A Little Class on Murder - Couverture souple

Hart, Carolyn

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 0553282085 ISBN 13 : 9780553282085

Editeur : Random House Publishing Group, 1989

Synopsis

When mystery bookstore owner Annie Laurance is invited to teach "The Three Great Ladies of the Mystery" class at Chastain Community College, the sometime sleuth discovers that all is not strictly academic in Chastain's hallowed halls of learning. And when a shocking scandal in the school newspaper erupts in a suicide and two violent deaths, Professor Laurance enlists the talents of her new hubby, private eye Max Darling, and dons her thinking cap to probe intrigue and vengeance among Chastain's faculty.

A Dangerous Thing

Max and Annie, with dubious help from three of their own great ladies of the mystery -- Annie's pixilated mother-in-law, a batty local dowager, and a Christie crime fanatic -- learn that just about everyone at the school had means, motive, and access to the murder weapons. From the secretly boozing professor of advertising to the muscle-bound campus cad who barters passing grades for a little extracurricular activity, anyone on the faculty is a possible killer -- waiting to strike again!

A propos du livre

À propos de l'auteur

An accomplished master of mystery, Carolyn Hart is the New York Times bestselling author of more than fifty-five novels of mystery and suspense including the Bailey Ruth Ghost Novels and the Death on Demand Mysteries. Her books have won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards. She has also been honored with the Amelia Award for significant contributions to the traditional mystery from Malice Domestic and was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Hart lives in Oklahoma City, where she enjoys mysteries, walking in the park, and cats. She and her husband, Phil, serve as staff—cat owners will understand—to brother and sister brown tabbies.

Extrait. © Reproduit sur autorisation. Tous droits réservés.

1
 
Open stacks. A boon to scholars and to those surreptitiously in search of esoteric knowledge.
 
The reader in the shadowy, out-of-the-way carrel stifled a whoop of delight. Here it was in exquisite detail: how to put together a bomb, a nice little bomb timed to explode at precisely the right moment. In a manual on guerrilla warfare, courtesy United States Army. The coffee-spattered cover was a dull green. Such an innocuous-appearing pamphlet, but full of means to maim and destroy. Right here on the shelves of the Chastain College library.
 
2
 
Emily Everett was heavy. That’s how she put it to herself. Heavy. But she couldn’t help it. She didn’t eat that much more than other people. Why did everyone else have to be thin? Why should it make so much difference?
 
She tugged on her bra and her enormous breasts quivered. Damn thing choked her. Something always hurt. Her back. Her feet. She sighed and reluctantly hoisted a thick stack of yellow folders. She stared at them with loathing, then slowly shuffled across the office. She hated filing, almost as much as she hated typing. She hated working while going to school.
 
The main office door burst open and a slim redhead bounced up to the counter. “Hi, Emily. Is God back yet?”
 
“Mr. Burke is out of the office this morning,” Emily replied stiffly. Who did Georgia Finney think she was? But Emily knew the answer. Georgia Finney was Sports Queen, chief photographer for The Chastain College Crier, president of her sorority. And gorgeous, with a brilliant shine like maples in the fall.
 
Emily fastened malicious, resentful eyes on Georgia’s cheerful face, and said in an innocent tone, “Oh, Georgia, I saw the notice that Professor Crandall and his wife are having the Student Press Association over next week. Won’t that be fun?”
 
And Emily felt a thrill of triumph, because the look in Georgia’s eyes—fleeting but so revealing—was a compound of fear, misery, and despair.
 
3
 
The hardest part was coming home to the down-at-heels apartment house with its faded green stucco exterior and hummocky grass. Charlotte Porter walked stiffly, her thin shoulders rigid. Shards of glass from a broken beer bottle glistened in the late fall sunlight on the cracked sidewalk.
 
In her mind, she carried an image of a gracious house, an old and dignified house high on a bluff overlooking the river. Never a grand house, but so human and so filled with memories.
 
But here, it was easier not to think of Jimmy.
 
Spilled cola made the front steps sticky underfoot. Those loud Stemmons children. But what could be expected, no father, and a mother working two jobs. Not like Jimmy, who had been the center of her universe with every care she could give. The vestibule door was ajar. The Stemmons children again. Too young, too much in a hurry, too unruly to remember to close the door. Charlotte nudged it open wider with her elbow, her hands full with her purse and her briefcase.
 
Shifting the briefcase to one hip, she fumbled in her purse for her keys and poked the tiny one into the front of her mail slot. A massive wrought iron mailbox had weathered sixty years on the shady porch of Riverway.
 
The usual mail. Sudden tears blurred her eyes as she glimpsed the ornate writing on one square white envelope. The annual University Women’s Thanksgiving tea. She’d not missed attending for more than a quarter of a century. A mistake that the invitation had come, obviously, because she’d dropped out of her clubs, all of them. She no longer went to the luncheons, every second Wednesday of the month, every third Thursday, with their high fluttering chatter of women, so like the evening chorus of birds settling in the treetops, and their familiar programs on quilts or silver, lace or church history.
 
She’d told everyone, when she’d moved to the apartment house, that it was financial reverses, that dreadful stock market drop.
 
No one knew how the money had gone, how desperate she’d been.
 
She jammed the invitation, circulars, and bills into her purse, opened the second door, and started up the narrow wooden stairs, the treads covered with cracked linoleum.
 
What a tacky, hateful place.
 
But she could just barely manage the rent and continue to make restitution.
 
At least, no one knew about that.
 
She couldn’t bear it if anyone knew about that.
 

Détails de l'édition

• Éditeur: Random House Publishing Group
• Date d'édition: 1989
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN 10: 0553282085
• ISBN 13: 9780553282085
• Reliure: Poche
• Numéro d'édition: 1
• Nombre de pages: 272
• Coordonnées du fabricant: non disponible
• Personne responsable: GPSR Kontakt; gpsr@libri.de; ; Europaallee 1; Bad Hersfeld; 36244; Allemagne