A Killer Column

Table of Contents

 

 

“Do the math—this book’s a winner! Make this number one on your must-read list.”

—Laura Childs,
New York Times
bestselling author

 

“A dazzling debut indeed. Combining the police procedural knowledge of Zach Stone with the [deductive] reasoning of his wife, Savannah, the equation adds up to a delightfully intelligent couple who are a pleasure to get to know. Fans of mysteries that make you stop and think will find
A Deadly Row
the start of a brilliant series.”

—
Fresh Fiction

 

“Fascinating . . . Character driven with several terrific twists . . . Readers who enjoy mysteries like those of Parnell Hall’s Puzzle Lady will enjoy observing the two Stones methodically work separately and together on their first joint case.”

—
Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine

 

“Mayes is quite good at planting clues and red herrings. There are many possibilities for the reader to consider . . .
A Deadly Row
is quite a pleasant traditional mystery, with just enough police procedural thrown in to keep it interesting.”

—
ReviewingTheEvidence.­com

 

“The mystery is engaging and well constructed . . .
A Deadly Row
reads a bit like a younger, hipper Carolyn Hart or Nancy Fairbanks novel. It makes a welcome addition to the cozy scene, and I’ll definitely be keeping an eye out for the sequel.”

—
The Season

A DEADLY ROW
A KILLER COLUMN

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

A KILLER COLUMN

 

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2011

Copyright © 2011 by Tim Myers.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

ISBN : 978-1-101-51713-0

 

BERKLEY
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PRIME CRIME

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
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The cities—in particular, Raleigh, North Carolina—featured in this novel are real enough. However, each place has been modified for the sake of the narrative in many subtle ways, and the author hopes that the residents of each locale can forgive him, since they are indeed filled with many gracious people and spectacular sights.

The art of simplicity is a puzzle of complexity.

—DOUGLAS HORTON

“
A
RE YOU SURE YOU CAN’T COME TO RALEIGH WITH ME?” I asked my husband, Zach, as I packed my things into an overnight bag at our cottage in Parsons Valley, North Carolina.

“I wish I could, but I’ve got to go back to Knoxville today to testify. Why can’t Derrick meet you here in Asheville instead of making you drive halfway across the state?”

“My syndicator claims he’s meeting me in the middle between here and Richmond,” I said as I added a few more tops to the growing pile. I had a tendency to over-pack wherever I went, and even though I was just going to be gone three days, it felt as though I was taking enough clothes for a week.

“Don’t forget your pads and pencils,” he said as he added a handful of each to the heap.

I picked them up and moved them to another stack. “These go in my briefcase. I really wish you were going with me, and not just for selfish reasons. If you drove the four and a half hours to Raleigh, I could come up with two of my puzzles for next week.” That was my job, creating logic and number puzzles found in some of the best secondary market newspapers in the country. The puzzles varied from week to week, and sometimes it was a real challenge making everything come out in the end.

“Sorry, Savannah. If I don’t testify, the Slasher might not get convicted, and we don’t want to live with that on our consciences, do we?” My husband, the former chief of police for Charlotte, North Carolina, had been shot in the chest while off duty, and the bullet had left a scar too close to his heart. He’d been forced to retire, and we’d moved to the Blue Ridge Mountains. His departure from law enforcement hadn’t lasted long though, and he was currently working as a consultant to any police department that had a tough case and the budget to hire him.

I shivered at the mention of the case he would be testifying at soon. The Slasher had been a bad one, preying exclusively on single mothers alone in the world. I was sure there was some psychological reason for his obsession, but as far as I was concerned, once he was in prison, he could have all the therapy he wanted until they marched him down the hall to the electric chair.

“I know you have to go. I’ll be fine,” I said as I finally finished packing. “If I’m going to make it in time for our meeting, I’d better hit the road.”

My husband wrapped me up in his arms, and I felt my heart skip a little, despite all of our years together. I couldn’t help myself. Whenever he held me, I felt safe, and not just because he was over six feet tall and built like a bear. It was more because he was mine and I was his, and neither one of us would have had it any other way.

After a lingering kiss, he said, “Don’t forget to call me when you get to Winston-Salem.”

“That’s just halfway to Raleigh from here. Should I call you from Hickory, too?”

“That depends,” he said as he picked up my overnight bag. “Are you going to go see Tom?”

My Uncle Thomas lived in Hickory, and though I didn’t visit him very often, I tried to pop in whenever I could manage it. He was all that was left of my mother’s generation, or at least he had been until my Uncle Barton had come back into our lives.