From Publishers Weekly An early morning call brings Jessica Popper, D.V.M., to Heatherfield, an exclusive Long Island estate, in Baxter's cleverly constructed mystery chock-full of dysfunctional characters all hiding motives for murder. While tending to the sprained tendon of one of Andrew MacKinnon's prized horses, Jessie admires a breathtakingly skilled and handsome polo player practicing off in the distance. But by the time she's helped the horse back to health, the polo player, Eduardo Garcia, has been poisoned to death. Jessie can't get the image of the talented Argentine horseman out of her mind, and despite her humble roots, manages to ingratiate herself into MacKinnon's world and gain entrée to Heatherfield's many polo soirees and events. In a series of unlikely, though amusing, social maneuvers, Jessie gets to know everyone from Callie, MacKinnon's overweight and surly daughter, to Inez, the observant Puerto Rican maid, in an effort to solve the crime. Baxter (Putting on the Dog) relies at times on clunky dialogue to plug in needed details about the intricacies of polo, but this isn't likely to stop readers—and particularly pet lovers—from savoring this delightful cozy. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. Review "Delightful .... [A] cleverly constructed mystery chock-full of dysfunctional characters all hiding motives for murder."--Publishers Weekly
About the Author Cynthia Baxter is a native of Long Island, New York. She is the author of the Reigning Cats & Dogs mystery series, featuring vet-turned-sleuth Jessie Popper, and the Murder Packs a Suitcase mystery series, featuring travel writer Mallory Marlowe. Baxter currently resides on the North Shore, where she is at work on her next mysteries in both series. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One "A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way."—Mark Twain What!?" Cassandra's cat. He just stared at me. . . . There was blood everywhere, and she was lying on the floor, not moving--" Suzanne Fox's voice broke off in a hoarse choke. We were sitting in her living room, less than forty-eight hours after she'd first called me with the news. "Start at the beginning," I instructed her, struggling to keep my voice even. I'd done the same thing hundreds of times before--usually while trying to calm an alarmed animal owner. "Slow down, take a deep breath, and tell me exactly what happened." She let out what sounded more like a desperate gasp than a deep breath. "Jessie, the police think I murdered my ex-husband's fiancée. Her name is--was--Cassandra Thorndike. What am I going to do?" "Thorndike--as in Thorndike Vineyards?" I asked, naming one of the most successful and best-known wineries on Long Island. "Exactly. She was found stabbed to death at her house in Cuttituck, out on the North Fork." Suzanne paused, as if she was trying to find the strength to go on. "Apparently her next-door neighbor dropped by for a visit. But Cassandra didn't come to the door, even though it was wide open. The neighbor noticed her car was in the driveway and the TV was on. So she dialed 911. The police showed up, expecting to find some senior citizen with an overly active imagination and too much time on her hands." In a strained voice, she added, "Except it turned out she was right." "But why would the police think you had anything to do with it?" I asked. "They have witnesses, people who live in the neighborhood, who claim they saw a car the same make and color as mine drive up to her house not long before her next-door neighbor called. They said the driver had bright orange-red hair." "Were you there?" "Yes." She let out a little choking sound before adding, "I--I saw her body, Jess. So I wasn't really surprised when the cops showed up on my doorstep a couple of days ago and said Cassandra had been murdered." "You told them what happened, right?" She waited for what seemed a very long time before answering. "Not exactly." "What do you mean, 'not exactly'?" My mouth had suddenly become very dry. "I--I told the police they had the wrong person. That I'd never even been to Cassandra's house." Before I had a chance to react, she cried, "Jessie, you've got to help me!" It's not easy staying calm when you've just found out one of your best friends is a murder suspect. I liked to think my decade of working as a veterinarian had taught me to handle all kinds of situations, especially the past few years of traveling around Long Island with my clinic-on-wheels. But this . . . well, this was something new. I just stared at Suzanne for a few seconds, not wanting to seem too horrified by her situation but not quite able to take it all in. Even though she sat in a wooden rocking chair, she remained motionless. The fact that I always think of her as one of those people who never sits still made the image especially peculiar. It was late morning, yet the blinds were drawn and the lights were off, casting the room in shadow. Even in the dim light, I could see that her huge, round eyes, the same shade of blue as cornflowers, were swollen and rimmed in red, as if crying had become as much a part of her routine as breathing. Her nose and cheeks were also puffy, and they'd taken on a pinkish tinge. Her remarkable orange-red hair looked surprisingly lackluster. While she had tamed her wild, wavy mane during our college years by wearing it in a waist-length braid, she'd recently gotten it cut into layers. Somehow, through either physics or chemistry, she'd also made it dead straight. It was usually stunning. Today, however, it hung limply about her face, looking as dejected as she did. "I'm still not getting this," I told her. "Why were you at Cassandra's house in the first place?" She glanced at me warily. "You know how upset I was when I heard Robert was engaged. For heaven's sake, we'd only been divorced for a few months! The body that was our marriage was still