Murder My Neighbour

Murder my Neighbour

By Veronica Heley

It came naturally to Ellie Quicke to look after her family and friends but there were no easy answers to the problems of those around her, and one of these was about to get way out of hand.



Ellie Quicke's twelfth adventure, in which she solves another neighbourhood crime.



One of Ellie Quicke's neighbours has gone missing. She was supposed to have moved to a retirement home, but never arrived. A walk round the block reveals that someone is still tending the vegetables in Mrs Pryce's garden. Perhaps the house is not as deserted as it looks? So where is Mrs Pryce, and who knows more about her departure than they are prepared to tell? And how can Ellie deal with her difficult daughter's latest financial disaster?


Excerpt:

Rose screamed.


Prompt on cue, the front doorbell rang.


Ellie rushed out into the garden to find her old friend and housekeeper lying in a flower bed. Rose tried to get up and failed. `Aargh! Just . . . minute.'



The doorbell rang again. Ellie knew there was no one else around to answer the door, but Rose was her first priority. She didn't seem to have broken anything, but she was bleeding from some deep scratches, nursing one wrist and trembling.



`I was tying back that rose and I saw . . . it gave me such a fright!' Rose gestured to where a neighbour's house could be glimpsed over the garden wall. `A face . . . at the top window. I don't believe in ghosts, do you?'



No, Ellie didn't believe in ghosts, either. Of course she didn't. She helped Rose to the garden bench and the doorbell rang again, this time with a longer, insistent peal.



`You see to the door. I'll be all right in a minute,' said Rose, who hated to make a fuss and would have said she was all right even if she'd broken her wrist – as looked likely.



Ellie dashed back through the house and into the hall to open the front door.



A strange young man pushed past her into the house. `Took your time, didn't you? Miss Quicke, please.' He danced around on his toes, eyes into everything. Hard eyes. A brutally short haircut, a single earring, piercings through lip and eyebrow. Casually dressed.



`I'm Mrs Quicke, but–'



Colour surged into his face. `Don't waste my time!'



Ellie took half a step back. `Look; our housekeeper fell off a ladder just before you came and I need to get her to the doctor's.'



He shrugged. `I'll wait.'



From the kitchen came Rose's voice. `I'm all right, Ellie. Having a little sit down.'



If Rose had got herself indoors, then she must be all right. At least till Ellie had got rid of the intruder . . . who had walked into the sitting room and was looking around him. Ellie had been about to tidy up in there when her difficult daughter Diana had arrived with news of her latest disaster . . .and no sooner had Diana swept out than Rose had fallen off the ladder.



Ellie told herself she wasn't prejudiced by young men with piercings – though she wondered how he could manage to eat with a ring through his lower lip – but she did deplore his lack of manners. And it was unnecessary to be frightened, wasn't it?



`You wanted to speak to Mrs Quicke, and I'm Mrs Quicke. So how can I help you?'



`Don't give me that.' A sly twist to his lips. `I know what Miss Quicke looks like. My great-aunt described her. She used to meet Miss Quicke regularly, often gave her a lift to board meetings.'



`Ah. You mean my aunt. She was indeed active in the world of finance. I'm sorry to say she died some months ago.'



That wiped the smile from his face. `So you are–'



`Her niece.' She glanced at the clock – was that really the time? Was Rose all right?



`But you know my great-aunt? Flavia Pryce with a "y". She lived over there.' He went to the French windows and pointed towards the multi-gabled mansion which could be glimpsed over Ellie's garden wall.



Yes, there was the attic window in which Rose swore she'd seen a face, which is why she'd fallen off the ladder. Ellie didn't believe in ghosts. Certainly not. Pure superstition. `I never knew the people in that house. I heard that the old lady who lived there–'



`My great-aunt, Flavia Pryce.'



`Left some time ago. So I must ask you to go.'



`I used to drop in to see her every now and then. The last time I saw her, she told me she was going into a retirement home and that when the house was sold she'd let me have a little something to be going on with. So yesterday I went down to see her, with a box of her favourite Liquorice Allsorts. The people at the retirement home deny all knowledge of her. So where is she?'



Well, not at an upstairs window, for sure. Why on earth should she be up in an attic? Ridiculous.



Ellie tried to think straight. `I suppose she's moved on, and the home will have a current address for her.'



`They said not.' He took out a pack of cigarettes and a disposable lighter.

`Please don't smoke in here.'



`Oh, keep your hair on.' He walked out through the French windows into the garden and lit up. `The thing is that I'm in a bit of a fix. Flavia promised me some money, was going to let me have what she'd intended to leave me in her will. And now, my sister's pregnant, been left high and dry. I said I'd rent a flat where we could live together for a while, so that I could look out for her.'



