Dead Man Running - Hardcover

MacPherson, Rett

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0312334109 ISBN 13: 9780312334109

Verlag: Minotaur Books, 2006

Inhaltsangabe

Torie O'Shea has her hands full. Aside from her new duties as president of the Historical Society in New Kassel, Missouri, and her interest in genealogy, she's having a new house built, coordinating the town's Oktoberfest, and coping with her teenage daughter, who's beginning to date. Then at the request of a local journalist, Torie takes on an assignment to research the families of her hometown's two mayoral candidates: incumbent Bill Castlereagh and his challenger, Sheriff Colin Brooke, who happens to be Torie's step-father.

 

Before she can get anywhere on the politicians' genealogies, though, a body turns up and spoils the Oktoberfest parade. Sheriff Brooke discovers some disturbing information about the dead man. Meanwhile, Torie's research into Castlereagh's genealogy is turning up more questions than answers. As the case unravels, the mayor flees town and Torie is left with a shocking discovery that might lead to her own demise.

 

Once again, Rett MacPherson's charming characters and twisting plot keep the town of New Kassel--and the reader--on edge, making Dead Man Running a delightful addition to the Torie O'Shea series.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Rett MacPherson is the author of eight previous Torie O'Shea novels. She lives with her husband and three children in a suburb of St. Louis, Missouri.

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Praise for Rett MacPherson

"MacPherson deftly ties together fascinating historical facts, colorful characters, and a suspenseful plot."
---Booklist on Thicker Than Water

"Weaving the story and the characters into the believable minutiae of small-town life, MacPherson provides a stellar example of the traditional cozy."
---Publishers Weekly on Blood Relations

"A slice of Americana as warm and comforting as apple pie à la mode."
---Booklist on Blood Relations

"O'Shea has developed into a thoroughly likable character, funny and with enough flaws to make her human. Long may she snoop."
---St. Louis Post-Dispatch

"Prepare to have your heartstrings tugged, for Killing Cousins is an absorbing book that makes the reader feel like part of the long-ago tragedy."
---Romantic Times on Killing Cousins

"MacPherson once again displays her mastery of the cozy form, adroitly mixing charming characters (both new and old), a plot steeped in family drama, plenty of humor, and just enough grit to keep the story grounded in the real world."
---Booklist on A Misty Mourning

"Plenty of entertaining characters, and MacPherson skillfully connects the family's many subplots. . . . A heartrending tale of family pride and the cover-ups to keep it intact."
---Publishers Weekly (starred review) on A Comedy of Heirs

Aus dem Klappentext

Torie O Shea has her hands full. Aside from her new duties as president of the Historical Society in New Kassel, Missouri, and her interest in genealogy, she s having a new house built, coordinating the town s Oktoberfest, and coping with her teenage daughter, who s beginning to date. Then at the request of a local journalist, Torie takes on an assignment to research the families of her hometown s two mayoral candidates: incumbent Bill Castlereagh and his challenger, Sheriff Colin Brooke, who happens to be Torie s step-father.

Before she can get anywhere on the politicians genealogies, though, a body turns up and spoils the Oktoberfest parade. Sheriff Brooke discovers some disturbing information about the dead man. Meanwhile, Torie s research into Castlereagh s genealogy is turning up more questions than answers. As the case unravels, the mayor flees town and Torie is left with a shocking discovery that might lead to her own demise.

Once again, Rett MacPherson s charming characters and twisting plot keep the town of New Kassel and the reader on edge, making Dead Man Running a delightful addition to the Torie O Shea series.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One

 
I have come to the conclusion that boys are different from girls. 
 
Case in point: My son never stops moving. He's almost three, and I don't think he's stopped moving since last March, not even in his sleep. He has a lot more spit than my daughters ever had. Everything comes with sound effects, even if it's just milk being poured into a glass. With Matthew, nothing is ever what it is. A ball isn't a ball. It's a spaceship ball flying through space at a zillion miles an hour. A dog isn't a dog. It's a secret agent dog. Not that he can comprehend exactly what a secret agent is, but he and our wiener dog, Fritz, have their own secret code that only they can speak. He's constantly telling me what Fritz is thinking. The worst part is, I'm beginning to think he really does understand what Fritz is thinking.
 
Then there was that lovely week when after having seen Finding Nemo my son spoke nothing but whale. Every single sentence was in whale. By the end of the week I was getting pretty good at deciphering whale, although I'm not sure which dialect it was--but that's beside the point. There's a reason people say things like "boys will be boys." I never knew that ball bearings and a stick shift could make that much difference in the sexes.
 
My husband, Rudy, is a perfect example of a male. When he's driving down the road he isn't thinking of what bills to pay or what to have for dinner or . . . or where pomegranates actually come from. No, he's thinking of . . . nothing, and he thinks of nothing like nobody else I've ever seen. I mean he's really good at thinking of nothing. Men do that so much better than women. If I'm looking at the Mississippi River, I'm thinking of how pretty it is or how polluted it is or Gee, I wonder just how many gallons of water are in that sucker? Not Rudy. No, he's looking out there going, River. Water. Mmmm.
 
