You need to write, I told the newbie writers at the writer's conference. Unused gifts turn to poison.
What I didn't tell them was that I was currently drinking that poison myself.
Liz Hicks is a mystery writer whose husband, Jack, died a year ago during a motorcycle accident on a rainy, winding mountain road.
One of the first things she did after the funeral was investigate his death.
She already had a working knowledge of how to kill people: poisons, sniper rifles, drug overdoses, locked rooms, improvised weapons, and, most importantly, how to get away with it.
Flashy deaths, interesting methods, exotic motivations.
Jack's death, on the other hand, hadn't been the least bit suspicious. Just an ordinary accident.
But still. She has to know.
Why does Jack's death feel like it wasn't an accident?
Six months past Liz's latest book deadline, grief still owns her, body and soul. Then one night after a writer's conference in the rain, Liz returns home to find that someone has trashed her entire house but has stolen only one thing...
...her dead husband's favorite possession.
Then the phone rings. It's Liz's elderly friend Maddy, reminding her about a card party at Maddy's house. Everyone on their whole mountain road promised to be there, making it the perfect place to ask everyone in the neighborhood a few discreet questions.
Seriously, though. Who wants to annoy someone whose profession involves researching murder and getting away with it?
Join Liz for a dark and cozy mystery on a dark and stormy night!
