By Charlaine Harris
Death comes calling on a small-town librarian whose existence is passing her by.
Aurora "Roe" Teagarden's fortunes swap while a deceased acquaintance names her as inheritor to a slightly great property, together with funds, jewellery, and a home entire with a cranium hidden in a window seat. Roe concludes that the aged girls has purposely left her a homicide to resolve. So she needs to establish the sufferer and work out which one in every of her new, ordinary-seeming associates is a murderer-without placing herself in lethal possibility.
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Extra resources for A Bone to Pick (Aurora Teagarden Mysteries, Book 2)
The madman's bullet had circled along Damian's ribs, cracking at least one, before burying itself in the musculature around the shoulder blade--too deep for amateur excavation. Had it been the left arm, Holmes might have risked it, but Damian was an artist, a right-handed artist, an artist whose technique required precise motions with the most delicate control. Digging through muscle and nerve for a piece of lead could turn the lad into a former artist. Were Watson here, Holmes would permit his old friend to take out his scalpel, even considering the faint hand tremor he'd seen the last time they had met.
Except that Mycroft's grey job was that of eminence grise of the British Empire. He inhabited the shadowy world of Intelligence, but he belonged neither to the domestic Secret Service nor to the international Secret Intelligence Service. Instead, he had shaped his own department within the walls of Treasury, one that ran parallel to both the domestic branch and the SIS. After forty years, his power was formidable. If I stopped to think about it, such unchecked authority in one individual's hands would scare me witless, even though I had made use of it more than once.
No: A painter robbed of his technique could form another life for himself; a man driven insane by confinement could not. If they found no help in Wick, he might have to turn surgeon. The thought made his gut run cold. Not the surgery itself--he'd done worse--but the idea of Damian's expression when he tried to control a brush, and could not. Imagine: Sherlock Holmes dodging responsibility. Standing over his son's form, he became aware of the most peculiar sensation, disturbingly primitive and almost entirely foreign.