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“I cannot live without books.”
Like most of you, I suspect, I read constantly. My parents used to tell me I’d ruin my eyes if I kept reading so much. I’d say they were right, except that my brother, who doesn’t read much, has the same vision problems I do.
Anyway, my days are framed in books, morning to night, 24/7/365. I’ll read anytime, anyplace, but there is something special about summer reading. Those long golden evenings call to me. Even more, I especially love the clear cool mornings, when I can sneak out of bed and spend an hour in my current alternative world before I have to face the demands of the day.
Which brings to mind an adventure. When I was a kid, I not only snuck out of bed, I snuck out of the house. I had a private little nook just out of sight from the house, and I’d wake at first light, tiptoe outside, and read until the neighbor let his dog out. That was my signal to slip back into bed before my household roused. To this day, I don’t believe anyone ever suspected. The memory is very sweet.
A couple years later, in a new home, I tried the same trick. It was a bit harder, because my dad had installed heavier locks after a rash of burglaries in the neighborhood. Still, the call of the early summer morning couldn’t be denied, and I hid in the dense shrubs at the back of the yard, engrossed in a book. Was it still The Black Stallion, or had I graduated to Ray Bradbury? I don’t remember.
I do, however, remember the uproar when my dad got up early and discovered the unlocked door. Alarums and excursions! Roust my siblings, scream and shout, call the cops! I stuck my finger in my book and ambled inside. Sheesh, I was right outside the door. Can’t a gal get some privacy?
Dad grounded me for a week. At thirteen, I welcomed the extra time to read, even if I had to do it in my bedroom instead of out on the grass. Oh, and I had to wash the dishes every night. Fortunately, I’d grown tall enough to prop a book on the windowsill above the sink. As I said, I’ll read anytime, anyplace.
When a long-lost painting turns up at Brush & Bevel, a decade-old mystery is reawakened. What really happened to artist Jerry Berger and his model Abby Bingham? Was it a murder-suicide, as the police proclaim, or was it something far more sinister?
Gallery owner Ginny Brent and her loyal staffers, Sue Bradley and Elsie Kimball, each take a different path to unravel the mystery. Together, their discoveries start to form a cohesive whole. But as they get closer to the solution, they discover to their horror that art is not the only thing that can be framed.
About the Author: Nikki Andrews has worked as a picture framer, craft store clerk, and administrative assistant, but in her real life she is a writer, editor, and songmaker. She is a member of Talespinners and the New Hampshire Writers Project, and has published two science fiction novels and several short stories. When she’s not at her desk, she might be releasing salmon fry on the Piscataquog River, making jams or sweaters, or exploring her surroundings on foot, bike or snowshoe.
She lives near a waterfall in New Hampshire with her wonderful husband, a possessive cat, and assorted wildlife.
By the book at Amazon.