a ripple of fear through Piper Blackwell's rural jurisdiction. Investigating the crime, the young sheriff and her detective are drawn into an underworld they didn't know existed. Can the pair survive the trip into the dark heart of once idyllic Spencer County? Can they find the killer before more lives are are destroyed and he strikes again?
Dead of Autumn is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out here: http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries. Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series: mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio
About the Author: USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief. From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers. She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur. Find out more about her at www.jeanrabe.com
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<br /> <strong><img data-file-id="6000129" height="1080" src="https://mcusercontent.com/db46d89a669bcc0564562defc/images/a94bbbd4-2f59-00b3-15ce-3f65ef1d15cf.jpg" style="border: 0px ; width: 720px; height: 1080px; margin: 0px;" width="720" /><br /> <br /> Sheriff </strong><strong>Piper Blackwell is plunged into the dark heart of “idyllic” Spencer County, Indiana...</strong><br /> <br /> <strong>About the book:</strong><br /> A teenager dressed as Tinker Bell never made it to the Halloween party.<br /> Her murders sends a ripple of fear through Piper Blackwell's rural jurisdiction.<br /> Investigating the crime, the young sheriff and her detective are drawn into an underworld they didn't know existed. Can the pair survive the trip into the dark heart of once idyllic Spencer County?<br /> Can they find the killer before more lives are are destroyed and he strikes again?<br /> <br /> <strong>Publisher:</strong> ‎Boone Street Press (May 15, 2022)<br /> <strong>Publication date:</strong> ‎May 15, 2022<br /> <strong>Language:</strong> English<br /> <strong>Print length:‎ </strong>319 pages<br /> <strong>Buy link:</strong> mybook.to/DeadofAutmn<br /> <br /> Dead of Autumn is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out here: <a>http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries.</a><br /> Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series: mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio<br /> <br /> Sign-up for her newsletter: https://jeanrabe.com/sign-up-for-my-newsletter/ and follow her on Amazon: http://author.to/JeanRabe <font color="#000000">to keep up with her latest works!<br /> <br /> <br /> <a class="rcptr" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/9751c04268/" rel="nofollow" data-raflid="9751c04268" data-theme="classic" data-template="" id="rcwidget_5u8r3i0d">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a> <script src="https://widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js"></script> <br /> <br /> <img data-file-id="5748492" height="960" src="https://mcusercontent.com/db46d89a669bcc0564562defc/images/c90e14c7-4d65-72ab-0117-bc572092fad1.jpg" style="border: 0px ; width: 625px; height: 960px; margin: 0px;" width="625" /></font><br /> <br /> <strong>About the Author:</strong><br /> USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief.<br /> From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers.<br /> She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur.<br /> Find out more about her at <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.jeanrabe.com&sa=D&source=editors&ust=1636871680512000&usg=AOvVaw1zJg81oa1cYUBSbWKH-eXF">www.jeanrabe.com</a>
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Blogger Run Giveaway:
For those that selected giveaway on the form, you're authorized to giveaway one e-copy of The Dead of Autumn by Jean Rabe to one of your blog readers. This is a giveaway outside of the Rafflecopter, just for your readers.
Buy Links:
The Dead of Autumn on Amazon: mybook.to/DeadofAutmn Dead of Winter on Amazon: mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio The Piper Blackwell Series on Amazon: http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries
Sheriff Piper Blackwell is plunged into the dark heart of “idyllic” Spencer County, Indiana...
About the book: A teenager dressed as Tinker Bell never made it to the Halloween party. Her murders sends a ripple of fear through Piper Blackwell's rural jurisdiction. Investigating the crime, the young sheriff and her detective are drawn into an underworld they didn't know existed. Can the pair survive the trip into the dark heart of once idyllic Spencer County? Can they find the killer before more lives are are destroyed and he strikes again?
