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December's delights are here! Thrilling tales, romance, and magic await you.

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Family secrets aren't just dangerous, they are deadly.


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A headstrong heiress and a noble gambler: wagers, intrigue, and irresistible romance.


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An immortal vampire, a relentless agent, and a past that refuses to stay buried.


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A PI protecting a determined daughter, a killer ready to strike again.


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Three homeless puppies, two lonely hearts, and a massive snowstorm.


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Two restless souls, one wild Christmas on the ranch�where sparks fly, and dreams ride free.


Excerpt of A Medal For Murder by Frances Brody

Purchase


Kate Shackleton Mystery #2
Minotaur Books
February 2013
On Sale: February 12, 2013
Featuring: Kate Shackleton
432 pages
ISBN: 0312622406
EAN: 9780312622404
Kindle: B008RLW5AW
Hardcover / e-Book
Add to Wish List

Mystery Cozy

Also by Frances Brody:

A Mansion for Murder, May 2024
Trade Paperback / e-Book
A Mansion for Murder, April 2023
Hardcover / e-Book
Murder is in the Air, December 2021
Trade Size / e-Book / audiobook (reprint)
The Body on the Train, February 2021
Trade Size / e-Book
Murder is in the Air, October 2020
Hardcover / e-Book
A Snapshot of Murder, April 2019
Hardcover / e-Book
Death in the Stars, February 2018
Hardcover / e-Book
Death at the Seaside, September 2017
Hardcover / e-Book
Death of an Avid Reader, September 2017
Trade Size / e-Book
Murder on a Summer's Day, February 2017
Trade Size / e-Book (reprint)
A Death in the Dales, February 2017
Hardcover / e-Book
Death of an Avid Reader, September 2016
Hardcover / e-Book
Murder on a Summer's Day, February 2016
Hardcover / e-Book
A Woman Unknown, February 2015
Hardcover / e-Book
Murder in the Afternoon, February 2015
Paperback / e-Book (reprint)
Murder In The Afternoon, February 2014
Hardcover / e-Book
A Medal For Murder, January 2014
Paperback / e-Book (reprint)
A Medal For Murder, February 2013
Hardcover / e-Book
Dying In The Wool, February 2013
Hardcover / e-Book
Dying In The Wool, February 2012
Hardcover / e-Book

Excerpt of A Medal For Murder by Frances Brody

PROLOGUE

It took the best part of an afternoon to cut out the letters. In spite of touching the pastry brush into the jar so carefully, glue still coated fingertips, had to be peeled off. Glue made your head ache, but your hopes soar.

The sheet of paper turned stiff when dry. It would be ludicrous if a letter fell off. In the end, there it was.

One thousand pounds to have Lucy back alive.

Await instructions.

Call police, she will die.

She would, too. Failure means curtains, success a new beginning.

Act One, Scene One.

The Pawnbroker

On a muggy August Friday morning, we set out in my 1910 blue Jowett convertible, for our 9.30 a.m. appointment.

Jim Sykes, my assistant, is an ex policeman who endearingly believes he does not look at all like an ex policeman. He just happens to be lean, mean, and alert as a territorial tom cat. During a ten-day holiday in Robin Hood's Bay with his wife and family, he caught the sun, along with a carefree air that I suspected would not last long.

I braked sharply to let a crazed old woman, raising her stick to stop traffic, hurtle across Woodhouse Lane.

A rag and bone cart drew alongside, drawn by a patient shire horse. The lad seated beside the driver pointed at me. He called to Sykes, ‘Didn't no one tell you women can't drive?'

Sykes raised his goggles and drew a finger across his throat as he gave the lad a hard stare.

‘Let it go,' I said, accelerating away. ‘That's threatening behaviour.'

‘Threaten? I'll throttle him.'

Sykes finds it hard to let anything go. If he were a duck, the water on his back would sink him.

We bore up manfully as I drove into Leeds city centre and parked outside the double-fronted jeweller's shop on Lower Briggate. Three gold balls above the shop announced its pawnbroker status.

In the plate glass window, I caught a glimpse of myself. What is the stylish lady detective wearing this season, under her motoring coat? A brown and turquoise silk crepe dress and jacket, copied from a Coco Chanel model, cloche hat and summer gloves echoing the brown. My mother frowns on brown, saying it is too much like wartime khaki sludge, but it suits my pale colouring and chestnut hair.

Jewellers' shops have a subdued air, like churches and banks. This one smelled of lavender polish and chamois leather. The young assistant with neatly combed fair hair and dark suit could easily have worked in a counting house. Head bent in concentration, he showed a tray of rings to a young couple.

Mr Moony, a thin grey-suited man with shining tonsured head, gave us a Mona Lisa smile. He saved the introductions for the small back room.

‘One moment!' he disappeared into the shop and returned carrying a chair for me. I am five feet two inches tall. Mr Moony's courtesy in giving me the chair meant that he and Sykes, on high buffets, towered over me. Sykes handled the moment impeccably, concentrating mightily on taking out notebook and pencil.

I prompted Mr Moony to tell us about the incident, which took place last Monday, 21 February, 1922.

Excerpt from A Medal For Murder by Frances Brody
All rights reserved by publisher and author

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