The Piper Blackwell Audiobook Series Blog Tour Materials

The Piper Blackwell Audiobook Series by Jean Rabe

Thank you to all those taking part in The Piper Blackwell Audiobook Series Blog Tour and for others who just want to share about the book!
Below you'll find:

A blog tour Schedule
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A listing of: buy links, blogger run giveaway, rafflecopter, Blurb, about author, and excerpts. Please only use the excerpt assigned to you. (If you'd like an excerpt, get in contact with Echo at psstpromotions@gmail.com and we'll see about getting you something for your blog--the more the merrier!)

Again we so appreciate the time and effort you've spent to join our blog tour and help get the word out about this latest release from Janet Walden-West. Watching her succeed is such a privilege and we thank you so much for taking part in that.
Please let us know when you post and send us a link at psstpromotions@gmail.com so we can add it to our blog tour and, more importantly, share the heck out of it!
Wishing you all the best!
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Blog Tour Schedule

November 15

Echo's Tales

November 16

Luna Joya

November 17

Robin Loves Reading

November 18

Distinct authors

November 19

Books To Curl Up With

November 22

Stephen D. Sullivan

Taming Chaos

Archeolibrarian

November 23

Writing Cave Corner

November 24

All Things Dark and Dirty

November 25

Janet Walden-West

November 26

Slippery Words

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The Piper Blackwell Audiobook Series - Jean Rabe
A murder hides in plain sight...
mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio
@jeanerabe
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Set in a small town in Indiana, Piper Blackwell is the newly appointed sheriff in this intense mystery thriller series from Faust lifetime achievement winner, Jean Rabe. Narrator Catherine Wenglowski lends her voice to this series of books that will keep you up at night...

DEAD OF WINTER, DEAD OF NIGHT, and now, DEAD OF SUMMER, have been converted into ear candy (or, audiobooks) for your listening enjoyment.

About the Books:

DEAD OF WINTER
In a deceptively peaceful county, a murderer hides in plain sight.
Fifty-eight minutes into her first day on the job, 23-year-old Sheriff Piper Blackwell is faced with a grisly murder, the victim artfully posed amid decorations on his lawn. Drawing on former military training, Piper must prove herself worthy of the sheriff's badge, and that won't be easy.
Genre: Mystery/Thriller
Length: 8 hr 47 min
Language: English
Buy Link: mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio

DEAD OF NIGHT
As Sheriff Piper Blackwell rushes to a clandestine meeting with an aging, paranoid veteran who believes spies are trailing his every move, she is caught in a fierce thunderstorm. Pounding rain drums against the bluff, washing away the earth and revealing a grisly secret someone tried to bury a long time ago.
Putting a name to the skeleton on the bluff, and searching for the thief who robbed the old veteran of his life’s earnings, sends Piper delving into the sleepy towns that dot her rural county. Now she’s digging into pasts perhaps best left alone.
Accompanied by Chief Deputy Oren Rosenberg, Piper seeks to expose a truth someone wants to remain forever hidden. The investigation may have started with a thunderstorm, but Piper aims to finish it and find justice. Uncovering fragments of Spencer County’s history could prove more dangerous - and deadlier - than she ever expected.
Genre: Mystery/Thriller
Length: 8 hr 32 min
Language: English
Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/Dead-Night-Piper-Blackwell-Mystery/dp/B08Q9SFKNY/

DEAD OF SUMMER
Shouts of delight turn to screams of terror when a carnival ride goes berserk at the Spencer County Fair. Sheriff Piper Blackwell must contain the chaos and investigate the possible sabotage, even as she tries to solve a local businessman’s horrific murder.
But managing two investigations with at least one killer on the loose pushes the young officer and her tiny staff to their limits. Can Piper catch the murderer, or will the summer’s body count continue to rise?
Genre: Mystery/Thriller
Length: 8hr 19 min
Language: English
Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/Dead-Summer-Piper-Blackwell-Mystery/dp/B094M1NCKF/

Love the Piper Blackwell Series and want to keep up with Jean's latest works? Sign-up for her newsletter: https://jeanrabe.com/sign-up-for-my-newsletter/ and follow her on Amazon: http://author.to/JeanRabe.

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

About the Narrator:
Catherine Wenglowski is a New York City based audiobook narrator. With a background in theater and as a classically trained singer, combined with her lifelong love of reading, Catherine uses her trained ear and creativity to add breath and life to characters and to connect with her audience. Visit her website at: https://www.wenglowvo.com/

#audiobook #audiobookstagram #audiobooksrock #bookrecommendations #bookstagram #mysterybooks #mysterythriller #mysterythrillersuspense #mysterythrillerbook #mysterythrillerbookrecommendation #mysterythrillerbookslover #crimethrillermystery #smalltownmysteries #smalltownmurder #smalltownmysterybook

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Rafflecopter:
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About the Narrator:
Catherine Wenglowski is a New York City based audiobook narrator. With a background in theater and as a classically trained singer, combined with her lifelong love of reading, Catherine uses her trained ear and creativity to add breath and life to characters and to connect with her audience. Visit her website at: https://www.wenglowvo.com/

HTML Post:

<img data-file-id="5783404" height="750" src="https://mcusercontent.com/db46d89a669bcc0564562defc/images/0efd42d9-17e0-d7e9-31ea-7e11f1d4abc1.png" style="border: 0px ; width: 500px; height: 750px; margin: 0px;" width="500" /> 
 
 
Set in a small town in Indiana, Piper Blackwell is the newly appointed sheriff in this intense mystery thriller series from Faust lifetime achievement winner, Jean Rabe. Narrator Catherine Wenglowski lends her voice to this series of books that will keep you up at night... 
 
DEAD OF WINTER, DEAD OF NIGHT, and now, DEAD OF SUMMER, have been converted into ear candy (or, audiobooks) for your listening enjoyment.  
 