Except that he didn't look the selfless, caring type. He looked the type who'd kick a cat or a dog who got in his way, or laugh if an old woman fell off a ladder.



`I wouldn't ask if I weren't desperate . . .'



He was certainly desperate about something. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The thought that he might be on drugs terrified her not a little. `I'm sorry, I can't help you. Now, will you please go.'



`No need to get your knickers in a twist. You attend to the ancient retainer and I'll see myself out.' He stood back to let her pass through the French windows in front of him.





It was only much later in the day that Ellie discovered her morning's visitor had helped himself to more than a few minutes of her time.

996




Veronica Heley

www.veronicaheley.com



Available from Amazon, public libraries and good bookshops everywhere.

Do not reproduce without permission.

Beneath the Night Tree; False Money

Beneath the Night Tree

By Nicole Baart


"Beneath the Night Tree is a poignant glimpse of a woman's past merging with her future. Filled with poetic symbolism and lush description, Baart's work vividly portrays an individual at a crossroads, faced with circumstances that force her to examine her deepest motivations...

Baart has the guts to examine what many won't contemplate -- convention and the social norm. Her work combines down-to-earth elements of daily living with abstract concepts meant to be considered on a broad scale. Nothing about this book is cliched and her characters may surprise those who think they know the outcome; for just as in real life, it's the unforeseen events that often bring unexpected results." ForeWord Magazine, 2010


A single mother to her son and younger brother, Julia DeSmit cherishes living with her beloved grandmother and is hoping to be engaged to Michael Vermeer—the man of her dreams—by year's end.


Then a cryptic e-mail from her son's father spins her world off axis. She hasn't heard from Parker since he left her in a college parking lot without a backward glance. But one look at her son—the spitting image of his father—is enough to convince her that, for better or worse, Parker is a part of their story.


Faced with this new reality and the potential unraveling of her unorthodox family, Julia begins a tightrope walk between what was, what is, and what she hopes will be.




Beneath the Night Tree

Nicole Baart


Chapter 1


Daniel hummed in his sleep. It was an unconscious song, a midnight lullaby, as familiar to me as the sigh of my own breath. I fell asleep at night listening to the cadence of his dreams, and when I woke in the morning, his quiet melody was a prelude to birdsong.


I opened my eyes in the darkness and strained to see an imprint of peach on the horizon beyond my open window. It was coming, but when I blinked at the black reflection in the glass, dawn was nothing more than a promise, and Daniel's every exhalation seemed tuned to charm it into being. I pictured him in his bed, arm flung over the pillow and palm opened toward the sky as if God had set an orchestra before his still- chubby fingers. As if God had chosen my son to coax light into our little house.


Maybe He had.


If there was one thing I had learned in five years of being a single mom, it was that the Lord did exactly that: He used the small, the inconsequential, the forgotten to shame the wise. He worked in contradictions, in the unexpected. And I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if He hovered over my Daniel, drawing music from the curve of his parted lips with the gentle pull of divine fingers.


The thought made me smile, and for a moment I longed to tiptoe across the cool floorboards and be a part of it all, to slip into the tiny attic nook that was my son's bedroom. I wanted to feel my way through the shadows, stretch out beside him, and kiss the sugar-sweet little-boy mouth that puckered like a perfect bow.


But I didn't. Instead, I did what I did every day. I got up, grabbed the clothes that I had laid out the night before, and headed downstairs. If Daniel was singing, then I danced: avoiding the stair that creaked, twisting around the smooth-worn banister like a ballerina, waltzing to Simon's room, where I peeked through the crack of the mostly closed door.


My ten-year-old half brother was on his stomach, bare back exposed to the unseasonable cool of an August morning. We had all the windows flung open, and the house whispered with a light breeze. It wasn't cold, not really, but the sight of his skinmade me stifle a shiver. I floated into Simon's room, a part of his dreams, and laid a blanket across his shoulders like a blessing. Schoolboy shoulders, I noticed. Thin and angular, but broadening, hinting at the strong man he would soon become as if the clean line of his skin were bursting with promise. A tight bud about to unfurl. Sometimes I still couldn't believe that she had left him here to blossom.


I touched the mop of his dark hair with my fingertips and thanked God that the child below me slept in peace. That he loved me.


When I spun into the kitchen and switched on the coffeemaker, I couldn't stop the prayer that rose, a balloon lifting beneath the cage that held my heart. Thank You, I breathed in the silence. For Daniel, for Simon, for my grandmother, who still slipped from bed not long after I turned on the shower to whisk pancake batter or fold blueberries into muffins for breakfast. Thank You for the four corners of our family and the way that we folded into each other like one of my grandma's quilts. Edges coming together, softening.