warm." I cringed at the metaphor. Somehow, the image of anything dead, even a relationship, hit a raw nerve. "I do remember you telling me how painful it was for you," I commented. " 'Painful' is an understatement," she replied. "I felt worse than I did when my impacted wisdom tooth got infected. Anyway, I decided that meeting her might make me feel better. I figured that once I saw for myself that she was just another person, maybe even someone I could be friends with, the idea that Robert had chosen her over me wouldn't hurt as much." Frankly, I thought that sounded like a really bad plan. But at this juncture, it seemed kinder to keep my opinions to myself. "So I found out where she lived," Suzanne continued. "On Tuesday afternoon, I went over to her house and rang her doorbell. I figured I'd introduce myself and that maybe she'd offer me coffee or something. I was hoping that by the time I got out of there, I'd have the closure I was looking for." She shook her head sadly. "I mean, she couldn't have been an ogre. She was probably a very nice person, someone I would have liked if we'd met under different circumstances." "Probably," I replied unconvincingly. "Anyway, when I got there, I was pretty sure she was home. But she wouldn't come to the door." "Why did you think she was in the house?" I asked. "Her car was parked in the driveway." "How did you know it was hers?" Suzanne rolled her eyes. "Jess, it was a red Miata with the license plate CASSLASS. Who else could it belong to?" "Good deduction," I said, nodding. "Besides, the front door was open. That wasn't surprising, since it was one of those gorgeous October days. And the TV was on." "So you rang the bell?" I prompted. "Two or three times. Then I knocked, really loudly." Frowning, she noted, "My first thought was that she knew perfectly well who was on her doorstep. I figured she'd looked out the window and recognized me from Robert's description, or photos he had. "Anyway, the idea that she was holed up inside her house, hoping I'd just go away, got me mad." Suzanne hesitated. "Finally, I opened the screen door and walked in." I guess a look of surprise crossed my face, because she quickly added, "It's not like I barged in or anything. I just stepped inside and called her name. You know, like, 'Cassandra? Are you here? Anybody home?' "I could hear the television blaring from the back of the house. So I followed the sound. But I kept calling her name. I mean, I wasn't trying to sneak up on her or anything. "Then I reached a room that looked like a home office. It had a computer and a fax machine and a little TV, stuck up on a shelf. I got as far as the doorway. And then, and then--" Her voice broke off. "I saw her." "Exactly what did you see, Suzanne?" I asked gently. She paused to take a couple of deep breaths. "She was . . . she was on the floor, facedown. But she was crumpled up, as if she'd fallen. There was blood everywhere. Most of it had soaked into the carpet, I guess. And there was plenty of blood on the desk. Everything on top was in chaos. Papers were lying all over the place, and the pencil mug was on its side with pens and pencils scattered. "The whole scene was horrible, Jess! And what made it even more disturbing was the fact that, right in the middle of this grotesque scene, there was one single sign of life." I blinked. "What are you talking about?" "Like I told you: Cassandra's cat. He was lying on the floor next to her, acting as if he was just waiting for someone to come and help. He looked up at me and blinked, then let out a loud meow. It was really creepy. I almost got the feeling he was trying to tell me what had happened. Or that maybe he was asking me why it happened." The idea of someone's poor pussycat witnessing such a horrendous event broke my heart. I immediately thought of my own two cats. Cat--Catherine the Great--was a longtime companion who had often picked up on my bad moods, everything from sadness to grumpiness. She seemed to have a sixth sense about what was going on with me, and she seemed to long to comfort me. Tinkerbell was still just a kitten, but I'd even caught her staring at me, wide-eyed, at times when I was upset, as if she had also noticed that something was amiss. "Anyway, I panicked," Suzanne continued. "I just turned and ran. I got in my car and drove off." Her shoulders slumped. "That's what happened. But somehow, I couldn't bring myself to tell the police." The face of Lieutenant Anthony Falcone, Norfolk County's chief of homicide, flashed before my eyes like one of the bursts of light that often precede a migraine. Even in my imagination, he didn't look happy. "Why not, Suzanne?" I demanded, trying not to sound exasperated. "Why didn't you just tell them the truth?" I realized I was perched so far on the edge of the couch that I was close to toppling onto the floor. I also noticed that the brightly colored fabric...
First in a sexy new series featuring the match-making schemes of an infamous courtesan. Award-winning author Claudia Dain tells a tale of impropriety and independence, and a mother and daughter determined to bend the rules of society in their favor. Young Lady Caroline's prospects for a suitable match are severely limited by her mother's infamous past. Before Lady Sophia Dalby entered London society, she was a highly desired courtesan. What man of title, position, and wealth would marry a courtesan's daughter? Sophia's solution is to purchase a husband for Caroline-the Earl of Ashdon-agreeing to settle his gambling debts if he will take her daughter's hand. Insulted, Caroline refuses to have a husband who was bought for her. But after meeting the fiery Lord Ashdon, she wonders if it wouldn't be satisfying to have him pay for her, perhaps with a priceless pearl necklace? With Sophia pulling the strings, Lord Ashdon may get more than he bargained for and Caroline may get just what she wants.