About the Books: 
 
DEAD OF WINTER 
In a deceptively peaceful county, a murderer hides in plain sight. 
Fifty-eight minutes into her first day on the job, 23-year-old Sheriff Piper Blackwell is faced with a grisly murder, the victim artfully posed amid decorations on his lawn. Drawing on former military training, Piper must prove herself worthy of the sheriff's badge, and that won't be easy. 
Genre: Mystery/Thriller 
Length: 8 hr 47 min 
Language: English 
Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/The-Dead-of-Winter-Jean-Rabe-audiobook/dp/B06ZXTG836 
 
DEAD OF NIGHT 
As Sheriff Piper Blackwell rushes to a clandestine meeting with an aging, paranoid veteran who believes spies are trailing his every move, she is caught in a fierce thunderstorm. Pounding rain drums against the bluff, washing away the earth and revealing a grisly secret someone tried to bury a long time ago. 
Putting a name to the skeleton on the bluff, and searching for the thief who robbed the old veteran of his life’s earnings, sends Piper delving into the sleepy towns that dot her rural county. Now she’s digging into pasts perhaps best left alone. 
Accompanied by Chief Deputy Oren Rosenberg, Piper seeks to expose a truth someone wants to remain forever hidden. The investigation may have started with a thunderstorm, but Piper aims to finish it and find justice. Uncovering fragments of Spencer County’s history could prove more dangerous - and deadlier - than she ever expected. 
Genre: Mystery/Thriller 
Length: 8 hr 32 min 
Language: English 
Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/Dead-Night-Piper-Blackwell-Mystery/dp/B08Q9SFKNY/ 
 
DEAD OF SUMMER 
Shouts of delight turn to screams of terror when a carnival ride goes berserk at the Spencer County Fair. Sheriff Piper Blackwell must contain the chaos and investigate the possible sabotage, even as she tries to solve a local businessman’s horrific murder. 
But managing two investigations with at least one killer on the loose pushes the young officer and her tiny staff to their limits. Can Piper catch the murderer, or will the summer’s body count continue to rise? 
Genre: Mystery/Thriller 
Length: 8hr 19 min 
Language: English 
Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/Dead-Summer-Piper-Blackwell-Mystery/dp/B094M1NCKF/ 
 
Love the Piper Blackwell Series and want to keep up with Jean's latest works? Sign-up for her newsletter: https://jeanrabe.com/sign-up-for-my-newsletter/ and follow her on Amazon: http://author.to/JeanRabe. 
 
 
<a class="rcptr" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/9751c04264/" rel="nofollow" data-raflid="9751c04264" data-theme="classic" data-template="" id="rcwidget_0c6ltoxw">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a>
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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 <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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About the Narrator: 
Catherine Wenglowski is a New York City based audiobook narrator. With a background in theater and as a classically trained singer, combined with her lifelong love of reading, Catherine uses her trained ear and creativity to add breath and life to characters and to connect with her audience. Visit her website at: <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.wenglowvo.com/&sa=D&source=editors&ust=1636871680512000&usg=AOvVaw0nNdY5i_egwB4Af7F5CVjx">https://www.wenglowvo.com/</a>

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Blogger Run Giveaway:

For those that selected giveaway on the form, you're authorized to giveaway one e-audio copy of Dead of Winter by Jean Rabe to one of your blog readers. This is a giveaway outside of the Rafflecopter, just for your readers.

Buy Links:

Dead of Winter on Amazon: mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio
Dead of Night on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Dead-Night-Piper-Blackwell-Mystery/dp/B08Q9SFKNY/
Dead of Summer on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Dead-Summer-Piper-Blackwell-Mystery/dp/B094M1NCKF/
The Piper Blackwell Series on Amazon: http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries

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Book Blurb:

Author/Narrator Bio:

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

About the Narrator:
Catherine Wenglowski is a New York City based audiobook narrator. With a background in theater and as a classically trained singer, combined with her lifelong love of reading, Catherine uses her trained ear and creativity to add breath and life to characters and to connect with her audience. Visit her website at: https://www.wenglowvo.com/

Excerpts:

Excerpt One:
Monday, January 1st

Conrad Delaney’s body leaned against a life-sized stuffed Santa on the seat of a glossy black sleigh. It looked like he was going for a ride with the jolly old elf.
The centerpiece of Conrad’s front yard, the sleigh was red the last time Piper saw it. That was more than a dozen years back when her dad drove the family through the county to take in the Christmas lights. Piper had begged to stop so she could sit with Santa, but dad kept driving…on to the next display, and the next.
Large burlap sacks filled the back of the sleigh; artfully spilling from one were boxes wrapped in colorful plastic and tied with red and green bows, everything held in place with fishing line. The ribbons fluttered in the chill breeze that cut across the snowy landscape.
Piper shivered and turned her coat collar up.
For variety sometimes Conrad put big stuffed animals in the mix, and one Christmas he reported a four-foot-tall Teddy bear stolen. The sheriff’s department recovered the bear about a month later, hanging from a telephone pole out on Highway 545 near the monastery, fluffy guts spilling out. It had been a hot news item for the town of Fulda, which boasted a population of two hundred.
One hundred and ninety-nine now.
A thin layer of frost had formed on Conrad’s face, the spotlight making it sparkle like he’d been dipped in glitter. His lips formed an “O” similar to the expression on Santa’s plastic visage, and his eyes, the washed-out blue of a winter sky, were locked open in a perpetual thousand yard stare.
He looked peaceful sitting there in his dark jeans and gray wool sweater, a single line of egg-white reindeers parading across his chest, bright red Merry Christmas mug in his cupped hands that contained, Piper guessed from the look of it, coffee.
“Happy New Year, Sheriff Blackwood."

