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In Their Footsteps and Thief of Hearts
Genevieve O'Brien knows all about nightmares. She survived for two months as the prisoner of a deranged killer. Now a new menace is stalking the streets of New York. The media are buzzing about the Poe Killings, a string of homicides mirroring the author's macabre stories. Almost without exception, the victims have been members of a literary society devoted to the master of crime fiction--and Genevieve's own mother may be next. Spooked by the bizarre slayings, Genevieve turns to P.I. Joe Connolly, her rescuer, her friend and...? She wants him to be much more, but he's been avoiding her since her ordeal, and she can't seem to get close to him. Joe isn't sure there even is a case. But as the body count rises and their investigation leads them miles from Manhattan, he has to admit that there's a twisted new serial killer at work. Even more unsettling is the guidance Joe is receiving from beyond the grave. People he knows to be dead--his cousin Matt and Matt's fiance, Leslie--are appearing to him, offering new clues and leads, and warning him of terrible danger ahead. But not even otherworldly intervention can keep Genevieve and Joe's new nightmare from becoming terrifyingly real--and putting them squarely in the crosshairs between this world and the next.
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1 . One of Gerritsen's Best
Posted March 15, 2010 by kw , LaGrange GAI have no idea where the brief overview of this book came from, but what I read is not what is described. This is about a supposed murder-suicide that happens 20 years before the main story begins. The story is about how the daughter and son, along with a man who is after the duaghter as a love interest, solve the actual double murder. As usual, Ms Gerritsen writes a good tale of mystery with a little soft soap love. A very good read and it keeps you guessing on who the real bad guy/girl is.
March 31, 2008
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Excerpt from In Their Footsteps and Thief of Hearts by Tess Gerritsen
Jordan Tavistock lounged in Uncle Hugh's easy chair and amusedly regarded, as he had a thousand times before, the portrait of his long-dead ancestor, the hapless Earl of Lovat. Ah, the delicious irony of it all, he thought, that Lord Lovat should stare down from that place of honor above the mantelpiece. It was testimony to the Tavistock family's sense of whimsy that they'd chosen to so publicly display their one relative who'd, literally, lost his head on Tower Hill--the last man to be officially decapitated in England--unofficial decapitations did not count. Jordan raised his glass in a toast to the unfortunate earl and tossed back a gulp of sherry. He was tempted to pour a second glass, but it was already five-thirty, and the guests would soon be arriving for the Bastille Day reception. I should keep at least a few gray cells in working order, he thought.
I might need them to hold up my end of the chitchat. Chitchat being one of Jordan's least favorite activities.
For the most part, he avoided these caviar and black-tie bashes his Uncle Hugh seemed so addicted to throwing. But tonight's event--in honor of their house guests, Sir Reggie and Lady Helena Vane--might prove more interesting than the usual gathering of the horsey set. This was the first big affair since Uncle Hugh's retirement from British Intelligence, and a number of Hugh's former colleagues from MI6 would make an appearance. Throw into the brew a few old chums from Paris--all of them in London for the recent economic summit--and it could prove to be a most intriguing night. Anytime one threw a group of ex-spies and diplomats together in a room, all sorts of surprising secrets tended to surface.
Jordan looked up as his uncle came grumbling into the study. Already dressed in his tuxedo, Hugh was trying, without success, to fix his bow tie; he'd managed, instead, to tie a stubborn square knot.
"Jordan, help me with this blasted thing, will you?" said Hugh.
Jordan rose from the easy chair and loosened the knot. "Where's Davis? He's much better at this sort of thing."
"I sent him to fetch that sister of yours."
"Beryl's gone out again?"
"Naturally. Mention the words 'cocktail party,' and she's flying out the door."
Jordan began to loop his uncle's tie into a bow. "Beryl's never been fond of parties. And just between you and me, I think she's had just a bit too much of the Vanes."
"Hmm? But they've been lovely guests. Fit right in--"
"It's the nasty little barbs flying between them."
"Oh, that. They've always been that way. I scarcely notice it anymore."
"And have you seen the way Reggie follows Beryl about, like a puppy dog?"
Hugh laughed. "Around a pretty woman, Reggie is a puppy dog."
"Well, it's no wonder Helena's always sniping at him." Jordan stepped back and regarded his uncle's bow tie with a frown.
"How's it look?"
"It'll have to do."
Hugh glanced at the clock. "Better check on the kitchen. See that things are in order. And why aren't the Vanes down yet?"
As if on cue, they heard the sound of querulous voices on the stairway. Lady Helena, as always, was scolding her husband. "Someone has to point these things out to you," she said.
"Yes, and it's always you, isn't it?"
Sir Reggie fled into the study, pursued by his wife. It never failed to puzzle Jordan, the obvious mismatch of the pair. Sir Reggie, handsome and silver haired, towered over his drab little mouse of a wife. Perhaps Helena's substantial inheritance explained the pairing; money, after all, was the great equalizer.
As the hour edged toward six o'clock, Hugh poured out glasses of sherry and handed them around to the foursome. "Before the hordes arrive," he said, "a toast, to your safe return to Paris." They sipped. It was a solemn ceremony, this last evening together with old friends.
Now Reggie raised his glass. "And here's to English hospitality. Ever appreciated!"
From the front driveway came the sound of car tires on gravel. They all glanced out the window to see the first limousine roll into view. The chauffeur opened the door and out stepped a fiftyish woman, every ripe curve defined by a green gown ablaze with bugle beads. Then a young man in a shirt of purple silk emerged from the car and took the woman's arm.
"Good heavens, it's Nina Sutherland and her brat," Helena muttered. "What broom did she fly in on?"
Outside, the woman in the green gown suddenly spotted them standing in the window. "Hello, Reggie! Helena!" she called in a voice like a bassoon.
Hugh set down his sherry glass. "Time to greet the barbarians," he said, sighing. He and the Vanes headed out the front door to welcome the first arrivals.
Jordan paused a moment to finish his drink, giving himself time to paste on a smile and get the old handshake ready. Bastille Day--what an excuse for a party! He tugged at the coattails of his tuxedo, gave his ruffled shirt one last pat, and resignedly headed out to the front steps. Let the dog and pony show begin.