By M. Ruth Myers
A .38, a nip of gin and sensational legs get Depression-era inner most investigator Maggie Sullivan out of so much scrapes – till a stranger threatens to bust her nostril, she’s hauled in on suspicion of his homicide and she or he unearths herself within the cross-hairs of a criminal offense boss with connections at urban corridor.
Moving via streets the place humans line up at soup kitchens, Maggie attracts details from assets others put out of your mind: The waitress on the dime shop lunch counter the place she has breakfast; a ragged newsboy; the opposite profession ladies at her rooming apartment.
Her digging will get her chloroformed and left in a ditch in the back of the wheel of her DeSoto. She makes her solution to an upscale bordello and will get tea – and data – from the madam herself.
A gunman places a bullet via Maggie’s hat. Her shutterbug good friend at the night paper warns her off. a brand new cop whose presence unsettles her thinks she’s crooked. ahead of she unearths all of the solutions she wishes, she faces a half-crazed guy with a gun, and a much more deadly point-blank killer.
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Extra info for No Game for a Dame (Maggie Sullivan Mysteries, Book 1)
He pointed past the edge of the umbrella at the eaves of the mansion. If the wind comes too fast from the south, it whistles in the eaves. It can keep you awake nights. The explanation should have quieted her nerves, but it did not. That cry seemed too filled with emotion to be made by something inanimate. Suddenly, she remembered things that she should have asked Richard. Why had he been late? Why did Catherine, the waitress, fear him so? What was this curse that Aunt Cora talked about and which he called a psychiatric problem"?
He was watching her over the rim of his cup as he sipped his coffee. Unexplainably, she remembered that he had opened her suitcases upon placing them in her room. She had still not been able to decide whether or not he had been snooping, whether such a gesture was only meant as a final courtesy. But this very direct gaze of his seemed to pry at her own eyes, to peel back her brain and seek for secrets. She didn't like that at all. �My room is wonderful, she said. I'm anxious to explore the grounds and do some riding.
Later that night, Cora came to Jenny's room. She was dressed in a lovely yellow lounging robe which contrasted with her dark beauty and her cultured dignity to make both those qualities even more evident. Jenny secretly hoped that, when she was Cora's age, she would look as feminine and sophisticated as her aunt. If I reach her age, she amended. And immediately, she wondered why she always had to have such negative thoughts. �I'd like to talk to you about Freya, Cora Brucker said. She sat on the edge of the bed.