Excerpt Two:
Piper glanced over her shoulder to see her chief deputy. He cut through the gawkers on the driveway—the people from the farmhouse across the street who’d been celebrating. The owner of the farmhouse had walked over to invite Conrad to the New Year’s Eve festivities and discovered the ice cold truth of the tableaux. He called 9-1-1, and then all the partiers came over for a gander.
“Happy New Year, Oren,” she returned.
The chief deputy regarded the yard before traipsing over.
“Surprised you’re here.” Oren checked his watch. “It’s only a quarter to one. Surprised you’re not out at some bar in Rockport celebrating, a young girl like you.”
“The coroner is on her way and—”
“She’s an old friend of Conrad’s. This’ll be hard on her.” Oren Rosenberg was the same age as Conrad, sixty-five, though taller at six-four and built like a linebacker, with curly steel-gray hair that stuck out at odd angles from under his hat. “I got here as soon as I could. It was a drive, and I needed to change first.” Oren was in uniform, complete with the department-issue leather jacket and boots.
“No one inside,” she said. “I checked. Apparently he lived alone.”
“Yeah, Conrad had for a few years.”
“You knew Mr. Delaney?”
Oren shrugged. “I know a lot of people from working in the department for a stretch.”
Piper was a foot shorter than Oren, forty-two years younger and wiry, practically child-sized next to the burly chief deputy. She used the small digital camera in her right hand to take pictures of the sleigh, then close-ups of Conrad, before turning and taking pictures of the partiers on the driveway, the breath trailing away from their faces in miniature clouds. She wore sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, hadn’t bothered with her sheriff’s uniform, rushing here directly from her father’s kitchen when she’d got the dispatcher’s call at midnight. She’d thrown a pea coat on and now wished she’d gone to her apartment for something more substantial, and—after seeing her chief deputy—to change into her uniform. But she’d thought it would be a simple and quick run.
Oren reached to his side and pulled his flashlight.
“I don’t think you’ll need that. Got plenty of light.” Piper indicated the yard spotlight trained on the sleigh and the front of Conrad’s decked-out house. “Probably a heart attack. I saw a little brown bottle of nitroglycerin tablets on the counter in the kitchen.”
She heard the people on the driveway talking, the comments swirling together. She could make out:
“Poor Conrad.”
“Didn’t he have a bad heart?”
“How old was he?”
“Sixty-five, just turned I think.”
“Gone to be with his wife.”
“Got a boy somewhere around here, right? Maybe in Owensboro? Henderson?”
“Heart attack, I bet. Or a stroke.”
“Poor, poor Mr. Delaney.”
“Maybe a heart attack,” Oren said. He held the flashlight like a baton and gently thumped it against the palm of his free hand. He wore deerskin gloves. “Conrad used to smoke.”
Piper rocked from one foot to the other. The cold had burrowed through her sneakers and numbed her feet. “I’m thinking he probably came outside to see the old year off, maybe listen to the folks across the road having a good time.” She’d heard their music when she pulled up, loud enough to carry across the county road, moldy-oldies rock, My Three O’Clock Thrill. Someone had returned to the farmhouse and turned it off. Now all she heard was their speculative banter and the shushing sound the breeze-tossed pine garland made against the eaves of the house.

Excerpt Three:
“Probably died fast,” Piper said. She hoped he did. “Probably didn’t feel much. A heart attack.”
“Maybe,” Oren repeated. Softer: “Maybe a heart attack. More likely murder.”
Piper felt what little warmth there was go out of her face. She didn’t want this to be murder, wasn’t ready to deal with a murder.
“It’s in the eyes,” Oren said. “See the red spots in the white? Got some red spots on his forehead, too. It’s called petechial hemorrhage. When someone struggles for air, it increases the pressure, causes capillaries to rupture. The tiny red spots.” He lowered the beam to Conrad’s hands. “You can get petechial with some natural deaths, if it’s something real sudden. But you’d think if he had a heart attack, he would’ve dropped his coffee. Big mug, a lot of coffee.” The mug in Conrad’s hands rested on his knee. A pause. “Doesn’t look like he spilled a drop. In fact, the coffee’s frozen solid. He’s been here a while.”
“Murder,” Piper said flatly. A rural county like this, a saltbox in the sticks, population two hundred…one ninety-nine now. She sucked in her lower lip. First day on the job and I’m in over my head. Dear God, don’t let this be murder.
“I’d bet my boat Conrad was murdered.” Oren aimed the flashlight at the ground, the snow disturbed all around the sleigh. Boot prints across boot prints. The snow was also disturbed leading from the house to the sleigh. “Damn the lookie loos, messed the yard all up and down.”
The flashlight beam returned to Conrad’s face.
“Petechial hemorrhage.” Oren made a tsk-tsking sound, and Piper had to strain to hear him over the people still talking on the driveway, louder than they needed to be, the volume likely fueled by the alcohol they’d consumed at their party.
“Poor, poor Conrad,” had become a mantra.
“But you’d know all about petechial hemorrhage, Sheriff, if you had some experience,” Oren said.
Not only was this Piper’s first day as sheriff, having won the election in November, it was her first with the department.
“If you’re curious, the coroner can tell you all about petechial hemorrhage,” Oren continued. “Or a youngster like you, so Internet savvy, you could Google it on your phone.” He took a step back. “Most likely strangulation, suffocation. Coffee mug in his hand like that? I’d say someone killed Conrad Delaney and set him up here for the neighbors to see. Posed him all nice and proper next to Saint Nick for whatever sick reason. Petechial hemorrhage. P-e-t-e-c-h-i-a-l. Look it up. Bet my boat on it.” He let out a low whistle. “Haven’t had a murder in the county in a few years.”

Excerpt Four:
Oren Rosenberg considered himself old fashioned…or maybe just old, given that his new boss was his granddaughter’s age. He pulled out a narrow notebook and a Sharpie and recorded the names and phone numbers of the people shivering and gossiping on the driveway; it was an easy task, he knew most of them. The other deputies used phones and tablets to text in information. But Oren believed electronics could fail, and paper and ink were more reliable, especially in this weather.
“Nobody should die on New Year’s Eve, Oren,” Chris Hagee said. “You’re supposed to celebrate life, you know? Drink, dance. Well, dance if you’ve been drinking enough. Watch the ball drop.”
“Yeah, heck of a way to start off the New Year, eh? Need to talk to you, Chris.” Oren’s conversation was accompanied by foggy puffs.
Chris rubbed his hands together. “Out here? You’re kidding, right? My bony ass is turning into an ice cube, you know. I was a fool to stay out as long as I have. How ‘bout we go over to my place with Joanie and—”
Oren pointed to his Ford Explorer parked on the side of the road, flashers going. He wanted to get Chris alone. “How ‘bout we talk in my car for a few minutes first? I’ll turn on the heater.” He directed the rest to the others: “Free country, you’re welcome to stay out here, but ain’t nothing exciting about watching a dead man in a sleigh. He’s not gonna get up and sing. Why don’t you head on back with Joan and—”
“I bet it was a heart attack. Conrad used to smoke,” someone wearing an Indianapolis Colts jacket pushed. “Two packs a day, he did.”
“He quit with the patch,” another said. “My cousin quit with the patch, too. Chris, I keep saying you should try the patch—”
“Smokes and weight.” The man in the Colts jacket raised his voice. “Darn near as pudgy as that Santa he’s—”
“Think he killed himself?” This came from someone Oren hadn’t met before, a middle-aged man who bore a strong resemblance to Chris, maybe a relative come for the party. “Wife dead four years now, one kid a loser, the other is who-knows-where. Do you think he was depressed and—”
“Thought I heard you say something about murder, Deputy Rosenberg.” This was from Joan Hagee. “Did I hear right?”

