When a fire threatens the Imogene Museum, curator Meredith Morehouse realizes the frequency and increasing size of the conflagrations aren’t as random as lightning strikes. Are the fires targeted? Are they vindictive revenge or a risky cover-up for something even worse? &n...
One of the joys of not having a prenuptial agreement. I’d just been kicked off my own property. I raced along the county road, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. I tried to gulp calming breaths. I needed a clear head. Time was of the essence, and I couldn’t afford ra...
I sat up fast, clutched the edge of the wobbly table and squeezed my eyes shut against the sunlight streaming through the dirty windows. I groaned and took another quick peek. Nothing had changed since last night. Except the horn, which was now being punctuated into shorte...
Which was wide open. As were the windows. But there were no signs of pot-bellied pigs or a furious Clarice. I gulped another deep breath and held that one low in my lungs while I slid out of the truck and stepped cautiously toward the cracked concrete patio and the opening...
It’s between Berkeley and Oakland, and the two don’t meet cleanly in the middle. There’s a lot of gentrification and quiet, tree-lined streets full of the well-kept houses owned by university professors and technology company executives. There are also gritty strip malls and the depressing ruins ...
Walt and I decided to take his pickup since it was quieter—at least it emitted the level of mufflered rumble most common in the county, unlike my newly souped-up Lentil. I gave Lentil’s keys to Clarice, and she drove to the bunkhouse to assist Tarq and Loretta. “They haven...