In this One Life to Live tie-in novel, Jamie Ferrara is a spunky, attractive detective engaged to Rod Wolenski, the Chief of Detectives and her boss, and still living with her retired cop father and spacey rock guitarist brother. When a dear old friend dies in a grotesque holiday accident, Jamie is pulled into a homicide investigation in her small New Jersey hometown, and reunited with the friends and secrets she left behind. There's Barclay, now a rich womanizing developer; Pudge, a funny man who owns a local restaurant; Amanda, a gorgeous and promiscuous young widow; and Garth McBride, the boy who broke Jamie's heart. At the funeral Pudge reminds Jamie that the death was mysteriously similar to the murder dreamed up a decade ago by their secret "killing club," formed when they were high school misfits who spent their free time thinking up ingenious ways to murder the people they despised.
Seeking the truth about her friend's death, Jamie finds more questions than answers. As she battles her superiors, who tell her the similarity is a mere coincidence, and her own conscience -- as she's not clear which friends to trust -- she discovers that her heart is once again tugged by her feelings for Garth and that the evidence might be leading her to the most horrific truth imaginable.
The Killing Club is a suspenseful page-turner that will leave readers riveted -- and hungry for more.
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January 31, 2006
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Excerpt from The Killing Club by Marcie Walsh
HERE'S THE IDEA, Christmas comes but once a year. In Gloria, New Jersey, it comes for five months. Red-nosed reindeer are running across the roofs as soon as the ghosts come off the porches. Christmas trees get dragged out to the curb, dumping a trail of tinsel and needles, after the Valentine candy goes on display at Solly's Drugs. In Gloria, the good parents hide Santa's loot in the crawl space by late September and they're still paying for it in July.
I'm Jamie Ferrara, Giovanna Lucia Ferrara. No kids, not married, less than a year to go before I'm thirty. People don't think that I'm Italian, both sides, because I have blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair. But my family's stayed 100 percent Italian since they first came to this harbor town. They were here when the mayor changed its name from Deep Port back in 1927. Gloria was the mayor's wife's name. The high school where we all went was named after her too, Gloria Hart High School. We figured the mayor must have really loved his wife, although from her picture in the hallway it was hard to tell why.
A lot of us who went to Hart still live in Gloria, even if we're always saying that someday we're going to leave. I'm one of that any-day-now set. For me, there're not many strangers here. So driving along River Street, I knew Pudge Salerno was headed back from the planning board meeting when I saw him park his new Lexus in front of his family restaurant. I knew the Virgin Mary and Joseph had gone to Dockside Tavern to warm up when I passed the gazebo on Etten Green. They'd left a sign hanging on the manger wall: BACK IN TEN MINUTES. There was no one left guarding the wooden Jesus in the cr ' che but two plywood shepherds, a plastic camel and a cow. No one was going to steal him either; he had a bicycle chain around his belly.
It was a Friday, early December, bone-cold, dirty snow frozen in lumps in the gutters. A nasty wind was flapping through that one crack, right at the back of my neck, in the canvas top of my Mustang. I admit it, a 1968 Ford Mustang Shelby GT-500 is not a practical car. But I like my convertible, and life is short. I was about to be reminded of that lousy fact.