Excerpt Five:
Oren twisted the key and turned on the heater. The other deputies drove either older Crown Vics or a relatively recent model of Taurus. Oren’s was a 2015, newest in the small fleet, and with comfortable leather seats. He’d claimed it a year ago come February when the county caucus appointed him sheriff to fill out Paul Blackwell’s term when Paul quit because of the cancer. Oren won the primary and figured he’d take the election in November. Out of respect, no one else in the department contested him for it.
He hadn’t counted on a challenge from Paul’s daughter, Piper, her coming home from Iraq, putting signs up everywhere, bright neon yellow and screaming red: Vote for Blackwell, Spencer County Sheriff.
And more than that, Oren certainly hadn’t counted on her winning.
It was a pity vote, he figured, pity for poor sick Paul Blackwell, the beloved sheriff who’d been with the department thirty years and had held four terms. Name recognition: Paul Blackwell…Piper Blackwell. P. Blackwell. Blackwell Blackwell Blackwell. Probably half the people who voted for her didn’t know they were electing a shikse…and one the same age as his granddaughter. Twenty-three. The pity vote and ignorance, likely coupled with a hint of anti-Semitism, wanting to elect a Protestant of some stripe.
“Gornisht helfn,” he muttered.
“Hey…you zoning out on me, Oren? Earth to Oren. Come in, Oren. I said, what do you want to talk to me ‘bout? Nice car. What kind of mileage does this get?”
Oren smelled whiskey on Chris’s breath, and when the man belched there was a burst of something sharp, maybe spiced sausage. There was a strong trace of cigarette smoke imbedded in the parka; Chris probably had to do his smoking outside.
“You found Conrad,” Oren stated.
“Well, yeah. Was looking out the picture window, saw him in that damned sleigh.”
“What time did you see him?”
“Well…let me think. It was heading toward midnight. We were waiting for the ball to drop. Not yet midnight, maybe twenty to, a quarter to, around then, you know.”
“Go on…the Delaney place was dark—”
“Except for the spotlight. Yeah, well, I wouldn’t’ve noticed him but for that damned spotlight aimed at that damned sleigh. Actually, Joan saw him first, pointed him out to me, told me I should invite him over, that Conrad shouldn’t sit out there in the cold all by his lonesome.”
“So you walked over to invite him?”
“Well, I opened a window first and hollered. But then I realized he couldn’t hear me over the music. We’d cranked it pretty loud, you know, it being New Year’s Eve and a party and all. So yeah, I went over.”
“Right away when Joan saw him? Twenty to midnight?”
“Yeah, thereabouts. I wanted to make sure I could go over and back and not miss the ball dropping, time for a cigarette in there, too. So I threw on my coat and walked across the road, lit up on the end of his driveway, you know.”
A silence settled, the heater gently purring. Oren glanced out the windshield. Piper had put her camera away and was squatted next to the sleigh, looking at something underneath it. He hoped she had the presence not to pick up anything without properly bagging it.
Oren could have retired after the failed election. He had twenty years with the sheriff’s department and twenty before that with the Rockport police. There was a fine second pension ahead of him. But he had helped two of his kids with their money woes, and helped his granddaughter pay for college. Four years ago he and his wife moved into a new, but modest, beachfront house on Lake Noel in Santa Claus, bought a nice boat that he didn’t get out on often enough, and had a double-wide second garage built to store it in. He figured he needed the chief deputy salary and wouldn’t know what to do with all that retirement time on his hands.
Besides, Piper would have to attend—and pass—the Plainfield Sheriff’s Academy this April. If she failed, and he considered that a distinct possibility, Oren was certain the caucus would put him back in charge.

Excerpt Six:
“When was the last time you saw Conrad?”
“Like I said, just before midnight and—”
“When he was alive, Chris. When’s the last time you saw Conrad, talked to him?”
Chris scratched at his chin. “Oh, I dunno. I…Thursday? Yeah, last Thursday. I remember. I saw Conrad Thursday, ran into him at the grocery store in Rockport bright and early. I was buying stuff for my party, to make my smokies, getting chips, dips, a couple of bags of them itty bitty carrots. I had a cart heaped full. Conrad had one of them little carry baskets, you know, just a few things in it. Cat food and coffee. I noticed that ‘cause we drink the same brand of coffee. Folgers, you know.” He shook his head, his chin drooping to his chest. “Oren, can’t imagine why anyone would kill him. Not an enemy in the world, Conrad. Who’d want to kill a nice man like that?”
That was the question burning in Oren’s thoughts: who would kill Conrad Delaney? Oren liked to work jigsaw puzzles in his den at home, and an investigation was a lot like that, sorting through the pieces, matching the colors, and fitting everything together, building probable cause and finding a suspect.
“So when you cut through the yard to see Conrad, did you notice tracks in the snow?”
Chris scratched his head and leaned forward so he could better look out the windshield. “Well, yeah, now that you mention it, I did see some tracks.”
“What did they look like?”
“Like tracks, you know. Footprints. Well, not bare footprints. Big ones with tread, like from hunting boots, you know. Going from the driveway to the sleigh, and then from the sleigh to the house. I walked through them, the tracks, stepped right in them ‘cause I didn’t have boots on and didn’t want to get snow in these loafers. I’m wearing dress socks, they’re thin and—”
“So you stepped in the tracks you noticed.”
“Yeah. Followed the footprints, you know what I mean. Where the snow was already mashed down. I was trying not to get snow inside my shoes.”
“Sure, I get it. How many sets of tracks did you see? Before you walked in them? Like, were they from one person, or two?”
“Well, the ones I walked in. One set of tracks. One person. A man. I wear a size ten, and they were a bit bigger than mine.” He smiled as if proud of himself for providing that tidbit. Then he leaned even farther forward and pointed. “Can’t really see them now, those tracks I walked in. The yard’s all messed up. ”
“Because of your company.”
“My company?”
“The people from your party.”
“Well, yeah. Like I told you, after I called 9-1-1, I called Joan and everyone came across to see the body. Didn’t none of us get to see the ball drop. I guess we all sort of covered up those tracks I walked in, looking around the sleigh and such, slopped some snow up on that little sidewalk.”
“Your guests tromped all over my crime scene,” Oren said softly.
Chris leaned back in the seat. “I voted for you, just saying, you know.”
Oren saw most of the lookie loos shuffling across the road, back to the Hagee farmhouse, Joan leading them. Two stayed, though, fidgeting to ward off the chill, the one in the Indianapolis Colts jacket occasionally pointing at the sleigh. By the way their breath puffed away it looked like they were engrossed in conversation. So far no one had gotten in their cars and driven away from the Hagee’s.
Oren unbuttoned his coat because the heater was a little too efficient.
Twenty-three years old.
He cranked the defroster to take care of the glaze forming on the windshield. The New Year was getting off to a cold and bitter start.

