Towhee Get Your Gun (A Bird Lover's Mystery, Band 2) - Softcover

Ripley, J.R.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1496719700 ISBN 13: 9781496719706

Verlag: Kensington, 2019

Inhaltsangabe

When Birds & Bees owner Amy Simms volunteers to act in a local production of Annie, Get Your Gun, she finds herself upstaged by a killer waiting in the wings . . .
 
Who’s got time for birdwatching? Amy has enough to do running her shop, fighting attempts by the town planning commission to demolish her old Victorian house, and rescuing an injured towhee. Yet somehow she allows herself to get roped into performing in the Ruby Lake, North Carolina, community theater’s new musical after some cast members get injured by mysterious mishaps. The production seems plagued by bad luck, but events turn tragic when a member of the company is found murdered in a locked dressing room.
 
Trading in her binoculars for a magnifying glass, Amy steps into the role of amateur sleuth and soon discovers the victim ruffled a lot of feathers. With a flock of suspects, Amy will need to beat the bushes before the cagey killer takes flight. After all, the show must go on . . .

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

J.R. Ripley is the pen name of Glenn Meganck, the critically acclaimed author of the Tony Kozol mystery series. As a member of the Mystery Writers of America, he has chaired the Edgar committee for Best Original Paperback novel and served on the Best Short Story Committee. As a member of the International Association of Crime Writers, he has served on the Hammett Award committee for Best Novel. When not writing books, Glenn is writing songs, often singing them to the consternation of his audience and neighbors, or involved in one of his many passions, none of which have involved any of the dead bodies that seem to keep cropping up in his mysteries. For more information about him, visit www.glennmeganck.com.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Towhee Get Your Gun

By J.R. Ripley

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

Copyright © 2017 J.R. Ripley
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4967-1970-6

CHAPTER 1

"That's the third time this week," I complained, brushing back a lock of limp brown hair that refused to stay put.

"Maybe you should go over and say something," Kim replied, and it sounded very much like a dare. She wore the same khaki culottes and green T-shirt that I did, so why did hers look fresh and sharp while my clothes looked dumpy and dowdy?

I frowned, looking at the ratty blue and white camper van parked outside my front door. "Maybe I will." I wasn't exaggerating. This was the third time in under a week that someone working on the place next door had parked their beat-up old Winnebago at the curb directly in front of Birds & Bees. Definitely a man.

He'd also been trampling through my flower beds. Mom and I had purchased six trays of petunias from a local greenhouse. We painstakingly planted them one Sunday morning between the sidewalk and the white picket fence in an effort to give the front some color. I noticed, walking out to the mailbox, that the entire corner of the bed nearest his vehicle was a mushy pulp of purple and green. The worker had been using my flowerbed as a shortcut.

To paraphrase a song in Rodgers and Hammerstein's musical Carousel, June flowers were busting out all over. And this guy was busting up my flowers.

I wasn't sure who he was. There'd been a lot of workers in and out of the empty storefront of late. I'd only seen snatches of the back of his head. Definitely a man.

Not only was the thing an eyesore, it blocked the view out my main window. It also blocked potential customers' view into the store. Definitely not good for business. And I could use all the business I could get.

"Well," Kim chided, "what are you waiting for?"

"I'm thinking." I tapped my toe in sync with a downy woodpecker rhythmically stabbing away at a tray of peanut butter suet suspended in a cage feeder that dangled from the porch on a green chain. The downy woodpecker is a smaller member of the woodpecker family with fluffy black and white plumage. The one feeding now was a female. I could tell because the bird lacked the distinctive red patch on the back of its head that the males bear. Though short-billed, the bantam-sized woodpecker had no trouble extracting the peanut butter treat from behind the metal grill.

Kim and I grew up together. She was my best friend and a working partner, albeit part-time, in Birds & Bees, the shop we'd opened a couple of months back. Our store catered to bird-feeding and birdwatching enthusiasts and also carried a few supplies for beekeepers. We were not a sex-ed shop for preteens, and I was getting tired of the joke.

In addition to the store's stock, we had started a small garden out front with plants to support bird and bee populations, like holly, milkweed, and assorted wildflowers, depending on the time of year. With summer just around the corner, options were nearly endless. The little town of Ruby Lake is located in an area of western North Carolina that boasts a robust growing climate.