Dead of Autumn is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out here: http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries. Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series: mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio
About the Author: USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief. From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers. She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur. Find out more about her at www.jeanrabe.com
Excerpts:
Excerpt One: One 5:30 p.m. Saturday, Oct 31st
Teal organza wings embellished with silvery clock gears shimmered strangely beautiful in the setting sun. They were attached to the shoulders of a woman lying face-down in a ditch, a quarrel protruding from her neck, the blood that had streamed from the wound still wet. Another quarrel was lodged in the middle of her back. Sheriff Piper Blackwell guessed the woman was roughly her height, a little over five feet. The breeze gusted, ruffling the wings just enough that Piper could see the deceased wore skimpy short-shorts covered in green sequins matching the lone sequined tennis shoe on her right foot. The left foot was bare and tangled in coarse fescue. A Halloween costume, obviously. Piper had spotted several children trick-or-treating on her drive here and had stopped to lecture a pint-sized Superman who’d darted in front of her Explorer. The farmhouses on this county road sat a half-mile to a mile apart. The woman might have been going to one of them, attending a party perhaps; Piper would check on that in a little while. She wanted to ease the victim over, get a look at her face, find some identification, but she wouldn’t disturb the body until after the coroner arrived. “Dr. Neufeld said she’d be about twenty minutes,” said Detective Basil Meredith. He had a deep, rich voice. At six-feet-tall with espresso brown skin, Basil didn’t go unnoticed in mostly white Spencer County. “Said she didn’t appreciate being pulled from her cocktail hour.” Piper edged into the ditch and turned on her body cam. Basil did the same. He clicked away with the department’s camera, a recently purchased Canon Rebel XT that would yield high quality digital photos. She picked a path around the woman, carefully bending the tall grass, looking for a purse or cell phone. Nothing. Maybe they were under the body. Piper took her time, mindful of the slope, as she was a little off-balance with her left arm still in a sling. She’d badly broken the arm in September on Jerusalem Ridge, and pins and a titanium rod now held it together. Another few weeks or so, the doctor said, before it would be fully healed. Until then she had restricted duty: no pushing, pulling, or lifting. “Seen a lot of death,” Basil observed. Piper knew he referred to his years with the Chicago Police Department’s Gang and Narcotics Division. She’d seen a lot of death, too, from her tours in the Middle East. “But I’ve never seen a fairy killed by arrows, Sheriff Blackwell. A first for me.”
Excerpt Two: “Who the hell would shoot Tinker Bell?” Basil mused. The victim’s skin appeared smooth and tanned, the arms toned. Thin, delicate fingers sported gaudy rings. Her coppery-red hair was fashioned in an up-do, a diminutive ivory bedazzled top hat perched on the side with pheasant feathers attached to it. Piper really wanted to turn her over and get a better look. “Let’s talk to the man who found her.” Piper started out of the ditch, and the detective extended a hand to help her. She whispered, “Not how I’d planned to spend Halloween, Basil.” “I take it you had a bowl of candy ready by the front door.” “Oh yeah,” she replied. “More than necessary probably. Nang’s stuck with treat duty.” Piper had grabbed only the good stuff for her first Halloween in Hatfield—full-sized Milky Way bars, packets of cookies, and boxes of crayons. The entire population of her dinkburg was eight hundred, so not all that many kids were likely to come by. Still, those who did would skip away happy. She was disappointed she wouldn’t be there to see them. “Esme’s taking our kids through the neighborhood. Promised to email me pictures.” Basil glanced at his watch. “Probably leaving in a half-hour. Shaya picked a Ruth Bader Ginsberg costume from Walmart across the river. She doesn’t know who Ginsberg was, but she liked the black robes and lace collar. Jelani is SpongeBob. I hate that cartoon. He looked cute, though.” “Nice weather for trick-or-treating,” Piper said. It was seventy, a few degrees above normal for the end of October in southern Indiana. She pointed across the road to a man in knee-length shorts and a Colts t-shirt, sweat stains evident around his neck and armpits. His eggshell white bicycle with BIANCHI in bold type on the frame leaned against the side of her Explorer. The man seemed intent on his cell phone, head down like he was praying to it. Piper took another look at the girl in the ditch and then headed toward him, her feet crunching against the gravel. He looked up. “I could tell she was dead, Sheriff, didn’t touch her or anything. I watch CSI—the old reruns, not the new version. I know not to touch anything. But I called 9-1-1 right away.” He thumbed a button on his cell phone and put it in a side pocket. “I’ll admit I took a picture of her.” A pause. “To show my wife. Otherwise, Ginny’ll never believe I found a body on a ride. A real dead body. It being Halloween, I first thought maybe someone stuck a mannequin in the ditch … to scare folks. Wouldn’t spook many, though. Not much traffic out here. Not many houses. A waste of a good scare, you know. Besides, when I took a good look, I could tell it wasn’t a mannequin. In fact—”