From Publishers Weekly Georgiana Neverall, a software engineer turned plumber, finds big trouble clogging a warehouse drain in Evans's cute cozy mystery debut. Georgie knows something bad has happened to Martha Tepper when she fishes the supposedly retired librarian's beloved brooch out of a pipe, but her boyfriend, City Councilmember Wade Montgomery, and the police dismiss her concerns. It's left to Georgie, her friend Sue and her boss's wife, Paula, to track down Martha's body with a little help from Georgie's Airedales, Daisy and Buddha. Suspects include Georgie's mother's boyfriend and Martha's accountant—who happens to be Wade. Evans garnishes the relatively straightforward mystery with plumbing tips and moments of wry humor from Georgie's interaction with her take-charge mother, her too-chatty friends and her adorable dogs. (Oct.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Naked Came the Manatee is a novel like no other: a wickedly funny Florida suspense thriller, written serially by thirteen of the state's most talented writers. In November 1995, a baker's dozen of Florida's finest writers began a serial novel for The Miami Herald's Tropic magazine under the guidance of Tropic's editor Tom Shroder - one writer passing the completed chapters to the next - and with each chapter, the excitement grew.
"She needed a bargaining chip and this was it—Raif's daughter's life for hers. And he knew damned well I was right. Just as he'd assured me the night I'd killed Azriel, this was far from over. His daughter was alive; I knew it. And I was going to find her." For months Darian and her Shaede guardian Raif have searched for the Oracle who attempted to overthrow the Shaede Nation—and kill Darian in the bargain. But now that they've finally found the half-crazed Oracle, for their efforts they are granted a possibility too painful for Raif to imagine, and too enticing for Darian to ignore. Darian is determined to reunite Raif and the daughter he thought was dead, but her mission quickly proves dangerous when her lover Tyler is almost killed. And when a brooding and mysterious Fae warrior offers his guidance—at an extraordinary price—Darian finds herself willing to risk everything. As her single-minded hunt turns into an obsession, and she and...
Anne Fadiman is--by her own admission--the sort of person who learned about sex from her father's copy of Fanny Hill, whose husband buys her 19 pounds of dusty books for her birthday, and who once found herself poring over her roommate's 1974 Toyota Corolla manual because it was the only written material in the apartment that she had not read at least twice. This witty collection of essays recounts a lifelong love affair with books and language. For Fadiman, as for many passionate readers, the books she loves have become chapters in her own life story. Writing with remarkable grace, she revives the tradition of the well-crafted personal essay, moving easily from anecdotes about Coleridge and Orwell to tales of her own pathologically literary family. As someone who played at blocks with her father's 22-volume set of Trollope ("My Ancestral Castles") and who only really considered herself married when she and her husband had merged collections ("Marrying Libraries"), she is exquisitely well equipped to expand upon the art of inscriptions, the perverse pleasures of compulsive proof-reading, the allure of long words, and the satisfactions of reading out loud. There is even a foray into pure literary gluttony--Charles Lamb liked buttered muffin crumbs between the leaves, and Fadiman knows of more than one reader who literally consumes page corners. Perfectly balanced between humor and erudition, Ex Libris establishes Fadiman as one of our finest contemporary essayists. Anne Fadiman is--by her own admission--the sort of person who learned about sex from her father's copy of Fanny Hill, whose husband buys her 19 pounds of dusty books for her birthday, and who once found herself poring over her roommate's 1974 Toyota Corolla manual because it was the only written material in the apartment that she had not read at least twice. This witty collection of essays recounts a lifelong love affair with books and language. For Fadiman, as for many passionate readers, the books she loves have become chapters in her own life story. Writing with remarkable grace, she revives the tradition of the well-crafted personal essay, moving easily from anecdotes about Coleridge and Orwell to tales of her own pathologically literary family. As someone who played at blocks with her father's 22-volume set of Trollope ("My Ancestral Castles") and who only really considered herself married when she and her husband had merged collections ("Marrying Libraries"), she is exquisitely well equipped to expand upon the art of inscriptions, the perverse pleasures of compulsive proof-reading, the allure of long words, and the satisfactions of reading out loud. There is even a foray into pure literary gluttony--Charles Lamb liked buttered muffin crumbs between the leaves, and Fadiman knows of more than one reader who literally consumes page corners. Perfectly balanced between humor and erudition, Ex Libris establishes Fadiman as one of our finest contemporary essayists.