Mom and I had also planted a row of pulmonaria tucked up against the front porch. The flowering plant also known as lungwort did well in the shade and was especially popular with both bees and hummingbirds.

The camper van blocking the view of Ruby Lake, the town's eponymously named medium-sized natural lake, was a rusting blue hulk with near-bald tires and a sagging white shell. Its windows looked like they'd last been washed during the Nixon administration.

Kim was right. It was time to stop whining and do something. The ruined flower beds had been the last straw. "I'll be right back."

I pushed out the French doors and walked determinedly toward the camper van. I couldn't help grimacing at the tattered bright red NC STATE WOLFPACK bumper sticker on the back as the door of the camper flew open.

The Wolfpack were practically the mortal enemies of my own school's team, the University of North Carolina Tar Heels. Not that such things mattered to me. I was hardly the rah-rah type. And, after all, I had many friends who'd attended NCSU. Not to mention a certain unmentionable ex-boyfriend. It was a terrific school. Just so long as its alumni didn't park their wrecks in front of my place-of-business-slash-home.

"Hi," said the young man in blue jeans and a white tee, stepping from inside. I placed him at my age, give or take a couple years. I'm thirty-four and plan to be for many years to come.

The stranger ran his fingers through a shock of wavy brown hair, then stuck his hand out with a smile. "Paul Anderson."

"Hello," I said, reluctantly shaking his hand. "I'm Amy Simms." I nodded my chin toward the shop. "This is my store." And my home, I could have added.

"Oh." He beamed. "You're the pet shop lady." He stuffed his hands into his denim jacket.

I smothered a frown. "I don't sell pets. I sell birding supplies, birdseed, nesting boxes —"

He cut me off. "Got it." He slammed the door of his camper shut, then kicked it again with his boot when it refused to stay shut. "Thing never latches right." He started to turn away. "If you don't mind, I'm sort of busy right now."

I noticed bits of purple and green plant material on the bottoms of his boots. My petunias. "Listen, Mr. Anderson —"

Anderson stopped and raised his hand. "Paul, remember?"

How could I forget? "Listen" — I cleared my throat — "Paul, about your Winnebago —"

The young man's brow shot up. "This isn't a Winnebago."

Was this guy going to chop off every sentence I started? "Well" — I bit my lip — "your camper van —"

The guy chopped me off again. "Camper van? I'll have you know this is a 1987 Holiday Rambler, Amy." He slapped it lovingly on the side, and I expected the shell to separate from the truck. "With a Ford Econoline three-fifty chassis and a four-sixty engine under the hood."

I didn't know what all those numbers meant, but I knew enough about men to know that such things impressed them. Me, not so much. "Fine. But your Holiday Bumbler —"

"Rambler."

"Rambler" — I paused to let some steam off — "is blocking my store."

Paul looked confused. "It's on the street."

"Yes. I know, but still —"

"This baby's a real collectible."

"Looks to me like your baby's collecting mostly mud and rust," I said, stepping off the curb and assessing the monstrosity more closely. It was also collecting stares from locals and tourists alike. A car tooted and I jumped back quickly to the sidewalk.

Paul cocked his head. "Have you got a problem with me?" he said with surprise. "With my Rambler?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you. I would appreciate it if you would park it somewhere else."

He shook his head. "This is convenient, you know?"

"Convenient for what?" It certainly wasn't convenient for me. I pointed to the empty storefront next store that abutted mine. "Why not park it there? That's where you're working, right?"

"Yeah," he said slowly. He grabbed my extended arm and swiveled my hand toward the curb. "Fire hydrant, see?" I pulled my arm free. I saw.

"So I can't park there." Paul Anderson shrugged. "Gotta park here."

I sighed. "But it's blocking my store."

Paul Anderson's brow wriggled. "I'm not exactly parked on your sidewalk. I'm on the road." He shook his head. "Perfectly legal."

I pointed at his tan harness boots. "You see that?"

"You like my boots?"

"No." I...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Kensington
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2019
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1496719700
• ISBN 13: 9781496719706
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 336
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Dietmar Rusche; 15110751138; rusche.dietmar@gmx.de; ; Dr.-Willi-Bergmann-Str. 13; St. Andreasberg; 37444; Deutschland