Excerpt Seven:
Tuesday, January 2nd

“You know how it goes. Fell in with the wrong crowd in junior high…not that there was much of a crowd, the school being so small. Hell, everything here is tinier than a flea’s fart. But whatever was wrong, whatever was a bad influence…back then I managed to find it.” Zachary Delaney sat in his father’s living room, in a high-backed chair upholstered in a blue floral fabric. “Drugs, alcohol, you name it, I was into it.”
Zachary didn’t fit the room, which was done in pastels, the woodwork a creamy birch. But then Oren thought Zachary wouldn’t fit much of anywhere, a hippie crossed with a biker wannabe, with a dash of St. Vincent DePaul’s Center sprinkled in the mix. Greasy long hair, stubble. He was dressed in navy sweatpants that grazed the tops of his raggedy fringed moccasins darkened from melting snow. His long-sleeved green paisley shirt was complemented with an unbuttoned black leather Harley vest that had seen better years. His winter coat, a hunter’s orange nylon parka, was draped over the back of the chair. The coat looked new.
Oren had scheduled the meeting for 9 a.m., but Zachary showed up an hour late and shrugged when given the customary, “Sorry for your loss.”
Randy stood in the living room doorway and watched.
“You know, I just saw my old man at Christmas,” Zachary continued. “I dunno, guess that was five, six days ago.”
“Eight,” Oren said.
“Yeah, eight. I came up for just the day.” He chuckled. “Hell, I only stayed a few hours. Didn’t want to put my old man out. He’d wash sheets, towels, everything after someone used ‘em just once, just breathed on ‘em. He asked me to stay, though, twice asked me. I should’ve maybe. Hell yeah, I should’ve. One more thing in my life I messed up, right? Not spending the night, not watching old Christmas movies with him. Shit.”
“If he asked you to stay,” Oren posed, “the two of you must have—”
“Been getting along better? Yeah, well, we’d been getting along a lot better since I cleaned up my act, stopped with the drugs.”
Oren fought the eyebrow that wanted to rise. From Zachary’s outward appearance, it didn’t look like he’d cleaned up anything.
“He was doing okay, my old man. Said he’d just been to the doctor, blood pressure was better, had repainted his sleigh, had found a new radio controlled airplane kit at a half-price sale and was gonna put it together after the holidays, fly it in the spring. He asked me if I’d come back some weekend and work on it with him. I was gonna. Shit. I should’ve stayed Christmas night and started on the kit then. Maybe I’ll take the plane back to my place and—”
“Not yet.” This from Randy. “We’ll let you know when the house is clear and you can take some things.”
“Yeah, okay, I guess. Doesn’t seem right, though. It’s my house, not the sheriff’s property.” Zach chewed on his lower lip. “I should be able to take that plane kit.”
Oren had a notebook ready in his back pocket, but he waited. It was clear the boy—he mentally corrected that to man, as Zachary was twenty-six—was going to talk. Bringing out a notebook sometimes caused people to shut down.
“When did you leave home?” Randy asked. “Go out on your own?”
“Fourteen. I started smoking pot when I was fourteen, did some poppers then too, blotter once, maybe twice. Dad caught me with some pot and there was a big blowout. Fourteen. I left when I was fourteen, late one night. Crashed with friends. It was stupid, I know. But I was stupid back then.”
Randy stepped all the way into the room. The detective was two decades younger than Oren and had the silhouette of a dagger—broad shoulders that cut down to a narrow waist and hips, long thin legs. “We haven’t met before, Zachary—”
“Zach’ll do.”
“Zach, then. I should have introduced myself right away. I’m Detective Randy Gerald. I understand—”
“Randy Gerald. A man with two first names. Ha! No, I ‘spect we haven’t met. Don’t remember you, anyway. I remember Oren here. He arrested me once, speeding. Helluva ticket at the time ‘cause I wasn’t working and had to borrow the money to pay it. Then the week after that the sheriff got me. I did a year and a half for possession—pot. Christ, it was only pot. Fuckin’ sheriff, he—”
“That would have been Sheriff Paul Blackwell,” Randy said.
“Yeah, fuckin’ Sheriff Paul Blackwell. I did a year and some change, and now that little bit of pot in my pocket would be maybe a fifty dollar fine. Maybe. Dad was pissed at me—again, and embarrassed. I didn’t want him holding the pot thing over my head, so after I got out, I moved out of the county, the state, to Henderson. Figured me and Indiana hadn’t worked out so well. I got a job out on the strip right after you roll off the bridge from Evansville. Wasn’t full time, so I got a second job, delivering The Gleaner on some rural routes, ratcheted up the miles on the Batmobile.”

