Guy Belleranti

Barbara Loraine’s stout figure filled the doorway of Karen’s art studio as I came up the walk. “Right on time,” she snapped.
I didn’t reply. This was the last place I wanted to be.

Sam Winston glared at Sheriff Dave Dark from his perch on the examination table in Dr. Amy Rivera's office. "Sunday morning stick-ups aren't supposed to happen in Pinedale, Sheriff."
"Now don't pop a corpuscle, Sam. Amy's already got enough patching to do on your head. And you’ve still got to give me the robber's description."

My partner Detective Danny Dayton and I stared across the table at Larry Walton in his murdered sister’s kitchen. Apparently, Walton had discovered his sister shot to death in her living room and had then called 911.

Mac pointed out the garish road sign as S.J. accelerated the noisy stolen car up the wooded two-lane highway. “That could be the perfect spot to jack a better set of wheels, S.J. We’ll hang out front and wait for the right tourist.”

I finished ringing up a purchase by an off-season tourist, and was watching the woman pass out the door when my boss dropped her bombshell.
“Marsha,” Trudy Bracken told me, “I believe I know who is responsible for the shop’s recent rash of thefts.”

Sally Peale flattened herself in the back corner of Maureen Mitchell’s bedroom closet, hiding behind the longest evening gown.
“This makes no sense, Sally,” Maureen’s nephew, Brian, shouted from somewhere near at hand. “I know you’re upstairs. You can’t escape.”