My father, another male. He insists on wearing white gym socks with dress pants, because nylon socks, especially colored ones, are for sissies. And only a man would go off into the woods and fish without any sunblock or bug spray, no cell phone, no weapons, nothing. Just worms and a pole. He'll suck the poison right out of snakebite--I've seen him do it, twice. I stopped camping with him, by the way, after the second time. Yuck! But that same man squeals like a baby if he has to get a shot and freaks out when food is left in a can. My father firmly believes he will drop dead of botulism if he eats anything that has sat in an open can for more than ten minutes.
 
Last but not least, my stepfather. The sheriff, Colin Woodrow Brooke. He's not happy with being sheriff. No, he has to be mayor. So the whole town of New Kassel, Missouri, is plastered with his big ol' signs that read brooke is better. In response, the current mayor, Castlereagh, put up bigger signs that read new kassel is in good hands with kasselreagh! At which time my esteemed stepfather put up even bigger signs that read brooke for mayor. at least he can spell. The signs just keep getting bigger and bigger, because, you know, it's that whole bigger, faster, farther thing with men. The only thing left is a billboard.
 
Now my wonderful, cozy tourist town of New Kassel looks as if a carnival has taken up permanent residence. If I, Torie O'Shea, were running for mayor, I would do it with a bit more aplomb. Just the fact that I can use the word "aplomb" shows that I would be better at the job than either one of them. If I ran against my stepfather and lost, though, there'd be no living with him, and if I ran against him and won, there'd be no living with my mother. Since I firmly believe I would win, I'm not running. My mother's wrath is far worse than my stepfather's.
 
So, on a glorious Tuesday afternoon in autumn, this is what I was thinking about in my office at the Gaheimer House on River Pointe Road. I was sitting there, pulling my hair out, strand by strand, clicking my ballpoint pen nervously, wondering just what it would be like to have New Kassel testosterone free for one week, and hoping like hell that none of the men in the town were smart enough to think "billboard" next.
 
Having said all of that, with the exception of my stepfather, I couldn't live without any of the men in my life. Even if it means dealing with spit, secret agent dogs, whale speak, empty minds, white gym socks, and botulism. It was just bugging me today for some reason. Maybe that's because I felt totally helpless to do anything about the complete insanity that had taken over my town.
 
I should probably think about the other things at hand. My daughter Rachel's marching band season, my daughter Mary's volleyball season, the Octoberfest coming up, which I am managing, and the possibility that my son might need counseling if he didn't start speaking English as well as he could speak whale.
 
"Earth to Torie," somebody said from the doorway. I looked up to see Helen Wickland, one of my good friends and the owner of the Lick-a-Pot Candy Shoppe, which was across the road. She's usually good stress relief and almost always comes bearing things good for the soul, like chocolate. She's known throughout the county for her fudge, but it's those chocolate-covered cherries that I can't stop thinking about. I find myself daydreaming about them. At any rate, she's also the vice president of the historical society, of which I am the president. It's nice when your vice president is a chocolatier. I couldn't have planned that better if I had to.
 
"Sorry, Helen," I said. "What's up?"
 
Helen is almost fifty. I know this because she's ten years or so older than me, with a generous dash of gray in her hair, and I'm almost forty. I don't have a dash of gray in my hair--I look as if somebody tripped and spilled the whole damn salt shaker on my head. If it weren't for Clairol, I would have looked like the Bride of Frankenstein years ago. The other day, Mary got a good look at my gray hair, because it's in bad need of coloring. She screeched and said, "Mother, you're dying! All the color has faded from your hair." It took me three days to convince her that just being gray did not mean that I would kick the bucket any time soon. She still looks at me with big puppy-dog eyes, as if she's expecting me to expire at her feet.
 
Kids are supposed to keep you humble. If Mary continues at this rate, I'll be more humble than Gandhi.
 
"I've been calling your name for like ten minutes," Helen said. "What is going on in that head of yours?"
 
"Oh, come on. Don't you want to guess?" I asked.
 
"The mayor's race?"
 
I nodded my head.
 
"It'll be over soon," she said in a comforting way.
 
"Good, because I think I may be bald if it goes on much longer," I said. I wouldn't need to worry about having anything to color.
 
"Well, I just came by on business," she said. She handed me a white bag, and I knew what was inside. I peeked: chocolate-covered cherries. I nearly kissed her right then and there. "The bands are a go."
 
That's the great thing about a small town. People actually come by, rather than using the phone. It's quicker and easier for Helen to run across the street and tell me something than to pick up the phone, dial, and wait for me to answer. "The only thing I'm having trouble with is getting Bill to sign off on the parade," she added.
 
Bill Castlereagh. The current mayor. The man who hates me the most. The man who will be the A-number-one suspect in my murder, if it ever happens. I find it important to know who your enemies are, just in case you ever turn up mysteriously dead. "Why won't he sign off on it?" I asked, and sank my teeth into chocolaty, gooey, creamy, fruity goodness.
 
"Says it will cause...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Minotaur Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2006
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0312334109
• ISBN 13: 9780312334109
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 240
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar