By Sarah Graves
They are saying you can’t move domestic again—and in terms of a person with an previous ranking to settle, occasionally you’d greater no longer. That’s what Jacobia “Jake” Tiptree discovers whilst the earlier she inspiration she’d laid to relaxation comes calling at her lovingly restored 1823 Federal-style condo in Eastport, Maine. regrettably, her outdated lifestyles and her new one are approximately to collide with lethal effects. . . . Jake is deep in her most up-to-date remodeling project—repainting a porch—when she notices the fellow many times cycling earlier her apartment. His face is unsettlingly wide-spread, yet his chilling message turns out inexplicable: Blood indicates up back. homicide will out. If it’s a prank, it’s an unpleasant one, and so is the nameless e mail caution her to watch out the Fourth of July—just days away. again in her days as a hotshot monetary supervisor she did enterprise with lots of shady characters, yet she’s nonetheless baffled as to the identification of her nemesis—until she gets a photograph of a murdered guy. Now Jake is familiar with what—and whom—she’s up opposed to. yet figuring out her enemy is not any ensure that she will break out the awful payoff he has in shop for her. From domestic invasion to kidnapping, this twisted killer is slowly yet without doubt plotting a knockdown with not only Jake however the whole city of Eastport at its explosive heart. And nobody can expect whilst or the place the shockingly lethal finale will ensue.
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Additional resources for Knockdown: A Home Repair Is Homicide Mystery
Sample text
She drank more wine. It was pretty good, actually. She’d have finished it the night before if she hadn’t been distracted by the decanter of forty-year-old Scotch. “To make sure that you were okay, that you hadn’t had some kind of an accident on the way home, or gotten mugged. ” she added gently, her voice breaking. Which was silly, really. But the tears prickled in her eyes nonetheless, blurring the soft green tops of the trees in Central Park. It was spring, and the lovers down there were walking hand in hand along the paths beneath the flowering cherries.
CHAPTER 1 HER NAME WAS JACOBIA TIPTREE—JAKE, TO HER FRIENDS—and on that bright day in July twelve years after the Manhattan meeting, she was scraping loose paint off the porch steps of her big old house in Eastport, Maine, when the guy on the bike went by again. Or she’d thought the paint would be loose, anyway. But as her son Sam always said, hope springs infernal, and the reality was something else again. Meanwhile: Pedaling slowly, looking right at her, the guy on the bike frowned as if he’d just sniffed a spoiled carton of milk.
How did you even—” The whole reason for having a doorman at all was that no one was supposed to be able to get upstairs without first being announced via intercom, and approved. But when she glanced over inquiringly, he was suddenly extremely busy with some papers in one of the desk’s drawers. Come on, Jerry “Da Bomb” Baumann’s face said clearly. You think some freakin’ rent-a-cop’s gonna stop me? “You tell him,” he repeated as he opened the door to the street. The sudden clamor of noise was so loud that it was almost comical.