Excerpt Eight:
Piper hated how death looked. She hated the empty facial expression, the fishbelly white that a man’s skin turned when the blood settled. She hated the smell, especially the blood and the rot, and the piss and shit that were expelled. She’d seen a lot of death in Iraq, and over there it was often accompanied by the stench of burned and bombed buildings, sometimes with acrid chemicals thrown in for the real hurl factor. Death was messy and ugly.
It depressed the hell out of her, but she’d learned to handle it; being stationed in Iraq with Alpha Company, a lot of downrange assignments had given her an iron resolve. She wouldn’t look away from a corpse, no matter how much of it was missing or how long it had been decomposing. She might have hated how bodies looked after life fled, but she respected enough that souls had occupied those shells, and so she would never turn away.
Conrad Delaney was the most pristine corpse she’d had to contend with.
She took the stairs to the hospital basement. The stairwell smelled fusty, like an old closet rather than like the bottle of antiseptic the rest of the building reeked of. She loitered outside the morgue, thinking about her father, who would be undergoing a chemo session right about now, and praying that this go-round would be effective. Forcing her father from her thoughts, she went inside.
The morgue was so much different from a war zone, where the dead were in the domain of the living. Here a wall-sized refrigerator with stainless steel doors dominated, and the living—she and the coroner, Dr. Annie Neufeld—were in the domain of the dead.
Piper saw a form in an open file folder on the counter, the coroner’s report partially filled in with pencil. The finished form would be ink and duplicated with computer records. Conrad Reagan Delaney. Height, weight, date of birth, all had numbers. Under cause of death, Dr. Neufeld had listed: Strangulation, C.C.K. The time of death was blank.
Conrad lay on a stainless steel table. A half-sheet across his middle afforded the body some amount of modesty. The table was slightly tilted, and there were troughs on each side to catch fluids. She’d learned on her way over that they’d cranked up the heat in one of the basement rooms yesterday to help Conrad defrost. Maybe this room. It felt overly warm in here, and she slipped off her jacket and laid it on the counter next to the folder.
Dr. Neufeld spoke into a microphone attached to a headset, leaving her hands free. It looked like she was finishing the autopsy rather than just starting.
Piper checked her watch and gave the coroner a businesslike smile. “You’re almost done. I thought you told me 10:30.”
“I started early. Had trouble sleeping. Probably should have called you, eh?”
Piper figured the coroner was also a friend of Oren’s and would have preferred that he’d won the election, would have probably waited on the autopsy…or at least called about the early start.
“Yeah, you should have called.”
Dr. Neufeld was covered in scrubs head to foot. Piper could see her eyes well enough. No makeup, dark circles and age creases at the edges; gray-brown hair escaping the cap—much the way she looked yesterday, though her wrappings then had been winter clothing and a heavily-snagged long red scarf. Oren had said she’d retired as a pediatrician half a dozen years ago, citing rising malpractice insurance costs. She’d run for coroner and had held the office for four years, and had won reelection in the fall.
“Oren said you were friends with Mr. Delaney.”
“Always hard to do an autopsy on a friend, Sheriff Blackwell. I could’ve passed this along to someone else here, but didn’t want to give Conrad to a stranger.” A pause. “Yeah. Conrad and me, we were close. Went to grade school and high school together, lived on the same street in Rockport growing up. He was two years older, but we hung out a lot, went fishing all over in the summer, sometimes Oren tagged along. I went with Conrad to his senior prom.” Dr. Neufeld laughed. Piper thought it was a good laugh, sounding like crystal wind chimes. “That was back in the day when I tried very hard to be straight.”
Piper had heard that Dr. Neufeld married her longtime companion in the fall of 2014 when the state’s same sex marriage ban was struck down. Racy news for Spencer County. She probably wouldn’t have been elected to coroner, as conservative as the county was, but apparently no one else wanted the job.
“Pattern bruising on his back. So whoever killed him—man or woman—held him down with a strong knee, enough force to break two ribs, looped a belt around his neck, and strangled him. It was Conrad’s belt. The killer threaded it through the jeans afterward. Matches the pattern on the neck.” She pointed to the corpse’s throat; the marks were so deep they had broken the skin. “You wouldn’t have seen the ligature marks last night with the sweater, as high-necked as it was. My guess is Conrad’s killer dressed him after he was dead. Cleaned him up a little first, nothing to find under the fingernails. Absolutely nothing.” She shook her head, more wisps of gray-brown hair coming lose. “Damn shows like CSI; in reruns for eternity it shows you how to not leave evidence.”

Excerpt Nine:
Oren parked to block the end of the driveway and motioned for Randy to get out first. He eased out a moment later and locked the Explorer, glanced up at a battleship gray sky.
Oren usually didn’t mind winter, thought it made the world look like a pretty postcard, and the Explorer drove through drifts like they were nonexistent. But this year there’d been way too much of the white stuff; it was making him feel his years.
“Let’s take a look,” he said. “Get it started. Get it over with. My wife’s slow-cooking a pot roast for tonight.”
Abigail Thornbridge’s place was a Roosevelt Cottage, a term for the WWII-era homes that looked mostly the same—rectangular with a hipped roof and minimal eaves, a one-car attached garage, and a hood over the stoop at the front door. Hers was an olive green wood-frame, the paint so chipped in places it looked like patches of dried fish scales had been glued on. All of the houses on this street in the small town of Grandview were built in the late 30s or early 40s, likely by the same contractor, and most having only slight variations to Abigail’s. About half of them still had Christmas decorations, icicle lights strung along the eaves, bows on mailboxes, wreaths, and one had an inflatable snowman that was listing.
Abigail’s front door had a silver and red garland bell hooked to a nail.
“Good morning, Sheriff!” Directly across the street a woman with a broom stood in her driveway. She made a show of brushing away some snow, waved to Oren and called out again, “Something wrong at Abigail’s, Sheriff?”
Oren didn’t correct her on the sheriff part. “Can’t talk about it right now, ma’am.”
“I haven’t seen Abby for a few days. I was starting to worry. I hope she’s okay.”
“Kochleffl,” Oren muttered.
“Nosey Parker,” Randy hushed. “A busybody, but not busy enough. You’d think if she hadn’t seen her elderly neighbor that maybe she should have checked on her.”
Grandview was on the southern edge of the county, overlooking the Ohio River, and so named because of its “grand view.” It covered a tad less than a square mile and had roughly seven hundred and fifty residents. Oren considered it one of the county’s younger towns, with only ten percent of the population sixty-five or older, and the women outnumbered the men by only a handful of percentage points. Abigail had fit into both of those categories.
Abigail’s pastor had found “Sweet Abby T” a short while ago, dialed 9-1-1, and the dispatcher put it through to Oren. The pastor had said Abigail rotated with another woman playing the piano at the Baptist church, and that he’d stopped this morning to talk about his upcoming selection of hymns. When she didn’t answer the door, he had a bad feeling because “she was getting on in years” and let himself in; it was unlocked.
Oren put on gloves and nudged open the door. One glance into the living room was enough; he agreed with the pastor’s judgment that Abigail Thornbridge had been murdered. “After you, Randy.”
“Gee, thanks.” Randy started recording with the department’s handheld video camera.
At first Oren thought Abigail’s dog was dead, too. It was a pug, a black one with a mostly white face, suggesting it had some age to it. The dog hadn’t moved, curled between Abigail’s feet. Finally, he noticed it breathe. It was sound asleep, hadn’t heard them come in.