Most of all, I was grateful for the stillness of the predawn hush, for the short reprieve when everything was dark and new, emerging. It was in these moments as the day was still lifting its head that I could believe everything was exactly as it should be instead of the way it was.


Not that life was horrible—far from it. But as the weeks and months circled on, I couldn't deny that our ramshackle family was often more off than on. The whole thing reminded me of Daniel's birthday present: a carved model train track. Though the sleek, red engine could pull a chain of cars around the twining loops for hours on end, there inevitably came a moment when a single wheel tripped off the track. Who knew what caused the quiet stumble? It was a magician's trick, a sleight of hand—everything bustling along one minute and struggling the next. But the train kept going; the engine pulled on. It just dragged the coal cars behind it, clacking unevenly all the way.


I felt just like that engine, hauling everything in my wake. Hauling everyone in my wake.


When I pulled back the shower curtain, it became obvious that the DeSmit family train was already well on its way to derailment. There were worms in the bathtub, a dozen or more squirming in a mound of dirt so rich and black it made me think of cake. Devil's food.


I had specifically told Daniel not to put worms in the bathtub and had even given him an ice cream bucket in which to store his newest collection. My son needed to have his hearing checked again, I decided. But it was an exercise in futility. I knew that what plagued Daniel wasn't a hearing problem; it was a listening problem.


As I deposited handfuls of squirming earthworms into the bucket I rescued from the front porch, I felt the momentary bliss of my morning slackening its fragile hold. Hot on the heels of the stark reminder that Daniel was an angel only when he slept came a familiar twinge of worry for Simon, the boy who earned his wings in a thousand different ways. By the time I finally stepped into the mud-streaked shower and turned it on full blast, I could feel concern overflow my fists like worry stones too heavy to hold.


Handsome as Simon was, and growing more mature by the day, he still wore loss like a chain around his neck, heavy and awkward, dragging his head down. He loved us, I knew that, but he missed her. And why shouldn't he? Janice was a terrible mother to me, and yet I missed her every single day. I felt her absence in the shadowed corners of my heart, where longing echoed. It was a sound track of hurt—soft, but always there.


And Janice had been a good mom to Simon. Or at least, as good as she could bring herself to be. No wonder he bore her ghost like an anchor.


Copyright: Nicole Baart (do not reproduce without permission)


Learn more at:

http://www.nicolebaart.com


Buy now at:

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Christianbook.com

***


FALSE MONEY

5th in the Abbot Agency series

By Veronica Heley



Bea Abbot does not `do' murder, but the disappearance of Tomi, star of an award-winning short film, is a different matter. Bea discovers that Tomi's circle contains a secret so deadly that they are dying one by one, even though none of them will go to the police. Which of them will talk to Bea, and if they do, will that no also put her at risk?


The extract:

Widowed Bea Abbot ran a domestic agency whose watchword was `discretion'. Every now and then people brought her problems which they couldn't or wouldn't take to the police. Occasionally this meant she dealt with murder.


Friday afternoon

Bea walked into her office and found a bouquet of flowers on her desk.

Was it a gift or a bribe?


The flowers wouldn't be from her live-in assistant. Maggie had green fingers and looked after their secluded back garden with energy and style, but Maggie did not care for cut flowers, so it wasn't she who had put the bouquet on Bea's desk.


Bea rarely bothered to buy cut flowers either, being content with one or two strategically placed pot plants which didn't object to central heating.


So, who had brought her flowers?


A name leaped into her mind.


She picked the bouquet up to make sure but there was no card with it. It wasn't an expensive bouquet. It was made up of carnations, chrysanthemums and one rose bundled into a cellophane wrapper, with a sachet of plant food taped to it. It looked as if it had been plucked from a bucket on the way out of a convenience store. Bea could see where an attempt had been made to rip off the price tag.


She weighed the bouquet in her hand, thinking about the one person who was always asking her to do things for him that she didn't want to do . . . and dropped it into the waste paper basket.


She liked flowers. What she didn't like was bribery and corruption, and she could smell that a mile off.


He'd be lurking in the vicinity, of course.


She threw her suit jacket over the back of her chair and stretched to ease her back. She was tired. She'd been out of the office all morning and this was the first moment she'd had to sit at her desk and boot up her computer. In a minute, her elderly and pensionable but refusing-to-retire personal assistant would knock on the door – which was entirely unnecessary, but the elderly Miss Brook liked to observe the formalities – and enter with the few items from the day's post that she felt her employer should see.


Meanwhile Bea accessed her emails.


`Boo!'


Of course. He'd concealed himself behind the long curtains framing the French windows.


