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In Sheep's Clothing
Softness is the first thing eaten. Animals had gotten to the corpse, tearing the flesh off the skeleton and exposing the bone. The man standing over the body, his green-blue gaze the same shade as Caribbean waters if they ever froze, stared into the empty eye sockets of his former employee. Bloody, torn flesh, ribboned by some bird, hung down the dead man's cheeks. A breeze stirred the pine trees, their needles tapping against each other, whispering in a private conversation. Robert Maxim scanned the ground again, his gaze tracing the fight. Blood was splattered in the dirt. A lot of it. Phillip had died slowly. He'd tried to pull the knife free, but the black, blood crusted handle still pro...
A Catnip Christmas
In Moriah County, Mississippi on Christmas Eve 2001, the Moriah County Patrol Boat operated by Deputy Cecil Watson and a crew of three believe they have cornered the suspected smugglers dubbed "The Christmas Jewels." Their burglary consisted of transferring from Russia five million dollars, which supposedly has been traced to Serene Cove, located in Moriah County. After the Patrol Boat explodes and the thieves escape, another unfortunate accident happens. Five years later, Bea Winslow, a Private Investigator who lives in the neighboring county of Lafouchfeye, receives an important phone call from Mack Dupree, one of the suspected smugglers. After driving over to Moriah County with her Aunt, amateur sleuth Mrs. Julia McKenna, (whom she fondly calls aunt Jewels), and Sheriff Jim Travis of Lafouchfeye County, they find Mack Dupree murdered. When bodies begin piling up and Aunt Jewels is hijacked . well, murder doesn't take a holiday and mystery, suspense, and intrigue keeps your mind guessing and your fingers early turning the pages during this dazzling Christmas season
Betray the Lie
“Carrying a girl Across the river; The hazy moon.” Robert glances up from the book of Haiku verse. “That’s like us.” “Is it?” I ask with a smile. Blue shifts on the couch next to me, pressing more weight against my side. Nila and Frank lay together, their limbs intertwined, on the marble floor. Robert is half in shadow, his green glass shaded reading lamp throwing a pale yellow circle across his lap and chest. A small, leather-bound book lays open in one of his long-fingered, elegant hands. The last wisps of the sunset, just the palest, most powdery blues and darkest hues of purple, light up the sky and filter through the wall of glass, casting shadows around the living room. R...
Flock of Wolves
I should be the one dying. I should be dead. The doctor flashed her penlight into my eyes, and I blinked against the bright ray. My dog Blue sat on the floor next to me, his head resting on my knee. My fingers curled around the edge of the exam table, gripping onto the seat, hoping I could hold onto reality. Robert Maxim stood by the door, his arms crossed and face shadowed. He watched us, reminding me of a simmering pot, one just on the cusp of a rolling boil. The sound of thunder rumbled in the back of my brain. The stringent scent of the hospital tickled my nose. My heart echoed in my chest, pounding out Mulberry's name. He'd changed my life, Mulberry—helped me when I needed it and when...
From the Dreadnought to Scapa Flow
The five volumes that constitute Arthur Marder's From the Dreadnought to Scapa Flow represented arguably the finest contribution to the literature of naval history since Alfred Mahan. A J P Taylor wrote that 'his naval history has a unique fascination. To unrivalled mastery of sources he adds a gift of simple narrative . . . He is beyond praise, as he is beyond cavil.' The five volumes were subtitled The Royal Navy in the Fisher Era, 1904–1919 and they are still, despite recent major contributions from Robert Massie and Andrew Gordan, regarded by many as the definitive history of naval events leading up to and including the Great War. This last volume describes the Royal Navy's final trium...
Brutal Mercy
The dog’s howls echo the mechanical whine of the sirens blaring from the speakers. The sounds undulate, rising and falling like the jungle-draped topography around us. The airfield we stand on is a swath of ochre in a sea of riotous green—the sky above a cerulean dome hazed in tremulous clouds. Sunlight beats through them, baking the dirt, mixing with the moisture of the jungle and wrapping itself around us in a heavy, sweaty embrace. My arms tighten around my son. Frank presses his snout to James’s foot, a low whine escaping as he looks up at me. Nila joins with Blue circling us as though forming a defensive line. They know we are in danger but don’t know from what. The dogs in the ...