Excerpt Ten:
She’d picked the navy blue Taurus; it was too large for her liking, but it was smaller than the Explorers and the Crown Vics. She’d nearly taken Oren’s Explorer though; she knew he coveted it and that it was a status symbol because it was the newest vehicle in the fleet. And it would spite him, might be that proverbial last straw that caused him to hand in his resignation. Would that be a bad thing? Better than her firing him. She didn’t like working with him because of his verbal jabs and condescending glares, didn’t like him period, but she needed him—at least until she was more familiar with the department and the county. And at least until this murder--murders—were solved.
So she’d picked the Taurus.
Piper didn’t like big cars because the gas mileage was sad, they didn’t maneuver as well, and it felt like too much metal, bringing to mind her days in Iraq of riding in Hummers and LAVs, Light Armored Vehicles. Before leaving Fort Campbell, she bought an apple red Smart Fortwo, a “suggestion of a car” her dad called it. It was a three-cylinder turbo-charged five-speed manual with an oatmeal hued interior, and it registered every dip and rocky patch in the road. Piper didn’t mind that it wasn’t the smoothest of rides; it averaged thirty-five miles a gallon and was effortless to parallel park. The Taurus? She’d find out in a handful of minutes what kind of mileage she was getting. The car’d had a full tank when she headed to Evansville this morning, and though she didn’t have to fill it up just yet, there was a gas station she needed to visit.
Piper pulled into Phan’s Quick Stop in Fulda. There were four pumps under an aluminum canopy that provided limited shelter from the snow but did nothing to cut the wind. Two pumps offered regular and premium, the other two were diesel with nozzles set higher up, probably to accommodate farm vehicles. She flipped the pump for regular and held her breath while the gas flowed.
The snowfall had increased since she’d left Miss Thornbridge’s house, and the dispatcher told her five inches were expected. Why did this winter have to break with Southern Indiana tradition? Why did it have to dump so much snow and threaten to rewrite the record books? Why did Oren have to be such an ass? Fort Campbell would be warmer, less snow probably, certainly, her life more comfortable there, and no Oren. Her life more comfortable even if she’d be spending it on another tour in the Middle East. Military life suited Piper, the routine of it, the rigorousness, and the friends she’d gained there. She’d seriously thought about making a career of it, knew she could climb the ranks. There was a routine to the Spencer Counter Sheriff’s Department, too, and so far all of it involved tragedy.
“What the hell am I doing?” she said as she replaced the nozzle in the pump and screwed the gas cap tight. “What the holy hell am I doing here?” Piper didn’t mean the gas station. She parked and went inside.
It was near to immaculate and pleasantly warm, and it was reminiscent of her favorite 7-Eleven right off the base. She walked up and down the four tight aisles offering snacks, bread, cereal, coffee, canned fruits and vegetables, and assorted home supplies. A display at the front was filled with ice scrapers, snow shovels, caps, gloves, and bagged salt; another held a scattering of holiday items marked After Christmas Sale. One wall consisted of a series of glass refrigerator doors, and behind them an assortment of soft drinks, juices, milk cartons, lunch meats, eggs, butter, and cheese. A smaller section was a freezer stocked with pizza, egg rolls, breakfast sausage, ice cream, and boxed chicken breasts. Piper considered it a good stock, reasonable prices from what she could see, and offering Fulda residents an alternative to driving to Rockport for groceries. But the choices were limited. Cheerios, but no corn flakes.
An area roughly a dozen feet square beyond the two restroom doors had three round tables, each with four chairs. A large, bright menu hung on the wall behind the small counter, and through a doorway behind the counter she spied a tiny kitchen. So a gas station/grocery/restaurant, all in roughly three thousand square feet. Piper stepped up and nodded to the man at the cash register. He was Asian, Vietnamese according to her dad.
“You must be Phan,” Piper said, as she reached into her pocket for her wallet. “I’ll need a receipt.” The Taurus appeared to be getting twenty-three miles to a gallon.
“Nang,” the man said, taking her credit card and running it through the machine. “Phan is my family name.”
“Nice to meet you, Nang.” Piper looked at the menu, twelve items on it plus a “today’s special.” It was well past lunch, but she hadn’t eaten. And though she’d told Oren they’d compare notes at the department, she knew he wouldn’t get there until later. She could spare the time to eat. The spices swirling in the air were making her mouth water.
“You hungry, Sheriff?” She noticed he had no trace of an accent, beyond the Midwestern one people in the area spewed.
“Yes, very.”
Piper saw that everything was Vietnamese fare—except the drinks.