Excerpt Three: “I know cars. Saw four. And four’s a lot in a stretch around here. The best was a Rambler, probably early 1960s. I’d guess 1962. Sweet cherry of a piece. Robin’s egg blue. A jeep, recent model looked to me, pumpkin orange. Damn ugly color. Something in that color would sit on my lot a long time unless it was cheap. There was a silver Hyundai Sonata, and that was likely eight to ten years old by the body, most likely ten. Sonata’s a reliable car, you can keep them for a ton of miles before too many things start to go wrong. And a big, boxy Explorer like you folks drive. That wasn’t a Sheriff’s Department Explorer, though. At least I don’t think it was. Maroon, rust on the side panels, dent in the front bumper, a crimp in the grille, easily twenty years old. You don’t drive ‘em that old, do you? No logos on the side.” Basil shook his head no. “You didn’t see any people out, walking along the road? No hunters?” “Nope. Only person is that dead girl over there.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Are you going to flip her over?” “In a while,” Piper said. “Your neighbors,” Basil pressed. “Any of them having a Halloween party?” “Not that I know of,” Rodney said. “And we’re all pretty far apart to be called neighbors. In any event, me and Ginny, we didn’t get invited to a party. Halloween’s a stupid thing to have a party about, don’t you think? Just an excuse to dress silly and get drunk. Or if you’re a kid to beg for candy that’ll rot your teeth. An unhealthy holiday for everyone. No. No parties around here that I know of.” Basil edged closer. “You have a good eye for cars, Rodney. Remember any of the license plates?” Rodney shook his head. “Just paid attention to the cars. I have a Rambler on my lot, from 1969, last year they made ‘em. It was one of the end cars to roll off the assembly line in Kenosha, Wisconsin. Satin black paint, redone interior. Classic collector car. I want thirty-nine for her. I’m probably asking a little too much, but she’s pretty special. I can afford to keep her in the showroom until the right buyer comes along.” Piper pulled a business card out of her pocket. “Please call us if you remember anything else, Rodney. We’ll contact you later if we have more questions.” “Fine. And I’d sure like to know who that is … was. And why’d somebody shoot her? I know its deer season for bows right now, and for turkeys until tomorrow. I used to hunt turkeys with my brother. I can’t see somebody mistaking her for a turkey or a deer. She looks like a fairy, like—”
Excerpt Four: Dr. Annie Neufeld arrived minutes later in a red Toyota Camry driven by her wife, who had painted her face green and sported a black hat. They parked behind Sheriff Blackwell’s Explorer. Neufeld’s gray-brown hair was in pigtails tied with blue gingham ribbon that matched her flared-skirt jumper. Beneath that was a short-sleeved white blouse. “Dorothy,” she said, pointing to her outfit. “From the Wizard of Oz. Bebe’s the Wicked Witch of the West.” Piper thought the witch ensemble appropriate, as her run-ins with the defense attorney had not been pleasant. She was thankful Bebe didn’t get out of the car. “I’ll go home and change, get my kit and van, after I see the body.” Neufeld scowled, let out a huffing breath, and added: “Damn inconvenient death. I was having a good time, Piper. Really. I haven’t been to a party in months.” Piper almost apologized, but kept the words in. Neufeld pointed to the camera in Basil’s hand. “That looks new.” “It is,” he said. She walked past him, her ruby red slippers crunching the gravel, whistling when she gazed at the body. “Not something you see every day. I think those are quarrels. Like from a crossbow.” “They are,” Piper said, joining her. “Yep. Definitely not something you see every day. It is hunting season,” Neufeld said as she stepped into the ditch. “For turkey and deer,” Piper replied. Basil added, “Not for fairies.” After a few minutes, Neufeld crossed her arms and stared at Piper. “Tink is fresh. Dead an hour, if that. Less than two since there’s no trace of rigor. I’ll take some temps when I come back with the van, but my estimate here will stand.” “I want to turn her over, Dr. Neufeld, get a look at her face. We need to—” “I don’t want her on her back, Sheriff. Don’t want to move the quarrels, keep them in place until the autopsy. I don’t want the entry wounds distorted. But I can ease her on her side—carefully—so Basil can get some pictures. You need the face, right, to—” “That would be helpful,” Piper cut in. “We need to identify her as soon as possible, contact relatives, and—” “—and start your investigation so you can find out which one of Captain Hook’s sick son of a bitch pirates slew Tinker Bell,” Neufeld finished. The coroner knelt on one side of the body and gently levered it up. “Click quick and get your fingerprints. You can print the quarrels and anything else you want later.”
