Download The Second Mouse (Joe Gunther, Book 17) by Archer Mayor PDF

By Archer Mayor

Exciting plots, advanced characters, and a panorama come to lifestyles are mainstays of Archer Mayor's New England thrillers. With a present for brilliant writing, he has made "an honorable artwork kind of the local mystery," based on the New York instances booklet Review. Now in a suspenseful new novel, Mayor's renowned sleuth Joe Gunther faces some of the most baffling circumstances of his career.

A legend between Vermont police officers, Joe Gunther has solved extra neighborhood whodunits than an entire squad of detectives. yet his newest case takes him and his crew off their Brattleboro domestic turf, forty-two miles west, to chip-on-its-shoulder, blue-collar Bennington.

On the sting of city, Gunther encounters the dead physique of Michelle Fisher. Her corpse, faded and likely at peace, deals him no clues approximately who she used to be or how she died. There are not any symptoms of violence, no ailment. Snapshots and postcards exhibit a girl who laughed tough and lived tougher. but diaries exhibit a rootless existence marred via melancholy and drink. Suicide turns out an inexpensive end, yet Gunther suspects foul play. the home is on the market, in any case, and Michelle used to be its simply tenant-one who resisted all efforts to have her evicted. The unsavory landlord is a first-rate suspect, yet is effectively built with an impressively air-tight alibi.

Now to discover the reality concerning the destiny of this discarded, all yet forgotten girl, Gunther needs to stick to a complicated path of part leads and mounting crimes. He attracts as regards to a violent and careless trio of criminals, whose chief is hell-bent on making the profession circulation of a lifetime-and prepared to step on an individual who could get in his approach.

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Extra resources for The Second Mouse (Joe Gunther, Book 17)

Sample text

Place: a tourist hotel, one or two stars, by the sea in Lejnice. Purpose: lost in the murky depths of time. The incident, the thing that made this week more memorable than similar lugubrious jamborees, had taken place – if his memory served him correctly – on the Wednesday after three or four days of lectures by bearded psychologists in sandals, and pointless group sessions, and later and later evenings in bars and pubs. A young desperado who was staying at the same hotel as the police contingent barricaded himself into his room with a young woman he had abducted at gunpoint.

Then he sat for a while, wondering what to do next. Decided eventually to stay at home rather than eat out; took out bread, beer, sausages, cheese and olives and sat down on the balcony under the awning. Stood up again after the first swig of beer and went back inside. Hesitated again before picking out an Erik Satie CD. Put on the Gymnopédies and went back outside into the summer evening. Wilfred Malijsen, he thought. That damned crackpot. As he sat there enjoying the scent of the blossoming lime trees drifting in over the balcony railings and watching the sun set over the tiled roof of the Kroelsch Brewery, his mind wandered back to the only occasion he had met this colleague he hardly knew.

Oh yes, of course, Kluuge thought, and went into the kitchen to prepare the breakfast tray. They had breakfast together in bed, watching the early morning programme on their new 27-inch television set, and once again Kluuge ran his fingers gently over the tense skin, feeling for kicks and any other sign of life from Merwin junior. 45 he left his home and his married bliss. He wheeled his twelve-gear bicycle out of the garage, clipped back his trousers, fixed his briefcase on the luggage carrier, and set off.

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