Signs in the Blood by Vicki Lane

By Vicki Lane

Elizabeth Goodweather and her husband equipped a profitable existence within the hills and hollows in their followed Appalachian domestic. yet now Elizabeth is by myself, her husband tragically killed, her teenagers grown, the land round her jam-packed with customs and ideology she can't percentage. It’s nonetheless a very good life–tending the small herb and flower business–but Elizabeth’s fragile peace is ready to be shattered.Cletus Gentry vanished whereas searching ginseng within the hills–and his mom is bound the childlike guy was once murdered. As Elizabeth retraces Cletus’s final wanderings, she's going to observe killer has been ready all of the whereas within the coves and hollows close to her farm for her to determine the light…and then come willingly to her personal loss of life.

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That big ice storm last winter blowed over nineteen big trees right acrost the road. They’s a big poplar down right around the curve. No, the onliest way is to walk. Me and Walter ain’t been up to the old place since last fall. ” Walter raised a finger and began, “That preacher—” “That’s right,” Ollie continued. “They’s a preacher man from outside of here been stayin’ up there since the beginning of March. He’s one of these travelin’ evangelists—Burlen knows him from some’ers. ” “Lizzie Beth,” Birdie explained, “that Burlen she’s namin’ is Pastor Briggs, the one was over to Dessie’s that last day we was there.

Early Monday morning, Elizabeth fed her chickens and walked through her vegetable garden, trying to decide which chores should take precedence. The tomato plants that she had started in a cold frame were too small to set out yet. The potatoes were pushing up through their thick blanket of hay and needed no attention. She could hoe around the young broccoli and collards, or she could do some weed-eating. But first you call the sheriff, she reminded herself. The deputy who took her call was vague as to the sheriff’s whereabouts but reasonably sure that Cletus Gentry’s autopsy had not yet taken place.

But his eyes weren’t pink, though that wild turquoise was probably courtesy of contacts … And what in the world, or out of it, are these people up to? I’d heard there was a “hippie commune” up here, but I sure didn’t expect anything this organized. Someone’s spent a lot of money here. Hippie communes are usually raggedy-ass poor, at least they used to be. The women under the apple tree were gone now, and there was no sign of life in any of the little cabins or the yurts. It was like a fantasy village, tended by invisible gardeners and unspoiled by human squalor.

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Signs in the Blood by Vicki Lane
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