Excerpt Five: Millie stared at the body face-down in the middle of the yard. A dagger protruded from between its shoulder blades, a vivid red stain stark against the white hoodie. The tips of its mud-caked boots rested on the edge of a concrete sidewalk that curved from the driveway to a front door festooned with cornstalks and orange ribbons. Three large jack-o-lanterns glowed on the stoop. All of it eerily illuminated by a spotlight perched near the street and aimed this way. Millie had almost called the coroner when she pulled up to the Fulda residence. Fortunately, she took a closer look before keying the radio. She figured if she had summoned Dr. Neufeld that would have made her the butt of endless jokes in the Spencer County Sheriff’s Department, where she’d been working as a deputy for the past six months. The body had straw protruding from slits in the blue jeans. Across the street a half-dozen children skittered along the curb, bulging sacks in hand. Millie noted Raggedy Ann, a cowboy, Shrek, an impressive-looking Mandalorian, the Flash, and Cinderella. A few houses down a boy dressed as a pickle waddled with an adult, and just beyond them Princess Leia strolled with an astronaut. Millie remembered wearing a Princess Leia outfit when she was five-years-old. She was heading toward twenty-five now. The block glowed with front porch lights. It was festive and spooky at the same time. The costumed kids chattered, giggled, and Cinderella pointed at Millie and waved, but they stayed on the other side of the street. Sent here by the dispatcher, Millie had parked her Explorer in the driveway. The 9-1-1 call had come from a hysterical passing motorist. From the street the body looked realistic; she understood why someone called. Millie took a picture of the display with her cell phone and was halfway up the walk when the door opened. “You’re scaring the kids away,” grumbled a wizard who came out onto the stoop, box of candy in his left hand, the fingers of his right wrapped around a tall, gnarled staff that was heavily lacquered. She’d seen all the Lord of the Rings movies, and knew this was Gandalf, the gray version, complete with torso-length white beard and long white hair. Hard to tell how old the man actually was given the makeup. The dispatcher had said the homeowner’s name was Harrold Walthrop, but provided no other information about him. “Got a call about the body in your yard, Mr. Walthrop,” Millie said. Across the street a trio of scary-looking clowns reminiscent of Stephen King’s “It” laughed and gestured her way. One of them held a large red helium-filled balloon.
Excerpt Six: Dead. Too damn pretty and way too young to be dead, Teegan thought as she looked at the photo Sheriff Piper Blackwell had emailed her. The makeup, hair, sequins, so well decorated for the night. Teegan wondered if the coroner could conduct the autopsy without ruining all the sparkles. The girl had gone to a lot of effort to look like that. Too much work to be washed away on a stainless-steel table in the basement of a hospital. She should be buried in all her glittery glory. “You would’ve won all the costume contests for certain.” Teegan had taken Rodney Rhimer’s 9-1-1 call. “Somebody’s dead, in a ditch,” he’d said. “It’s horrible. Come quick.” She’d hoped it had been a prank. Teegan answered a lot of prank calls on Halloween, and most of them had a fun element. Way too young. Creepy. Evil. Teegan shivered and glanced away from the screen. She’d heard the sheriff call the girl Steampunkerbell. Teegan liked steampunk styles, almost as much as goth. Teegan would have loved a Halloween costume like that in her earlier, skinnier years. “I’m supposed to help find out who you are … were … pretty girl.” No active missing person reports in the county fit. But the girl probably hadn’t been missing long enough for someone to have noticed. She wouldn’t go unidentified long, Teegan knew. A girl like that had people, friends and relatives, and they would be looking for her when the night ended and she didn’t come home. But Piper wanted her identified ASAP and had tasked Teegan with checking high school yearbooks and online sources trying to put a name to the face, as no ID was found at the scene. No hits on fingerprints so far. The girl looked too innocent to have gotten in trouble with the law, too young for the military. Teegan guessed the girl was fourteen, fifteen … somewhere in there. She could use some help. “It’s an odd night.” Teegan called Zeke, the first-shift dispatcher. “Peculiar stuff. Weird 9-1-1s. Always strange calls on Halloween, which is why I like to work it. And—” she paused for dramatic effect. “Tonight, we have a murder.” “Murder? You sure it’s a murder?” “Well, I heard them mention it might be a hunting accident, but it sounds like Sheriff Blackwell thinks it’s a murder.” “Who got killed?” Zeke sounded out of breath, and Teegan was curious why. “I don’t know. We don’t know. You busy, Zeke? Got company? Did I interrupt something? Sounds like you’re—” “I’m on my bike, riding home. I was at Nang’s garage working on my car.” “How about you detour over to the department? I’ll order Chinese from the delivery service. My treat. I could use an extra pair of eyes on this maybe-a-hunting-accident-but-more-likely-a-murder-thing. High school yearbooks.” “Yearbooks? Someone young?” “Yeah, Zeke. Too young.”
