By Sarah Graves
Jacobia “Jake” Tiptree took the harmful plunge from Wall highway strength broker–to home-owner! Now the selfmade fanatic is ready to find that her personal dream home is equipped on a starting place of murder.Buying a beachfront fixer-upper to rent out to Eastport, Maine’s, burgeoning vacationer crowd appears like a good suggestion to Jake Tiptree and her ally, Ellie White. yet operating double-time as landladies to a coven of wannabe witches isn’t what they'd in brain. And it basically will get worse while Jake is named out one stormy evening to make a repair–and stumbles on a lifeless physique within the application shed.A small-time thief and highway preacher with a very violent message, the deceased used to be no favourite of Jake’s–nor of a person else in Eastport. yet what’s he doing shot to dying on Jake’s estate? Jake’s bewitching tenants–including an ex-cop, a con guy, and a mute teenage girl–claim to were too busy conjuring spells to have heard or noticeable something. Then a member of the coven disappears and not using a hint and Jake doesn’t imagine it’s a case of witchcraft–but a kidnapping...or worse.Scandal, secrets and techniques, and a mysterious field buried deep within the beginning of her own residence are only the start of a secret that threatens to deliver Jake’s house–and life–crashing down. Now she and Ellie are racing to discover a lacking lady who could be the key to it all...or cause them to a killer protecting the ultimate nails to their coffins.Praise for the house fix Is murder Mysteries of Sarah Graves:“Anyone who can combine slaughter and screwdrivers is a genius. Plus, someone who has acquired a house that wishes even a brand new bathroom seat is maybe ate up with murderous thoughts.”—Boston Herald“Like the previous Victorian houses she describes...Graves’ tales appear to develop greater with the passing of time....Readers who get pleasure from fixing mysteries and solving up older houses will delight in Jake’s selfmade services in either areas.”—Booklist“A sleuth as difficult because the nails she drives into the partitions of her 1823 Federal domestic complements a shrewdpermanent plot, which involves an unforeseen and explosive end. Many will savour the vividly defined Down East surroundings, yet for somebody who’s ever loved creating a domestic fix it’s the actual information of the recovery of Jake’s outdated residence that might appeal.”—Publishers Weekly“Think Diane Mott Davidson with a device belt rather than recipes!”—Denver PostFrom the Hardcover variation.
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Additional resources for Nail Biter (Home Repair Is Homicide Mysteries)
What do you mean, spoiling him? He needed school clothes,” my ex-husband said innocently. Victor always tried innocence first. Next came shouting and sulking. But not this time, I thought determinedly. It was October and Sam had just recently started classes again, his time divided between the campus in Calais—the next town to our north, thirty miles distant on the mainland—and the boat school here in Eastport. I kept my voice even. “Yes, I appreciate your taking care of that for him. But he didn't need the four-hundred-dollar leather jacket, did he?
Short-term tenants, only visiting for a few weeks according to what he'd heard. So wouldn't you think they'd have better things to do than sit around inside all day, delaying his plans? But finally their white van had backed from the driveway and pulled off down Long Cove Road. About time, he grumbled inwardly. Stupid tourists going on another one of their stupid outings, he thought, plucking a thorn from the skin of his left hand as he pushed forward. Cursing, he stumbled on an old broken-out section of picket fence hidden beneath the matted weeds.
And if by some chance that guarantee didn't pan out in spades, Eugene thought as he kicked fiercely at the offending vegetation, it wouldn't be his neck that got broken. That was for sure, too. His foot caught again, this time in a loop of bittersweet vine tough as rope, sending him flailing until he came down hard on his left ankle, twisting it painfully. He bit back a yelp. No one could see him. The houses here at the west end of the island were too far apart and the intervening weeds and scrubby saplings too thick and tall, up over his head.