Bea set her teeth. `No. Whatever it is you want, the answer is "No".'


`You don't really mean it.' Chris slid into the chair before her desk. Nineteen years old, he had a narrow head under a mop of chestnut hair, was of medium height and well-made. He had startlingly blue eyes and charm enough to get his own way ninety nine times out of a hundred. He was out-of-this-world clever in some respects but, in Bea's opinion at least, made up for it by being totally lacking in common sense.


As Bea had expected, Miss Brook now tapped on the door and brought in the post. Chris jumped up and reached out to take the stack of letters from her, fumbled the job and let the papers fall to the floor.

Bea rolled her eyes at Miss Brook, who pinched in her lips and said, `I don't know how he got in.'


`Don't you bother to pick up those letters, Miss Brook. Chris knocked them down, and Chris can pick them up.'


Which indeed, he was scrabbling around on the floor to do.


`I should think so, too,' said Miss Brook, who was one of the few people impervious to Chris's charm. Miss Brook closed the door soundlessly behind her.


Chris dumped a messy pile of papers on her desk and opened his mouth to speak.


`No,' said Bea. `What ever it is that you want, the answer is "No". As I've said many times before, you may not move into the spare room. You may not bring your synthesizer in here to practice, and I am not taking you out in my car to give you a driving lesson.'


`That's not fair. I've passed my test.'


`At the eighteenth attempt?'


`Oh, come on! It was only my fourth try.'


`Is your driving instructor now on tranquillisers?' She held up her hand to stop him. `I'm delighted – though surprised – to hear that you've managed finally to pass your driving test but no, you may not borrow my car under any circumstances. Anyway, aren't you supposed to be out and about, making another of your amazing art-house films that will wow the critics? No!'


He opened his mouth to reply, but she got there first. `Don't tell me. Your next film's held up for some reason, your father's fed up with you hanging around the house, and you can't go back to university till next terms starts–'


`I'm not going back to university.'


`But you will, Chris. You will. In due course you'll see the sense of it. Whatever you decide to do in life, a university degree helps. What's more, it teaches you discipline, which is something you lack. So, the answer is "NO!".'


He grinned. `You haven't heard what it is I want yet.'


`I don't need to,' she said, returning to her computer and deleting some spam. Why did you always have to check your spam nowadays, to make sure nothing has dived into the wrong slot?


He put on his puppy-dog face. `My father suggested that–'


She lifted her eyes from her screen. His father was some sort of high-up civil servant, a grey man with influence. She liked CJ, and she rather thought he liked her – not in that way, of course. But she trusted him, which is more than she did his likeable but harum-scarum son.


`Honest. He did say I should ask you to help to find my library books–'


`WHAT! Get out of here before I lose my temper completely!'


`Oh, and the girl who lost them. She seems to have got lost, too.'

998


Veronica Heley

www.veronicaheley.com


Available from Amazon and all good bookshops and libraries everywhere. Do not Reproduce without permission.

Murder by Mistake; Petra: City in Stone

MURDER BY MISTAKE.
Veronica Heley

Ellie Quicke, once a tearful widow, is now comfortably remarried to her best friend Thomas.
However, having been on her own for so long, she is inclined to act hastily, not always consulting him on matters which affect them both. When she took in a young rape victim, she guessed that the commitment might become a burden, but she didn't expect it to be an invitation to murder.
Publishers Weekly: `Intrepid Ellie injects this high-octane cozy with endearing humor and enduring style.'

Chapter One

Monday afternoon

They weren't expecting trouble. The interview at the solicitor's office was the only thing on their minds as they walked along the pavement. They took no notice of the passing traffic until . . .
Woosh! A roar from a powerful car engine, a squeal from mistreated tyres. A woman's scream. A man's hoarse shout.

Ellie staggered, cannoned into from behind. She fell. A heavy weight pressed her down, squeezing all the breath out of her.

Someone screamed.

The weight upon her was removed and she managed to lift herself enough to
see a car speed off and turn left into the traffic on the main road ahead.

Mia! Where was the girl? Was she all right? Ellie looked around, pushing herself up onto hands and knees with an effort.

Oh, thank the Lord. Mia was all right. At first glance, anyway. The girl had been thrown against the wall, was crouched there. Bewildered. Frightened.

Ellie tested her arms and legs. Everything seemed to work, after a fashion. She tried to stand and didn't make it. Went down on her knees again, with both hands on the pavement. Her pretty blue dress was no longer pretty. She'd scraped the skin down both forearms. A pity it had been a hot day, because she hadn't worn a coat. If she had, she might have saved herself grazed arms. She was trembling, but she was all right. She told herself.

