Women Sleuths

A Fugitive Truth: An Emma Fielding Mystery by Dana Cameron

By Dana Cameron

The past's blood stains the current the potential of a life-time awaits archaeologist Emma Fielding within the Berkshire foothills of Western Massachusetts: the opportunity to check the eighteenth-century diary of Margaret Chandler, the accused witch and murderess whose domestic Emma excavated simply months earlier than. notwithstanding, the 3 different Shrewsbury origin fellows she needs to percentage the premises with are a disturbingly ordinary bunch, and ahead of too lengthy one in every of them is lifeless. yet Emma can locate no solace within the bleak fantastic thing about the encircling barren region, for there are darkish secrets and techniques encoded in Madam Chandler's writings, and surprising parallels among an historic slaying and the unusual, brutal death of her colleague. while the killer moves back, Emma realizes her personal lifestyles is at stake. And unexpectedly there's no selection left: she is pushed to enquire bloody crimes prior and current -- sooner than her personal demise turns into a footnote in a chilling, three-centuries-old tale.

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I resolved to be patient until then, even though I was dying to see it; the only reason I’d found myself able to leave so late was that I knew the library wasn’t open on the weekend. I had been told over the phone that it contained more than cursory entries; this was a relief, as so many early journals were nothing but glorified weather reports rather than what we think of as true diaries. I’d have to wait and see for myself what I could make of the private thoughts of Margaret Chandler. I knew that a skilled historian could tease facts out of the most innocuous of references and that because I tended to be more aware of mentions of the material aspects of life—archaeologists tend to focus on things they can measure and quantify—I’d lose a lot of information if I didn’t pay attention to nuance.

And stood up, and up, and up. No wonder Harry was smiling; Sasha’s legs ended on her about where my ears start on me. It just wasn’t fair. Oh, sure, she was wearing a pair of glasses with thick black frames, a lavender twin set and tweedy brown skirt, and had her hair up in a tight bun. But the sweater looked like it was covering a partial relief map of the Rockies, the hem of the skirt struggled to stay demurely at the tops of her knees, and the glasses looked like a fashion photographer had just decided that smart was chic and stuck them on the pouting face of his latest supermodel creation.

Goody,” he said in a monotone. I combed desperately through my memory. ” “Idealists. ” he said. Michael got up and stretched, catlike, then slunk over to prop up the mantelpiece. “I just can’t stand how naive they were. ” That floored me; shouldn’t he have been acting more the role of the apologist, if he were interested in them? “Sure, naive, but they thought they could change the world with their ideals. ” Then I couldn’t resist asking. ” “I study the history of American philosophy, and there was money in them,” he said, with a monumental shrug of resignation.

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