Excerpt Seven: “Teegan, wow. What did you do?” It was more of an exclamation than a question. Zeke stood open-mouthed in front of Teegan’s desk. Wearing knee-length faded jean shorts and a long-sleeve LA Rams t-shirt, grease smudges attested to his story of working in Nang’s garage. He brought his bicycle in and leaned it against the wall and ran a hand over the top of his head, hair cut in a severe military style. “What. Did. You. Do?” Teegan pointed to the breakroom, where she’d set up a spare laptop. “What did I do, Zeke? I was on vacation last week.” “Yeah, I know,” Zeke said. “I caught a couple of double shifts because of it. Not complaining. I always need money. But what—” “What did I do? A hairdo. That’s what I did. I had my hair done.” “Yeah, I guess. Double wow.” Teegan didn’t know if that was a compliment. She was forty-five and usually dressed like a teenager, previously resembling Morticia Addams because of her pale complexion, long black hair, and heavy eyeliner. Except she’d ditched the black hair during her days off. It felt weird, Zeke staring at her like that. Rocco had stared too. Good thing the chief deputy was on vacation, he was quick with disparaging comments about her piercings and tattoos and overall appearance. He’d say something worse than: “What did you do?” “I needed a change,” she said, again pointing to the laptop visible through the doorway to the breakroom. “I went to the salon inside Walmart across the river. This guy put color remover in my hair … cost me seventy bucks and two hours on my rump in an uncomfortable chair. Then I picked out this shade after he cut off a few inches. The shade was another fifty.” “A lot of inches cut,” Zeke said, still staring. “Life’s short, Zeke, as our murder victim points out.” “And so’s your hair.” Teegan’s new hairstyle: a layered bob that ended at her jawline and nape of her neck. The inky black had been replaced by-- “The stylist called it spiced plum.” “I like it.” Zeke grinned. “Has Oren—” “He hasn’t seen it. He’s on vacation as of today. And I like it too.” Teegan’s neck tattoos were more visible with the short style, and it easily showed all the ear piercings. The hair color matched the purple flowers in a vine tattoo that ran from her right shoulder to her wrist. “Teegan, this murder victim—” The delivery man appeared with a large sack. The scents of oyster sauce, garlic, green onion, and ginger filled the department. Teegan breathed deep and handed over a nice tip. “Cool costume,” the delivery man told her on his way out. Teegan frowned. She wasn’t wearing a costume.
Excerpt Eight: Teegan fielded another call. “9-1-1, what is the—” “It’s dreadful, ridiculous,” the caller replied. “It’s disrespectful, and something must be done.” Teegan smiled, took a breath, and reached for some chopsticks. It was another odd call; she’d happily listen. Maybe there was an emergency attached. But it sounded more like it would be amusing. “There are a dozen crosses and tombstones in my neighbor’s front yard. More than a dozen probably. He put them out this afternoon. Draped fake webs from his trees. When it got dark, he put a spotlight on everything. He’s having a Halloween party over there. The music is loud. ‘Monster Mash,’ ‘Thriller,’ ‘Werewolves of London,’ an endless loop.” Teegan checked the caller’s location—Grandview—definitely a Spencer County Sheriff call. She waited, listening to the woman’s rant, and watched the switchboard, sampled her shrimp fried rice and found it delicious. No other incoming calls at the moment. “I can have a deputy swing by and tell them to turn the music down,” Teegan said. She figured that would mollify the woman. “It’s not the music that’s the problem,” the caller continued. “I don’t mind the music. It’s a good sound system. I kind of like the music.” “Then the problem is—” “The tombstones! I just went over and took a closer look at his makeshift cemetery. He’s got names on the stones. On all of them. One says, ‘Here lies Miz Karen Blue, a fat grumpy old shrew.’” There was a sputtering sound. “Well, my name is Karen Blue, and I don’t think it is an appropriate Halloween decoration. It’s insulting. Demeaning. ‘A deep dirt nap for George Dunlap.’ George lives next door, and he isn’t dead. All the tombstones are offensive. I’m going over there with a baseball bat if you don’t—” Teegan immediately dispatched Diego to her address. “A deputy will arrive in a few minutes, Ms. Blue.” Teegan let the savory shrimp sauce linger on her tongue and wondered which homeowner was going to get arrested for disorderly conduct. Another call, and this time Teegan pegged Millie to deal with it. “Gotta love Halloween,” Teegan said as she stepped away from her desk, taking her shrimp fried rice with her. She stood in the doorway of the breakroom, deftly eating with chopsticks. She was close enough to her desk that she could dart back if—when—another 9-1-1 call came in. “I like working Halloween, Zeke. Made sure the last day of my vacation was yesterday so I could take this shift. Working dispatch on Halloween is more entertaining than any party.” “It doesn’t usually include murder, does it?” Zeke was intent on the laptop, drumming the fingers of his right hand on the mouse and eating an eggroll with his left. “This is awesome Chinese, by the way. You usually order pizza.” “Swore off pizza during my vacation.” “A lot of changes in your week off.” Teegan feasted on half the fried rice before answering. “Biggest change, Zeke … I bought a house. I put in an offer middle of last month, and they finally accepted. It had been on the market a while. Closed on it the first of the week and finished moving in yesterday.”
Excerpt Nine: The music had a back beat with heavy bass. Basil felt the ripples skitter across the ground and rise through his feet. It sounded like a mix of industrial and synth-pop, with some new age sprinkled in. At first odd, driving, interesting, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. After a few minutes, it became just a jumble of unexpected syncopated noise. A big barn in the middle of nowhere, he figured they’d be playing hillbilly tunes, like he’d heard at the county fair. A lot of things about Spencer County had been unexpected … that he’d like the job and find the rural setting tolerable; that he wouldn’t mind working for a sheriff who was only twenty-four, eight years his junior; and that he was mostly okay with being the only black person in the department. He was displeased that the county overall lacked diversity—and that had made him almost pass on the job, but his children didn’t seem to care. They loved the place, and were recently delighted by the Fun Fest at Lincoln State Park, Fall Heritage Day at the Pioneer Village, and the Haunted Barn at the Farm Market … and now trick-or-treating around their white subdivision without him. He had photos on his cell phone of wide-grinning Ruth Bader Ginsberg and SpongeBob with their bags of treats; his wife had sent the pics to him with a note: “Wish you were costuming with us.” It would have been nice to go around the neighborhood with them. But RBG and SpongeBob were young, and there would be other Halloweens when he could join them. Certainly, there wouldn’t be a murder at the end of every October. Basil stood next to his Explorer. He listened, looking out over a field-turned-parking lot that must have close to one hundred cars and pickups in it—a massive turnout in a rustic county outside this big barn. “If it’s this loud out here, I’m not looking forward to going inside,” Millie said. She’d helped him search along the road where Billie Glempse had been found, and talked to some of the homeowners in the area. They’d come up with nothing useful. “Dutch Knuckle, Zeke called this.” “A style of barn,” Millie explained. “Big city detective like you, I suspect you don’t know a lot about barns.” “I know most of them are red. And this one looks like it could stand some fresh paint. But Dutch Knuckle?” “Barns are probably red because of tradition. Hundreds of years ago farmers would seal their barns with orange-colored linseed oil. Stir in some rust, good for killing the moss that grew on wood, and it turned red.” “And you know this because—” “American farm history class I took for the hell of it in Evansville,” she replied. “As for the Dutch Knuckle, it’s called that because of the roof.” The barn was roughly three stories high, probably sixty-feet wide and more than one hundred deep. Basil guessed it covered close to five thousand square feet. “A gambrel roof,” she continued, “the rounded shape, a symmetrical top with two slopes on each side, looks a little like a knuckle. Common for dairy farms, which I think this was once upon a time.” “And you learned all of that from your history course?” She shook her head. “No. On the way here I googled ‘Dutch Knuckle’ because I was curious. My history course was good for the red paint.”