Excerpt Eleven:
Piper could smell the spicy takeout, nestled on the passenger side floorboard. Friday dinner at Nang’s? She wondered if he meant his trailer or the Quick Stop, and she wondered if she’d actually take him up on it. Was it a date? Or was it just a friendly invitation to dinner? Easy to find an excuse to cancel in any event. But it could be a good way to learn more about Mr. Delaney; it seemed the two had become friends. Could also be a good way to gain tidbits about Fulda’s residents, maybe find a suspect or two. Was it a date? Nang was good looking, clean-cut, polite, near her age, and--
The Taurus lurched and Piper grabbed the wheel and pumped the brake. She looked up into the rearview mirror and saw snow and the ghostly image of a big pickup, no lights on. When the truck struck the Taurus again, hard enough to make her swerve, she knew it wasn’t an accident. The driver was trying to run her off the road. Some idiot with a hate for law enforcement, or maybe just some idiot playing in the snow. Couldn’t get the license plate number; he was riding so close she couldn’t see a plate.
Piper’s throat tightened as she thumbed the radio and pressed on the gas. Not good conditions to drive fast, but the pickup outweighed her Taurus by at least a ton, and so she wanted to put some space between them, consider her options.
“Teegan…Teegan.”
Static came back.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Piper slammed the palm of her hand against the wheel and took option #1, flipped on the lights and siren; that might get the truck driver to call this quits. Again she focused on the rearview mirror, trying desperately to make out something…color of the truck, something about the driver…the license plate was a hopeless notion. Two pickup trucks had pulled into Phan’s while she was there, a blue and a silver. But everything was gray and indistinct in the rearview, the snow coming so fast and angry that the world looked like an impressionist watercolor. Couldn’t even tell if the driver was a man or a woman, just the vague shape of a head and shoulders.
Hard to keep the car straight, the road slick, the temperature hovering in that murky area to make the pavement icy.
“Teegan! Answer! Shit.” Her cell was in her pocket. One hand on the wheel, she reached for it.
The cell phone flew out of her hand when the truck struck her a third time and she felt the front right tire drop off the road. Piper panicked and jerked the wheel too far to the left too fast, and though the Taurus came back up, it spun sideways, and the truck plowed into her, clipping the passenger side door panel and spinning her some more. A blur of maroon shot past, snow spraying up to cover her side windows. Maroon? The color of the truck? She pumped the brake as the car continued to turn, the right rear tire levering off the road this time. Now she was pointed in the opposite direction, back toward Fulda. A glance in the rearview mirror, the truck was on her, had somehow turned around.
Piper fought the panic. She’d been through worse, a far different clime, far away, riding in an LAV in Iraq, heading out on a downrange mission, unexpected shelling. Dirt and sand flying, the vehicle quivering from a near-impact, a rocket-launched grenade passing too close overhead. She made it through that, and other close calls. Her adversary here was a lone nutso driver in a pickup truck, no mortars or landmines to contend with.
Easy, right? “Easy,” she said, as she pressed the gas pedal down farther.
Just the awful snow to contend with…and someone hell-bent on sending her off the road. Trying to kill her? Why would someone try to kill her? She had no enemies here. No real enemies when she thought of Oren.
She slammed on the gas pedal, tires spinning, heard the engine grumble and a spray of gravel from the shoulder struck the wheel well. The Taurus surged forward, slipping, cutting across both lanes before she could even it out. Another strike and the car shimmied, starting to spin again, but Piper adjusted to keep it straight. If the roads were good, visibility good, she’d be the aggressor, would find a way to turn around and pursue whoever was--

Excerpt Twelve:
The sweatshirt was too large, but she pushed the cuffs up past her elbows. It was royal blue, faded in places, and had a vinyl Superman “S” on the chest that was shot through with spidery cracks like the face of an antique porcelain doll. The sweatpants were a different shade of blue and also voluminous; she’d used shoe strings tied above her knees to gather the legs so she wouldn’t trip. But the borrowed outfit was warm and dry and did not smell like chili oil. She was thankful Randy’d had it in his locker and loaned it to her.
She sat at her desk, turned to the side, and Randy hovered with a first aid kit. He’d been the deputy who picked her up and said he was taking her to the hospital across the river in Owensboro. She’d declined. Too much to do, not hurt all that bad, nothing broken except her pride and her nose, the latter of which he’d set with a painful jerk—he’d clearly performed that trick before. She’d washed up in the restroom.
“No concussion, Boss,” Randy pronounced after shining a flashlight in her eyes. “But I really think—”
“I’ll go to a doctor tomorrow if I need to.” While Spencer County lacked hospitals, there were several physicians in Rockport and Santa Claus, including a cheery-looking place called Santa’s Med Center. “But now I need to work.”
“And call your father.” This came from Teegan, who poked her head around the corner. Teegan was a dispatcher/secretary who resembled Morticia Addams because of her pale complexion, straight black hair, and heavy eyeliner. “Paul called twice, was listening to the scanner and—”
Piper groaned.
“I told him you were okay. You are okay, aren’t you, Sheriff Blackwell?”
“Fine. I’m fine, Teegan.” But she didn’t feel fine. She felt like an old tennis shoe clunking around inside a clothes dryer. She felt pretty awful, and she was getting a hell of a bruise from where the shoulder strap of the seatbelt had held her.
Piper closed her eyes while Randy cleaned up her face and lip, wiped the dried blood from under her nose. On the drive here he’d given her a rundown on the evidence collected from Abigail Thornbridge’s house, what they would send to the state lab, and the Christmas cards and address book that was bagged and in the other room.
“Oren’s going home after he’s done at the vet’s, probably done by now, actually. He’ll be in early tomorrow. Dr. Neufeld is scheduling the Thornbridge autopsy, but doesn’t have a time yet.” Randy stood back and nodded. “Better.”
“Thanks. How ‘bout you go home, too,” Piper suggested. “It’s almost seven, been a long day.”
“I’ll give you a ride.”
“I’m gonna be here a while.” She shook her head and winced as she felt a stab of pain behind her eyes. “Really, there are some things I want to look through, think about, peek at the budget and figure out what to do about a car because—”
“—that Taurus is history, and any body shop around here’ll agree. We don’t have an extra floating around, not in the budget. So we have a few dealerships on a list to bid on replacing vehicles. Ford dealer in Evansville usually wins. Insurance should cover most of it.” Randy closed up the first aid kit. “But that’ll take days, and there’s a report to file first, county board requires it, and—”
“I have a lot to learn,” Piper admitted. “About paperwork.” It was something she wouldn’t have said to Oren or her father or--
“There’s a used car dealer in town we’ve rented from before…when something’s been out of service or otherwise wrecked. Good prices ‘cause she likes us. Her grandfather used to be in the department. We’ll call her in the morning. And we’ll have to rent two because of Buck’s slippy-slide.”
Piper nodded and waggled her fingers. “Go home, and drive carefully. Get some rest.”
“And how will you get home, Boss?”
She shrugged, setting her shoulders to throbbing. “I’ll get someone tomorrow to drop me by my apartment.”

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