Sheriff Lucy Valentine was waiting outside the hospital room when her mother Fran appeared, her cheeks rosy from the cold. Fran was a retired schoolteacher, an amateur crime solver, and to Lucy, a sometimes-pain-in-the-rear-end. Not necessarily in that order.
Dear Margaret,
Arrived at Elmendorf on Friday. Barracks are okay, but it’s sure not as good as home. Miss you already.
Enjoying the scenery. When the weather’s clear you can see Mt. McKinley (Denali), and it’s 150 miles away. Drove around some yesterday, saw a real moose. Will send pictures.
The 22 tales in this anthology, although inspired by the songs of the ’60s, don’t all take place in that decade. Some will step you back in time, others contemporary, all evoking the sense of the song or its meaning in tales of theft, robbery, kidnapping, dating, family, and other relationships. From the UK to Canada and the US, these authors crafted stories that range from nostalgic to humorous, but all deadly and inspired by songs whose opening riffs are mostly familiar. If not, pull out your old LPs or CDs or log onto YouTube and have a listen as you read Peace, Love, and Crime: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of the ’60s.
The five student nurses stood at the security desk, waiting. Outside the glass doors, a landscaped lawn gasped in the August heat.
“No answer,” the guard said, one hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “He’s not in his office.”
One of the students, Nancy Hines, nodded. “We’re a little early—”
“What I can’t figure out,” Nate said, as he lay in the dirt behind a clump of cactus near Rosie Hapwell’s house, “is why you married that idiot in the first place.”
Before Rosie could reply, another bullet whined off a rock three feet away. Both of them ducked their heads and crawled to the dry wash where Nate had left his horse.
“He’s dead,” Nicole Finney said. Teary-eyed, she led Officers Payne and Tyler down a dim hallway. Morris Dunn lay facedown in his office.
Joe McClellan led a simple life. He had a wife, two kids, a mortgage, a respectable job, and very few complications. No excitement, no mystery, no oddities. At least until now.
Catherine Munsen was less than thrilled about her job. In fact, until the day she met Frank Goodman, she thought it was downright boring.
Catherine was a part-time teller at the Marshlands Bank in Gulf Springs, Mississippi. Her actual position, though not recorded anywhere on her job description sheet, was a combination of teller and secretary and supply sergeant. The only thing she was not allowed to do was process loans.
Ross and McLane stood together on the grassy ridge, looking down at the coastline.
“If he left this morning,” McLane said, “he should be back by now.”
“He’ll be back,” Ross said.
After the tall dark-haired woman lifted the carry-on bag into the overhead compartment, the younger blonde in the aisle seat moved her knees so the tall lady could squeeze past to sit by the window. The seat between them was empty. Outside, the tarmac baked in the noonday sun.