Excerpt Ten: Florence Henderson of The Brady Bunch was born here; Abraham Lincoln was raised on a nearby farm, his mother’s grave on the site; and the inventor of the reflection seismograph once called this home; as did legendary basketball coach Del Harris. Humble beginnings for accomplished people, Piper mused. The place used to be named Elizabeth, back when it was laid out in 1843. Soon after that it got a post office—still running—and the name of the town changed to Dale in honor of Robert Dale Owen, who was a congressman at the time. Piper had been delving into Spencer County history ever since she was elected in November of the previous year. To her, the congressman was one of the more interesting bits about this area. Owen, born in Scotland, was her age when he immigrated to the United States and became active in politics, first with the Indiana House of Representatives, then as a member of Congress. A Democrat, he pushed the bill that established the Smithsonian Institution and served on its first board of regents. Widely published, he edited the New-Harmony Gazette, advocated women’s property and divorce rights, opposed slavery, supported free public schools, and endorsed birth control to keep the population in check. Piper had read his autobiography, which was in her basement library. She wondered how many residents of Dale—there were roughly fifteen hundred of them, making this one of the larger dinkburgs in the county—knew how impressive Robert Dale Owen had been. Let alone that their community was named for him. Most people knew about Florence Henderson. Piper followed Buffaloville Road on the edge of Dale and slowed shortly before it turned into 350 E. The homes were spaced about a hundred feet apart on large lots, the ones in this area older, likely built in the forties or fifties. The Langston ranch resembled a shoebox, simple design, low roof, exterior gray shingle siding. She pulled into the driveway that had two cars in it, an old Plymouth and something smaller ahead of it she couldn’t make out. Her headlights showed a yard overdue for mowing, a flowerbox filled with weeds. The trim and shutters had so much paint peeling it was as if dried fish scales had adhered to the wood. The windows dark. The immediate neighbors’ houses were also dark, not a single porch light on along this strip. When she turned off her headlights, everything went inky like a setting in a horror movie—maybe similar to the one Nang had picked to watch with her tonight. She almost grabbed her flashlight. But there was a light on a pole across the street and down a few houses, and when she let her eyes adjust to the gloom, it was just enough. She’d rather wait on this until the morning, not have to wake up Maurice’s parents to tell them their son was dead. But the news wouldn’t be any more palatable after they’d gotten a night’s sleep. Radioing her position and confirming the jeep had been tucked away in a garage bay, Piper got out of her Explorer and stood on a driveway made of chipped landscaping rocks. Was this going to be as difficult as her visit to the Glempse house? “Get it over with. Over with. Over.” She heard a quick staccato burst of dog barks coming from somewhere across the road. Faintly came a rumble of thunder. “Get it over with.” She felt a drop of rain, then another. Piper approached, pushed the doorbell, didn’t hear it ring, pushed it once more and then knocked. She waited, listening to the dog bark again, more thunder—this time louder. There was a metal awning over the front stoop, and she heard rain gently patter against it. She knocked louder. And waited. The rain came a little faster, she knocked once more, and finally the front porch light came on. Someone grumbled behind the door, fumbled with the knob, then opened it.
Excerpt Eleven: “Why’d you pick this house? I mean, it’s beat up, Teegan. And it’s friggin’ huge. It’s going to cost a lot to turn this—” Zeke realized he’d misspoken when he saw the flash of irritation on her face. “You invited yourself over,” Teegan bit back. “You wanted to see the place. And I think it’s fine and dandy. Good bones, I said. It cost me thirty-thousand dollars. They wanted more, originally asking fifty, which also would have been a steal. But for whatever reason it sat on the market for about two years, so they took my offer. I paid cash. Some cars cost as much as this house, Zeke. And, yeah, it is a little worn. Okay, a lot worn. I’ve got a contractor lined up to start next Wednesday. Blow-in insulation, new drywall, paint¸ update the plumbing. New furnace and central air—two HVACs, he said I should have. You don’t need to insult my—” “Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry,” Zeke said. He really was. “I didn’t mean to insult you or your house. I’m envious, actually. I live in a third-floor crappy little apartment and you’ve got three entire floors all to yourself.” “Two,” she cut back. “The turrets don’t really count. They’re just roundish rooms and I’m going to put a telescope in one and a big beanbag chair in the other to make it a reading nook. I’ve