By Judith Skillings
Rebecca Moore has had greater than her fill of useless males . . . the 1st, her lover David, took his personal existence in her bed room simply outdoor of Washington, D.C. -- a wholly mindless act of violence that motives a seriously shaken Rebecca to give up her task as an investigative journalist and flee to rural Maryland to run her overdue Uncle Walt's vintage car recovery store. Out the following she faces a really varied pressure of rampant craziness -- let alone a motley choice of probably harmful, allegedly reformed ex-convict staff she's inherited. As she attempts to settle in, a moment male corpse surfaces, murdered and filled right into a glass beading desktop at the store flooring, the place it has no earthly correct or cause to be. Now, with a horny cop who is extra attracted to her than within the case, and with extra demise within the offing, Rebecca Moore goes to need to inn to what she does top: locate the evidence, finger a wrongdoer . . . and in some way remain alive.
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Extra info for Dead End
There was room for up to ﬁve cars with their doors shut. Right now the shop was overﬂowing if you counted the Bentley parked in the machine area. That should have been prosperous news. Plenty of work. Ha. Because of the deadline, only the cars entered in the Paris-to-Peking rally were being worked on, so there were only two potential sources of income. One was Lindeman’s Hisso, and he wasn’t paying yet—for which she should have her head examined. The other was the Shelley’s Bentley on which they weren’t al- 38 / Judith Skillings lowed to work—thanks to its starring role in Graham Stuck’s homicide.
I’ve found one just your style—independent businesswoman with a deep laugh and ample meat on her bones.
Here’s his license number. Check him out. ” Tuesday Vintage Racers Nine Rebecca awoke with a start. She listened, heart pounding, blood running cold. The scream was not repeated. Of course not. The scream had been in the nightmare. Her scream. The scream she’d emitted upon ﬁnding David’s lifeless body. The scream that woke her each night for weeks after it happened. She ﬂipped back the quilt she’d dragged out of the closet last night when she couldn’t stop shaking and sleep wouldn’t come. She refused to huddle in bed like a cornered mouse while the scenes from her old bedroom replayed like movie stills.
Dead End by Judith Skillings