By Casey Mayes
Savannah Stone makes her dwelling developing puzzles for common sense enthusiasts. but if a amateur puzzle maker's quantity is up, Savannah has to fill within the blanks to resolve a homicide . . .
Savannah might nearly particularly drink poison than have tea with Joanna Clayton. not just is the disagreeable girl one of many worst gossips in Asheville, North Carolina, over tea she flaunts her new task growing common sense puzzles for a neighborhood newspaper--one that has many times became down Savannah's paintings.
But while Savannah's retired police leader husband, Zach, calls her later to inform her Joanna has really been poisoned, she is greater than puzzled--she's stricken. Will the police examine puzzle envy a robust adequate intent and imagine she determined to cast off the contest? It's time for Savannah to style via Joanna's lengthy record of enemies to determine who was once sour adequate to poison the possible puzzle maker . . .
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Extra resources for A Grid for Murder (A Mystery by the Numbers, Book 3)
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.