The first indication that Professor Benjamin Bradshaw’s life was about to plunge again into chaos appeared in the form of a flatulent horse eating Mrs. Prouty’s broad beans over the garden fence, its huge teeth tugging greedily at the vines.
In retrospect, it would have been better if my wife had let me stay home to see “Meet the Press” instead of making me schlep across town to watch Jim Wallace die.
Somewhere between the airport and downtown, in the steamy, sinking warren of Bangkok’s broken streets and stinking canals, my taxi driver began complaining. Loudly.
The empty grave changed everything.
It began with a sobbing phone call from my daughter, the kind of call every parent dreads. All I made out was that something terrible had happened; she was terrified, would never get over it. It was all my fault.
The day Emily Hargraves disappeared after visiting my donut shop, I had no idea that it would be the beginning of a series of seemingly unrelated events that would ultimately lead to the death of one of my dearest friends.
Maurice Oulette tried to kill himself once but succeeded only in blowing off the right side of his jawbone.
The sun never shines beneath the Devil’s Ear.
Arthur Conan Doyle curled his brow tightly and thought only of murder.
Fat, foul-tempered, and from the contorted facial expressions of the two jurors next to her, not without odor, Prospective Juror 18 was perfect.