Someone was screaming. Well, it wasn't her, and no, it wasn't Mia, who'd been walking on the inside of Ellie, nearer the wall. `Mia, are you all right?'

Mia nodded, over and over. Like a puppet. Speechless. In shock. Someone was still screaming. A child was crying, thinly, hopelessly.

A big black man towered over Ellie, offering a helping hand to get her to her feet. She made it, somehow. Gave him a reassuring smile. He had blood on his T-shirt and jeans.

A youngish woman clad in Lycra cycled up. She got off her bike and looked beyond Ellie and the man to where a woman lay sprawled . . . the buggy beside her, wheels spinning . . . Don't look, Ellie. Don't even think about it for the moment. Concentrate on getting yourself to stand unaided.

A car came by, slowly. Drew to a halt. Another car came up behind the first car, tooted its horn. Why the hold-up?

The man who'd saved Ellie from being run over asked, `Are you hurt?' A deep voice, reassuring.
Rough clothes, torn jeans. A workman? Big hands.

`Did you get their number?' The cyclist had a high, thin voice. She hauled her bike off the road and onto the pavement.

A man, a businessman, got out of his car. `What . . .? Are you all right, missus?'

Ellie nodded. She was, sort of. More or less. Blood was dripping off her chin onto her dress. She checked that she still had her handbag – which she'd worn across her body to deter muggers - and scrabbled inside for some paper tissues. Used them.

The child was crying, hopelessly. Ellie wished it would stop.

The businessman got his mobile phone out. The car behind him tooted again, then swung out into the road and went round him. The driver of the second car then saw what had happened and slowed right down. Traffic began to pile up behind him.

The cyclist leant her bike against the wall and bent over, retching. Ellie didn't want to look. Mia had her eyes closed. Just as well.

Two large women in their forties panted up. Dyed blonde hair strained back into unbecoming pony tails. Both were overweight, bursting out of tight sleeveless tops and even tighter jeans.
`OhmiGawd!'


That was a prayer, not an obscenity. Please God, don't take it the wrong way. The women might or might not go to church, but they knew when God was needed in the aftermath of a tragedy.

Veronica Heley

http://www.veronicaheley.com/

Murder by Mistake, Severn House.
ISBN 97807278 69111

From http://www.amazon.com/ , libraries and good bookstores everywhere.
Please do not reproduce without permission.

* * *

Petra: City in Stone

By T.L. Higley

"As compelling as Francine Rivers' A Voice in the Wind!"
-Colleen Coble, best-selling author

She believed the city hidden in rock would protect her from the past – until it threatened to destroy her future.

Cassia, a destitute young woman in need of hope, seeks refuge for her little boy in Petra, home of his dead father's estranged family and capital of the flourishing Arabian empire. Surely this rock-carved city, hidden away between towering sandstone cliffs, can protect them from their past and provide for their future.But the boy's father was not the man she believed, and when a murderous queen plots to take Cassia's son, her hopes of security are ripped away.As the plot against the young Alexander unfolds, Cassia finds unexpected allies in the mysterious followers of The Way, who sacrifice everything to help Cassia rescue her son from the queen and her pagan gods. But it will take more than these new friends to save her son.It will take a power beyond any Cassia has known—and a faith that can save a city.

From Chapter 1

The streets of Rome lay barren and empty, sucked dry by the colossal Flavian Amphitheatre that had swallowed seventy-five thousand Roman citizens in a single gulp, and would hold each one captive until they had enjoyed the horrors that Julian now raced to prevent.
More time. He needed more time. Already the crowd inside the four-story rim of stone cheered for the first event.

Julian's sandals smacked the black basalt road that led toward the amphitheatre. The blistering Roman sun pounded the moisture from his skin and left him panting. He had run most of way, since an old servant in Vita's house had pointed a gnarled finger toward the east, toward the Forum, toward the arena of death.

Eighty arches ringed the outside of the theatre on each of its first three stories. The bottom arches provided access to the public, and the second story's niches held statues of the gods and emperors, who now looked down on Julian as he sprinted across the large travertine slabs that paved the arena's edge.

He ran toward one of the four main entrances and fumbled for the tessera, the stone tile he wore around his neck. The designatores at the entrance would insist on examining it, to see the sector, row and seat to which he was assigned.

Indeed, the usher at this entrance was full of his own importance, and held a palm to Julian's oncoming rush as though he could stop him with only the force of his arm.

"Too long in your bed this morning, eh?" His smug smile took in Julian's hastily-wrapped toga and sweat-dampened hair.

Julian thrust the tessera before the man's eyes. "Here, here, look at it."

Still the amused smile. The usher opened his mouth to speak again.

"Look at it!"