picked out some wallpaper and—” “I like your purple hair,” Paul said. “Good sandwich.” “The stylist called it spiced plum.” She let out a long breath. “I like the new color and cut. And I like my house, too.” “It’s a fine house,” Paul said. “You’ll be happy owning one and—” “I don’t know if I’ll ever have enough money for a house. Well, not anytime soon,” Zeke groused. “Serilda costing you too much?” This from Teegan. “Costing me some, but it’s the online classes I started taking last month that’s drinking most of my money.” “Didn’t think college was in your plans,” Teegan said. Zeke shrugged. “I’m going for a bachelor’s in Information Security. It’s good for police work. I’m focusing on project management, getting certified as a business analyst. It’s through Western Governor’s University, a customized IT program with cyber security, information assurance, network operations, and stuff like that. All online, self-paced. Even working full time, I’ll get a four-year degree in three because I’m fast with the computer part of it.” “Nice,” Paul said. “And good on you. That’ll make you valuable for law enforcement.” “Hey, Paul, did you hear we had two murders last night? Teenagers? I knew them. I knew both of them.” Zeke was fixated on the cases, hadn’t slept much last night thinking about them. “Makes you realize how short life is. That you can die at any time. Be killed. Crossbow bolts, like all medieval or Dungeons & Dragons or Warcraft or—” Paul sat his sandwich down and reached for a bag of Sun Chips. “Piper says they don’t have much on either case, just a bunch of questions. Santa Claus was quiet in comparison yesterday. Worst call we had was a neighbor complaining about a Christmas-themed Halloween party where the elves were having a contest to see who could ho-ho-ho the loudest.”
Excerpt Twelve: Piper pulled into Phan’s Quick Stop in Fulda. There were four pumps under an aluminum canopy. Two offered regular and premium; the others were diesel with nozzles set higher to accommodate farm vehicles. She filled up her Explorer, parked, and went inside to join Basil and his friend. The interior was immaculate—it always was—with four tight aisles of snacks, bread, cereal, and canned fruits and vegetables. One wall consisted of glass-doored refrigerators that held beverages, dairy, eggs, and sliced meats. A smaller section was a freezer stocked with ice cream and popsicles. A limited assortment with fair prices that offered Fulda residents an alternative to driving to Rockport for groceries. All traces of the once copious Halloween decorations were gone. A small rack of greeting cards had Thanksgiving choices, and she spotted a few Christmas cards. She wondered how early Nang would put up decorations for Christmas; the whole county tended to be early with that. An area roughly a dozen feet square beyond the restroom doors had three round tables with four chairs each, and through a doorway behind the counter she spied the tiny kitchen. A middle-aged man busily worked there; one of Nang’s recent hires. Altogether, the gas station/grocery/restaurant fit in roughly three-thousand square feet, and it had a full-service garage attached. Nang had created this little empire with the winnings from a lottery ticket coupled with a lot of hard work. She’d met him on her first stop to this Quick Mart in January, the second day of her job as the new sheriff of Spencer County. He’d intrigued her immediately, though she had no clue then that it might turn into forever. She caught him grinning at her now from behind his register. “Over here!” Basil waved from the farthest table. She joined him, Nang following with a pad to write their orders. “I’ll take the Crab Meat Sui Mai and Dan Dan Noodles Chen,” Piper said, as she sat. “I know you put something new on the menu, but I really want the Sui Mai.” A pause: “And coffee, black. A big cup.” Basil ordered next. “Spicy mung bean noodle soup, extra-large, and decaf tea.” The man across from Basil studied the menu. “Really wanted a hot dog.” He was built like a linebacker, muscles evident under his gray mesh tank, head shaved, a gold cross dangling from his left ear, the soul patch the only bit of hair she noticed. His skin was the shade of polished chestnut, and she saw one tattoo on his upper right arm: an eagle and anchor with U.S.N. printed under it. “I had my heart set on a couple of hot dogs with sauerkraut and mustard.” “They are bad for you, hot dogs,” Nang said. “My food is very good.” The man scowled. “How about an order of pork dumplings in chili oil, and a cup of that noodle soup that Sherlock’s having. And a giant Diet Coke, cherry if you have it. Not a lot of ice, I don’t like it watered down.” Nang hurried into the kitchen. “Hot dogs,” Basil growled. “Really, Tug? Everything here is excellent.” “So you’ve told me.” Tug swiveled to face Piper. “And you’re Sherlock’s boss.” “Piper.” She extended her hand. “Sheriff Piper Blackwell,” Basil said. “Heard a lot about you, Sheriff Blackwell.” Tug shook her hand. She felt a grip of iron, his fingers calloused. “Most of it good.”