When Casey Rowan finds her best friend Donald Broughton murdered, and his wife, Tessa unconscious, she embarks on a search for their attacker. The Devon police aren’t happy, particularly the man in charge of the investigation, Scot DCI Roderick Carlisle.

A woman’s magazine editor, Casey uses her experience to pursue leads. She uncovers a puzzling list of artworks. And discovers she didn’t know the Broughton’s as well as she thought. Desire to clear Donald’s name and find his killer drives Casey on. A lead takes her into the corrupt London art world. And into danger. Carlisle, caught up in the investigation, cannot protect her. His pleas for her to give up fall on deaf ears. Despite finding him extremely desirable, Casey isn’t listening. The murderer must be stopped and what she needs now is luck.

REVIEW

The author gives a clear picture of a chilling winter in the English countryside, and presents believable, complex characters...I found the story thought-provoking and satisfying.

Reviewed by: Sphinx Minx LITERARY NYMPHS REVIEWS ONLY
literarynymphsreviewsonly.blogspot.com

EXCERPT

It was still very cold. Strong winds whipped the clouds into great drifts across a violet blue backdrop. She tied her scarf, her mind traveling back to the blue skies of Florida Keys. It struck her again how carefree she’d been, wandering around barefoot, the sun beating down on her head and the raw, salty smell of bait emanating from the fishermen along the wharf.

First to arrive at the Richmond cafe, she chose a table overlooking the river and the diners at the tables on the foreshore. It always amused her how the English seemed determined to eat alfresco, despite the weather. The café was in a picturesque, late 17th Century Georgian building. In happier times, she’d enjoyed its ambiance, but today she felt unmoved. Some of the joy had gone from her life with Don’s death.

She saw Carlisle come through the door, pulling off his dark gray overcoat. More than one female head turned to follow him as he walked towards her.

“Miss Rowan.” He took a seat. “May I call you Casey?”

“Of course.”

“Rod.”

“Rod,” she repeated. “Are the police looking into the possibility that the murderer might be one of Tessa’s clients?”

“We haven’t discounted it.” He leaned back in the chair.

There came a pause she refused to fill.

He leaned forward and placed his arms on the table. “Casey, I understand your impatience. The processes of the law can sometimes move slower than you might expect.”

“Meanwhile the killer is free to strike again? It doesn’t seem right.”

“Mrs. Broughton is safe for the moment.”

“What are the chances it was Tessa the killer was after?” She halted, the words drying up in her mouth. Even though she’d considered it, to say it made it real, and that was too hard to face.

“Too early to say,” he replied gently, reading the panic in her eyes.

She swallowed. “Have you uncovered any evidence at the cottage?”

He seemed to choose his words with care. “If we had, I probably wouldn’t tell you about it.” He ran his hand through his hair, and an errant lock fell onto his forehead. “Casey, we’d like to wrap this up quickly too. But the police force is a bureaucracy like any other. Times change, and so do their methods. It’s just a myth that one scientist can do it all at a crime scene with instant results"they now farm forensics out to private laboratories. We have to get in a queue.”

She looked away from the lock of hair as if she’d seen something intimate. “I would have thought each police station had immediate access to one. Particularly in a murder case.”

“Most boroughs have a strict budget, with priorities.” Rod looked around. “Where’s the waitress?” He raised his arm to get her attention before turning back to Casey. “Any fibers and DNA we find must have something we can compare them with. And we must produce the right stuff in court so a lawyer can sell it to a jury. If this fails, murderers will end up back on the street.

“Ah, here’s our coffee.” Rod smiled at the waitress; she tucked her hair behind her ears, and a flush crept up her neck. Casey mentally shook her head. Her first impression had been correct. A man like Rod was used to female attention. He just wasn’t her type. Too smart, too good-looking. The mix usually revealed arrogance at a point when it was too late to back away. He was taking time for her now, and she wondered why.

He enfolded his cup, apparently warming his hands. “We try to get digital evidence as soon as we can. Donald’s computer was of vital importance to our investigation, as is his mobile, and we can’t have you or anyone else blundering in and damaging evidence.”

“My private inquiries can’t hurt, if I’m careful. There are surely instances where the media has helped in an investigation.”

Rod rubbed his chin. “Journalists don’t always report evidence accurately.”

“I’m aware not everyone is good at their job,” she replied. “But I happen to be pretty good at mine. Can you tell me if any of these have alibis?” She pulled out the list she’d made of Tessa’s clients and laid it on the table in front of him.

He gazed at her, then turned the pages around to face him. “Christ, Casey Rowan!” He shook his head. “Do you think I’m going to give you, a person of interest, this information?”

“You can’t believe I’m involved in Don’s death.”

He huffed out a sigh and looked at her. She thought for a moment he’d laugh, but his face remained steady, expressionless. “I’m going to be honest with you,” he said. “The post-mortem report shows the knife thrust that killed Donald and wounded Tessa was probably delivered by a man. You could still be involved, but my gut instinct says not.”

“It sounds like your gut instinct was helped along by the forensics department.”

He blinked. “Okay, you’ve got a point. Unfortunately, what I think isn’t the issue.” He paused. “I want you to promise not to do anything more without checking with me first. Do we have a deal?”

“I don’t expect I’ll find out much without police assistance.” She shrugged.

“I can only feel encouraged by that.”

Their full English breakfasts arrived. Guaranteed to warm you up for hours and wreak havoc with your cholesterol level, she thought, suddenly ravenous.

Rod ate quickly with an eye on his watch. He scraped up the last of the egg with his toast, took the last sip of coffee and tossed his napkin aside. Casey, still finishing her toast, noted his eyes on her.

“Casey’s an unusual name.”

“My Dad was born in Ireland, County Kildare.” Feeling awkward under his scrutiny, she touched her lips with her napkin. “He bred racehorses there before he migrated to America. He named me after a bay filly he once had, Casey’s Luck.”

He laughed. It softened his face and lightened the mood. “A thoroughbred?”

“Dad said she had a big heart and was a fighter.”

“And great legs?”
Before she could deliver an apt retort, he drew out his wallet, all business-like again. “I meant what I said before, Casey"don’t place yourself in danger. I can’t afford another death on my conscience.”

Another death? The flash of vulnerability in his eyes would be a siren call to most women, she thought. “You have my promise.”