Daunted, the man let his eyes travel over the tile, then took a tiny breath and stepped back. His grin faded to a look of regret over his own impudence, and he bowed his head. As if that were not enough, he bowed at the waist and extended a hand to invite Julian to enter.

Julian did not wait for an apology. He pushed past the usher and under the vaulted entrance, then straight through the arena's outer corridor and up a ramp that led to the cavea, the wedge-shaped sections of marble seats. This main entrance led directly to the central boxes reserved for the elite.

He exploded from the dimly lit ramp onto the terrace. The morning sun slashed across half the seats, the height of the amphitheatre leaving the other half in shade. The red canvas velarium, the awning used to shade the spectators, would be raised before it got much hotter, but for now, thousands of bleached togas on white marble blinded the eye and the smell of the masses assaulted the nose.

Julian crossed the terrace in two strides, slammed against the waist-high wall that separated him from the arena, and saw a figure dash at him from the shadows.

His mother's hands were on his arms in an instant. "Julian, what are you doing?" Her words were frantic, as clipped and terror-filled as his every movement.

"They have Vita, Mother!"

She wrenched his body fiercely to face her. Julian stood nearly a cubit taller than his mother, but Ariella had retained all the strength of her youth, along with the beauty. "There is nothing that can be done, my son."

He yanked his arms from her grasp. "Do not say that!" Julian searched the cavea behind him, full to overflowing with the purple-edged togas of senators. "Where is Father? Is he here?"

"Julian, think! You must think." Ariella's voice was urgent and low and her clutching fingers again slowed Julian's restlessness. "You will bring more harm – "

"I do not care!" His voice snagged with emotion, and he fought to harden the feelings into action.
"I must end this."

"You cannot, son."

He turned flashing eyes on Ariella. "It is my fault! Do you not understand? I should be down in those cages."

Ariella's eyes misted. "I would not lose both my son and his betrothed on the same day."
Betrothed. The word washed more guilt over Julian's stricken soul.

A senator, one of his father's friends, walked past and paused to hold out an arm in greeting to Julian. "Fine day for the games, is it not?"

Julian straightened at once, resuming the noble bearing trained into him since childhood, and returned the man's grip. He nodded once in agreement, but did not speak. The senator moved on, and Julian dropped his shoulders, ashamed that he had not made a statement.

Ariella seemed to read his thoughts. Her dark eyes held his own. "It will take more than a day to change the Empire."

Julian looked out over the yellow sand of the arena. "But this day, Mother, this day we must!" He slapped a hand against the top of the marble wall. "I am going to find Father."

"Julian, you know that he can do nothing – "

He spun on her. "No. I am tired of both of you, always moving about your circles quietly, behind closed doors, the truth spoken only in whispers." He lifted his own voice as an example. "There is a time to speak!"

Ariella's nostrils flared, but she said nothing. Turning from her, Julian stalked to the nearest break in the seating and ascended the tiers alongside his father's section. Here, the nobility did not sit on wooden planks as the rest of the citizens, but were given cushions or even chairs for comfort. He scanned the rows of seats for his father's graying head, and instead met his dark gray eyes.

Julian shook his head and opened his mouth to shout across the intervening seats, but his father held up a hand, then stood and excused himself from his colleagues. He slid along in front of a dozen other senators, and emerged at the end of the row beside Julian.

Quietly, he spoke into his son's ear. "I have just now heard. It is outrageous."
Julian's hands balled into fists at his side. "You must do something."

"What can I do, Julian? The emperor has ruled, and Trajan is not a man to be defied."
Across the arena, Julian watched as a trapdoor slid upward and a huddled band of men and women were prodded onto the sand at the end of Roman spears. Julian's heart pounded with the shortness of the time left and he turned on his father with the frenzy of desperation. "She is out there, Father!"


Read the first three chapters, watch video trailers, and dive into Tracy's new adventure,
NoPassportRequired, at http://www.nopassportrequired.tlhigley.com/.

Petra: City in Stone can be purchased at Amazon, Christianbook.com, and wherever books are sold.

© 2010 T.L. Higley

The Seeker; Murder by Mistake

THE SEEKER

by

Ann H. Gabhart

"The third book in Gabhart's Shaker series is an amazing read. The characters must make decisions they never thought they would have to face. Gabhart continues to surprise and treat her fans with her vast knowledge of Shaker history." - Patsy Glans, Romantic Times Review



"A definite can't-put--it-down book!" - Suzanne Woods Fisher, bestselling author of The Choice



Charlotte Vance is a young woman who knows what she wants. But when the man she planned to marry joins the Shakers – a religious group that does not marry – she is left dumbfounded. And when her father brings home a new wife who is young enough to be Charlotte's sister, it is more than she can bear. With the country – and her own household – on the brink of civil war, Charlotte hatches a plan to avoid her new stepmother and win back her man by joining the Shaker community at Harmony Hill. Little does she know that this decision will lead her down a road toward unforeseen peace – and a very unexpected love. Ann H. Gabhart brings alive the strikingly different worlds of the Southern gentry, the simple Shakers, and the ravages of war to weave a touching story of love, freedom, and forgiveness that sticks with readers long after they have turned the last page.


