Short Story Press Presents Grave Silence

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She thought about the final article in the bag—a card signed by all of the kids, all of her new young friends from Kansas, telling her to Get well soon! With lots of hearts and exclamation points. Casey was tired enough now she felt tears pricking her eyes, so she concentrated on making them disappear. The train let out a long whistle blast, and the boxcar shuddered and slowed. Within minutes they came to a complete stop. Casey slid the door open and took a deep breath of fresh air. Or we die of B. Wending her way through the train yard, Casey peered around boxcars and engines, wanting to avoid confrontations with anyone who would question her presence.

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Casey kept moving, and soon stood on the sidewalk in front the station. People crowded everywhere, rushing to make a train, carrying packages, headed out into the city. Casey slung her bag over her shoulder and began to walk. As during her earlier visit with Reuben, she was surprised at what she saw in Nashville.

Most of her pre-conceptions had been wrong. Sure, there were people wearing shirts with leather fringes, and pointy cowboy boots, and she spied a restaurant called the Wildhorse Saloon, but mostly it was the same as any other city. Death let out a sigh and trailed behind her. Until Death started to whistle. And then hum. And then sing right out loud. An empty building here.

A vacant, weedy lot there. Groups of people huddled on sidewalks, or in front of shady mini-marts. Finally, she spotted a motel that looked about like her own condition. The Rest E-Z. A one-story building, each room with an external door and parking spot. The sign promised cable and an outdoor pool.

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Too bad the pool was covered with algae, and had ducks swimming in it. Casey sat on a bench across the street and pulled out the cell phone Bailey had given her. She let out a sharp laugh. What in my life has happened the correct way? He exhaled so heavily she could almost feel the breeze.

I could get disbarred. It had been a mistake to call. They were hidden in a garage, among the rakes and shovels and pink bicycles. He would. He also wants me to tell him where you are when you contact me. She almost sobbed with relief. Before I convinced him otherwise? Send it there under the name of my maid of honor. The girl with the freckles on her shoulders. She was a cutie. So are you staying at this hotel? Casey sniffled. All right? Thank you so much. And with this young man Eric you have a witness on your side?

Not them. The more recent one.

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The man with the face and the woman with the hair? Or Dottie Spears? Free of Pegasus.

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    Short Story Press Presents Grave Silence

    Arctic Chill Arnaldur Indridason. Voices Arnaldur Indridason. One of these stories, told in a parallel narrative in a voice that comes straight from the grave, is an account of the abused wife and children of a sadistic laborer who once lived on the hill. While this marks him as the gloomiest of men, it also makes him one of the most compassionate detectives to come this way in a long time. Romance is tricky to handle in a mystery series, but Julia Spencer-Fleming has kept up the heat for five novels about the Rev.

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    Clare Fergusson, an Episcopal priest who falls in love with the married police chief in the small Adirondack town of Millers Kill, where she ministers to a congregation that relishes juicy gossip. But when his wife is murdered, Russ becomes the chief suspect in what appears to be a crime of deadly passion.

    Her unusual heroine has brains and wit and the fearless spirit of an ex-Army chaplain and helicopter pilot who saw action in Kuwait. In a story as unpredictable as its characters, the resolution takes this series in a direction that should give the good bishop heart palpitations.