Jacobia "Jake" Tiptree took the dangerous plunge from Wall Street power broker-to homeowner! Now the do-it-yourself enthusiast is about to discover that her own dream house is built on a foundation of murder.Buying a beachfront fixer-upper to lease out to Eastport, Maine's, burgeoning tourist crowd seems like a good idea to Jake Tiptree and her best friend, Ellie White. But working double-time as landladies to a coven of wannabe witches isn't what they had in mind. And it only gets worse when Jake is called out one stormy night to make a repair-and stumbles on a dead body in the utility shed.A small-time thief and street preacher with a particularly violent message, the deceased was no favorite of Jake's-nor of anyone else in Eastport. But what's he doing shot to death on Jake's property Jake's bewitching tenants-including an ex-cop, a con man, and a mute teenage girl-claim to have been too busy conjuring spells to have heard or seen a thing.
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December 05, 2005
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Excerpt from Nail Biter by Sarah Graves
Cursing the wild raspberry brambles that snatched at his hands and the cold mist drifting in off the salt water a hundred yards distant, Eugene Dibble made his way clumsily through the overgrown brush and weeds behind the old McSorley place on Long Cove Road.
It was already midmorning, much later than he'd expected to be hanging around here. But he'd had to wait until the tenants went out.
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. Damning his luck as he licked fresh blood from his wounded finger, he tried shaking the fence piece off his boot while eyeing the house again.
It was a small, cheaply built bungalow overlooking Long Cove, on Moose Island seven miles off the coast of downeast Maine. With faded red paint, sagging gray shutters each with the shape of an anchor cut into it, and a tumbledown attached utility shed at the rear, the house was one of dozens of such dwellings hurriedly put up by the Navy for its station here during World War II.