Mercer County, Kentucky
April 1861

CHAPTER 1

"The Shakers! Have you taken leave of your senses, Edwin? You can't seriously be considering joining the Shakers?" The words came out harsher than Charlotte Vance intended and Edwin Gilbey stepped back from her until the budding branches of the lilac bush behind him had to be poking holes in his dinner jacket.

"Please, Charlotte. Calm yourself. You know I can't abide a scene." He sounded alarmed as he shifted his eyes away from her face to look longingly over her shoulder toward the veranda door.

Charlotte's irritation grew as she stared at Edwin in the light of the nearly full moon. He didn't even like social gatherings. Behind her the door opened and laughter mixed with the music of the string ensemble she'd hired from Lexington flowed out into the garden. The party seemed to be proceeding well in spite of the charged emotions in the air.

When her father first sent word from Frankfort that he wanted her to arrange a grand gala for his return home to Grayson Manor after completing his business in the capital city, she'd doubted his sanity. Surely as a senator in the State Legislature he was more than aware the country was teetering on the brink of destruction after Mr. Lincoln had taken the Oath of Office and moved into the White House last month. Half a dozen southern states had already followed South Carolina out of the Union. That's all anybody was talking about. Whether they could do that. Whether the government should allow them to do that. Whether there would be armed conflict to preserve the Union.

How in the world did her father expect them to have a civil party with half the guests waving the Union flag and the other half shouting State's rights and favoring secession? She'd sent a message back to him saying they might as well lay the dueling pistols on the table in the front hall and let the men take turns out on Grayson's front lawn. But he had made light of her worries and on return post had insisted he had news to announce that required the finest party she'd ever arranged. Astounding news.

Charlotte had surmised he was bringing word back to Grayson that the Constitutional Union Party had pegged him as their next candidate for governor. Certainly reason enough to dare entertaining in spite of the political climate. But no, that hadn't been his news. Instead he had handed a woman dressed to the nines in silk and jewels down out of the carriage and introduced her as his wife.

Not wife to be. Wife. A woman from the North. Selena Harley Black. A widow with a young son somewhere still in the north or so Betty Jamison had whispered in Charlotte's ear while her father escorted his bride from group to group to introduce her. Of course, after the death of Charlotte's mother, Betty had entertained the improbable notion that she might eventually catch Charlotte's father's eye.

When the veranda door closed again and muffled the sound of the party, Charlotte was relieved. She couldn't think about her father and that woman right now. Not with Edwin talking this ridiculous Shaker talk. One problem at a time. She turned her attention back to the man pinned against her mother's favorite lilac bush in front of her. He shifted uneasily on his feet and glanced over his shoulder as though considering an escape under the lilac's branches even if it did mean spoiling the knees of his trousers.

"But Edwin," she said as sweetly as she could under the circumstances. "Unless I am greatly mistaken, the Shakers have a ban on matrimony."

Edwin straightened his shoulders and almost looked at her face again before he let his eyes slide down to the ground at their feet. "You are not mistaken. It is one of their strongest tenets. The avoidance of such unions allows them to live in peace and harmony. Hence the name of their village, Harmony Hill."

"I am well aware of the name of their village." The irritation in her voice sounded a bit strident even to Charlotte's ears. Not the way to win arguments. She attempted to pull in a deep steadying breath, but with the tight lacings of her corset constricting her breathing, she simply ended up feeling light-headed. She fought the feeling. She refused to have the vapors. She could control this. She could control Edwin. Hadn't she done so ever since they were toddlers playing together in the nursery?

He threw up his hand to ward off her anger as he hurried out his words. "Yes, yes, of course you are. At any rate, I have become well acquainted with an Elder Logan in their village. He has found great peace among the Believers there. A peace I envy." Edwin peeked up at her and went on in a tremulous voice. "You know yourself how unsettled I've felt ever since my dear grandmother departed this world last spring."

"I do understand how difficult the loss has been for you. For all of us. She was a fine lady." It took effort, but she managed to sound sympathetic as she spoke the oft repeated words. What she actually wanted to tell Edwin was that Faustine Hastings had been well along in years and that no one could live forever. Or grieve forever. Charlotte had resigned herself to a year of mourning before their marriage even though that would make her nearly twenty when they spoke their vows in May. A mere month from now.


