It is almost Christmas and yards glow with twinkling lights.
But more than chestnuts are roasting.
But more than chestnuts are roasting.
A raging fire sweeps through the decorated landscape of Sled Run, destroying the home of Chief Deputy Oren Rosenberg and killing two.
An accident? Or did something toxic fuel the flames?
Sheriff Piper Blackwell and Detective Basil Meredith believe Oren was targeted and are tasked with finding motive and means before more than the holiday burns bright.
With many clues reduced to ashes, can Piper and Basil catch the culprits before they strike again? Or is this blaze just the start of the most murder-filled time of the year?
Publisher: Boone Street Press (November 13, 2023)
Publication date: November 13, 2023
Language: English
Print length: 316 pages
Buy link: https://mybook.to/DeadSledRun
The Dead of Sled Run is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out on Amazon.
Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series, The Dead of Winter
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Excerpt Seven:
Behind them, the nosey neighbors complained about the cold and the sleet while continuing to speculate on what caused the fire. Piper and Basil stepped away and into the street, close to the pumper truck, which had the name Blitzen painted on it. The Santa Claus Volunteer Fire Department vehicles were all named after the famous poem’s reindeer.
“Millie’ll come here when she’s cleared the scene.” Piper had to raise her voice to be heard over more shouting. She twisted her foot against the ice. “Then I’ll send her up to Indy.” Provided Oren lived to reach Ascension. “It would be great if you could watch his cats. Thank you.”
Basil turned and pointed to a gangly-looking man in red sweatpants and a puffy black jacket balancing on the curb. “Neighbor from across the street and one house down, Dave … Halm. David Halm. Told me Oren had some rewiring done, used an electrician Mr. Halm recommended.”
“So maybe faulty work,” Piper said. She squinted, the sleet striking her face, tiny ice darts that faintly stung. Why didn’t the lookie-loos go home, get out of this weather? Their nosiness overwhelmed their common sense.
She watched the fire a few more minutes, then returned to the gawkers and honed in on a conversation between David Halm and a thickset man in a plaid jacket, their shoulders hunched against the wind.
“Left his Christmas tree lights on, Davey. Caught the drapes on fire, I’ll bet. Every year it happens in any city. Christmas trees cause fires.”
“Jewish. Jewish. No Christmas tree. Jewish,” Halm said.
“Does he smoke? Maybe he fell asleep with a cigarette and—”
Halm frowned. “No Christmas tree lights. No cigarettes. I never saw Oren smoke anything.”
The firemen barked orders back and forth, and the east side of Oren’s house fell in, smoke belching and fire shooting up with firework-like sparks. The red glow above the ruins painted a false dawn in the neighborhood.
“Not a smoker, then. Ah, Davey, now I remember him being Jewish. Maybe he had one of them Jewish candle thingies lit. Too close to the drapes.”
“Menorahs,” Halm explained. He had a wide face and a long, narrow nose, dark eyes, and gray hair that marked him late middle-age. “It’s a candelabrum with seven or eight branches. Kinda pretty.”
“Maybe the candles caught the drapes on fire.”
Halm shook his head. “Menorahs are lit on each night of Hanukkah. And the first night of Hanukkah isn’t for another week. Rosey wouldn’t have lit a candle.”
“You Jewish? I didn’t think you were Jewish, Davey. You got a Christmas tree. Got lighted nutcrackers parading across your lawn. You decorate every year.”
“I’m not Jewish. Just educated.”
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About the Author:
USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief.
From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers.
She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur.
Find out more about her at www.jeanrabe.com
Behind them, the nosey neighbors complained about the cold and the sleet while continuing to speculate on what caused the fire. Piper and Basil stepped away and into the street, close to the pumper truck, which had the name Blitzen painted on it. The Santa Claus Volunteer Fire Department vehicles were all named after the famous poem’s reindeer.
“Millie’ll come here when she’s cleared the scene.” Piper had to raise her voice to be heard over more shouting. She twisted her foot against the ice. “Then I’ll send her up to Indy.” Provided Oren lived to reach Ascension. “It would be great if you could watch his cats. Thank you.”
Basil turned and pointed to a gangly-looking man in red sweatpants and a puffy black jacket balancing on the curb. “Neighbor from across the street and one house down, Dave … Halm. David Halm. Told me Oren had some rewiring done, used an electrician Mr. Halm recommended.”
“So maybe faulty work,” Piper said. She squinted, the sleet striking her face, tiny ice darts that faintly stung. Why didn’t the lookie-loos go home, get out of this weather? Their nosiness overwhelmed their common sense.
She watched the fire a few more minutes, then returned to the gawkers and honed in on a conversation between David Halm and a thickset man in a plaid jacket, their shoulders hunched against the wind.
“Left his Christmas tree lights on, Davey. Caught the drapes on fire, I’ll bet. Every year it happens in any city. Christmas trees cause fires.”
“Jewish. Jewish. No Christmas tree. Jewish,” Halm said.
“Does he smoke? Maybe he fell asleep with a cigarette and—”
Halm frowned. “No Christmas tree lights. No cigarettes. I never saw Oren smoke anything.”
The firemen barked orders back and forth, and the east side of Oren’s house fell in, smoke belching and fire shooting up with firework-like sparks. The red glow above the ruins painted a false dawn in the neighborhood.
“Not a smoker, then. Ah, Davey, now I remember him being Jewish. Maybe he had one of them Jewish candle thingies lit. Too close to the drapes.”
“Menorahs,” Halm explained. He had a wide face and a long, narrow nose, dark eyes, and gray hair that marked him late middle-age. “It’s a candelabrum with seven or eight branches. Kinda pretty.”
“Maybe the candles caught the drapes on fire.”
Halm shook his head. “Menorahs are lit on each night of Hanukkah. And the first night of Hanukkah isn’t for another week. Rosey wouldn’t have lit a candle.”
“You Jewish? I didn’t think you were Jewish, Davey. You got a Christmas tree. Got lighted nutcrackers parading across your lawn. You decorate every year.”
“I’m not Jewish. Just educated.”
a Rafflecopter giveaway
About the Author:
USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief.
From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers.
She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur.
Find out more about her at www.jeanrabe.com
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