The Seeker is available at most bookstores and book retailers. Online purchase a copy at http://www.christianbook.com,/ http://www.amazon.com/ or http://www.bn.com/ .

Living just thirty miles from a restored Shaker village in Kentucky, Ann H. Gabhart has walked the same paths that her characters might have walked in generations past. Gabhart is the author of several books, including the bestselling The Outsider, a finalist for Christian Fiction Book of 2009.

Visit Ann's website - http://www.annhgabhart.com/
Visit Ann's Blog - http://www.annhgabhart.blogspot.com/

Copyright ©2010 by Ann H. Gabhart
Published by Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group
ISBN: 978-0-8007-3363-6
All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without permission.

* * *

MURDER BY MISTAKE.

Ellie Quicke, once a tearful widow, is now comfortably remarried to her best friend Thomas. However, having been on her own for so long, she is inclined to act hastily, not always consulting him on matters which affect them both. When she took in a young rape victim, she guessed that the commitment might become a burden, but she didn't expect it to be an invitation to murder.
Publishers Weekly: `Intrepid Ellie injects this high-octane cozy with endearing humor and enduring style.'

Chapter One

Monday afternoon

They weren't expecting trouble. The interview at the solicitor's office was the only thing on their minds as they walked along the pavement. They took no notice of the passing traffic until . . .
Woosh! A roar from a powerful car engine, a squeal from mistreated tyres. A woman's scream. A man's hoarse shout.

Ellie staggered, cannoned into from behind. She fell. A heavy weight pressed her down,

squeezing all the breath out of her.

Someone screamed.

The weight upon her was removed and she managed to lift herself enough to
see a car speed off and turn left into the traffic on the main road ahead.
Mia! Where was the girl? Was she all right? Ellie looked around, pushing herself up onto hands and knees with an effort.

Oh, thank the Lord. Mia was all right. At first glance, anyway. The girl had been thrown against the wall, was crouched there. Bewildered. Frightened.

Ellie tested her arms and legs. Everything seemed to work, after a fashion. She tried to stand and didn't make it. Went down on her knees again, with both hands on the pavement. Her pretty blue dress was no longer pretty. She'd scraped the skin down both forearms. A pity it had been a hot day, because she hadn't worn a coat. If she had, she might have saved herself grazed arms. She was trembling, but she was all right. She told herself.

Someone was screaming. Well, it wasn't her, and no, it wasn't Mia, who'd been walking on the inside of Ellie, nearer the wall. `Mia, are you all right?'

Mia nodded, over and over. Like a puppet. Speechless. In shock. Someone was still screaming. A

child was crying, thinly, hopelessly.

A big black man towered over Ellie, offering a helping hand to get her to her feet. She made it, somehow. Gave him a reassuring smile. He had blood on his T-shirt and jeans.

A youngish woman clad in Lycra cycled up. She got off her bike and looked beyond Ellie and the

man to where a woman lay sprawled . . . the buggy beside her, wheels spinning . . . Don't look,

Ellie. Don't even think about it for the moment. Concentrate on getting yourself to stand unaided.

A car came by, slowly. Drew to a halt. Another car came up behind the first car, tooted its horn. Why the hold-up?

The man who'd saved Ellie from being run over asked, `Are you hurt?' A deep voice, reassuring. Rough clothes, torn jeans. A workman? Big hands.

`Did you get their number?' The cyclist had a high, thin voice. She hauled her bike off the road and onto the pavement.

A man, a businessman, got out of his car. `What . . .? Are you all right, missus?'

Ellie nodded. She was, sort of. More or less. Blood was dripping off her chin onto her dress. She checked that she still had her handbag – which she'd worn across her body to deter muggers - and scrabbled inside for some paper tissues. Used them.

The child was crying, hopelessly. Ellie wished it would stop.

The businessman got his mobile phone out. The car behind him tooted again, then swung out into the road and went round him. The driver of the second car then saw what had happened and slowed right down. Traffic began to pile up behind him.

The cyclist leant her bike against the wall and bent over, retching. Ellie didn't want to look. Mia had her eyes closed. Just as well.

Two large women in their forties panted up. Dyed blonde hair strained back into unbecoming pony tails. Both were overweight, bursting out of tight sleeveless tops and even tighter jeans. `OhmiGawd!'

That was a prayer, not an obscenity. Please God, don't take it the wrong way. The women might or might not go to church, but they knew when God was needed in the aftermath of a tragedy.
Veronica Heley

http://www.veronicaheley.com/
Murder by Mistake, Severn House.
From http://www.amazon.com/ , and good bookstores everywhere.
Please do not reproduce without permission.