Short Cut (Ruby Crane Mystery) - Softcover
They were sisters separated by distance, hurt and secrets. Now murder is bringing them together....
It was a long way from northern Michigan to the mountains above Albuquerque. But the distance between Ruby Crane and her glamorous, successful sister, Phyllis, was even greater. Until Phyllis trekked through the Michigan snow in her designer boots to beg Ruby for help. And while Ruby knew there were some things she couldn't help her sister with--like her drinking--she couldn't say no to a matter of life and death.
A boy had died on a construction site, and Phyllis, the engineer on the project, was being blamed--for a design she claimed someone had altered. While Ruby, an expert in handwriting analysis, tries to find out if the designs are forgeries, a sudden, vicious murder changes everything. Now a stalker is lurking around Phyllis's once-elegant life. And for the two sisters, the time has come for unspoken words--and a fight for both of their lives....
It was a long way from northern Michigan to the mountains above Albuquerque. But the distance between Ruby Crane and her glamorous, successful sister, Phyllis, was even greater. Until Phyllis trekked through the Michigan snow in her designer boots to beg Ruby for help. And while Ruby knew there were some things she couldn't help her sister with--like her drinking--she couldn't say no to a matter of life and death.
A boy had died on a construction site, and Phyllis, the engineer on the project, was being blamed--for a design she claimed someone had altered. While Ruby, an expert in handwriting analysis, tries to find out if the designs are forgeries, a sudden, vicious murder changes everything. Now a stalker is lurking around Phyllis's once-elegant life. And for the two sisters, the time has come for unspoken words--and a fight for both of their lives....
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
From the Publisher:
"Ruby Crane is Michigan's newest Detecting Woman and she's a jewel."
--Willetta L. Heising, author of the award-winning Detecting Women
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
--Willetta L. Heising, author of the award-winning Detecting Women
Ruby Crane stood in front of the frost-edged window of her cabin, holding a mug of hot coffee in both hands and watching a solitary person walk casually onto the punky ice of Blue Lake.
"I hope you know what you're doing," she said aloud to the distant dark figure, and took another sip of black coffee. She'd skipped her usual generous splash of milk, recalling vague warnings about avoiding milk products when you had a cold. "Clog you up good." This was the disgusting phase, and she was ripe to try any advice or superstition, desperate even, sick of toting around boxes of tissues and breathing through her mouth, her head feeling like an overstretched balloon.
Behind her a fire crackled in the fieldstone fireplace. She'd kept it burning at full tilt during these two days she'd stayed inside, overheating the cabin, which was as good as any medicine from a bottle. A small door in the log wall beside the fireplace opened onto a woodbox that could be filled from outside. It usually held enough oak and beech logs for a week, but not at the rate she was burning the wood.
Dirty snow, gone flat and crusty, still surrounded the cabin, revealing whatever had lain beneath each snowfall all winter long like stratified life: a blue rag kicked from Ruby's car, twigs blown from the trees, dog manure, acorns and pinecones, a bright spot of pink that might be Jesse's lost glove.
Around the base of the trees, and in open patches, the snow had melted, exposing muddy tracts of earth that froze solid each night and softened to muck by noon the next day. No matter how hard she prodded her imagination, Ruby couldn't make out the slightest hint of green: the world seemed dead to living things.
March in Michigan dragged on, a month of false hope, when the sun teased with warmth that turned to subfreezing temperatures during the night, when balmy winds suddenly whipped into gales, and snow shovels were put away too soon.
Ruby had caught sight of the figure on the ice a few minutes earlier, walking below the public boat ramp across the lake, a dark shape moving against the white landscape. There was probably a car parked up near the picnic shelter. The ice was still solid, but it had taken on a treacherous dull gray and pocked appearance. Now, whoever it was, was heading farther out toward the center of Blue Lake, where the natural springs had weakened the ice even more. Ruby tapped her fingernails against her cup and frowned, willing the idiot to turn back.
A week ago, during a sudden warm spell, she'd been awakened in the night by the crack and boom of the shifting ice, at first thinking she'd heard gunshots. And as if all of Waters County had heard the ominous sounds, too, the next day fishermen began hauling their fish shanties off the lake on sled skids. No more snowmobiles buzzed out from the trees and whined across the tempting flats. People who ventured out stayed close to shore, where they at least had a chance in the shallower water.
But now, here was someone heading straight toward the softest ice and not walking casually either, but striding purposefully, without caution, as if they had no idea of the ice's danger, or didn't care. She couldn't make out whether it was a man or woman. What she'd thought was a black jacket now proved to be deep burgundy--a hooded parka--covering the figure from head to thigh. She glimpsed the blue of denim jeans.
Ruby's log cabin was the oldest structure on Blue Lake, occupying an acre of land that jutted into the lake. A peninsula, almost an island if she counted the little swamp her driveway crossed to reach Blue Road, a wooden bridge she sometimes fantasized raising like a castle drawbridge.
Ruby gasped as the figure on the ice suddenly halted, raising its arms like a tightrope walker about to lose balance in a precarious spot. She held her breath, watching the still figure stand like a dark cruciform. Finally the figure moved and Ruby breathed again, watching it skirt a section of ice and, instead of turning back, continue onward, straight toward Ruby's cabin.
"You fool," she said, and set her coffee on the windowsill so hard that liquid sloshed unheeded onto her hand. She glanced down at her slippered feet. She wore a sweater over the flannel pajamas she'd worn for two days, but there wasn't time to change now. Her jacket hung beside the kitchen door, and she kicked off her slippers as she raced across the cabin toward the jumble of winter clothes that belonged to her and Jesse.
She jammed her bare feet into a pair of fleece-lined boots and pulled on her jacket, then fumbled for gloves, finding one red mitten and one blue glove; good enough. A leash she'd bought for Spot but never used hung on the wall, and Ruby snatched up that, too.
The three-legged collie clambered up from beneath the kitchen table, barking once, her tail wagging, then her hackles rising as she tried to read Ruby's intent.
"No, Spot," Ruby said, reaching for the doorknob. "Stay."
After the warm cabin, the outdoor air knifed her to the bone. The frigid wind snatched her breath away, gusting straight into her face. Jesse's red plastic saucer sled leaned against the cabin wall, and Ruby grabbed its pull rope, dragging it behind her toward the shore. It was important to distribute weight on soft ice. If the fool on the lake broke through the ice, she might be able to lie flat on the saucer and push herself to him, then throw out Spot's leash. She'd watched a similar maneuver during the rescue of a drunk snowmobiler when she was a child.
She clumsily tried to zip her jacket as she ran across the rough lawn. It was still early in the day and the crusty snow held her weight, crunching beneath her feet. The saucer bumped behind her, slipping every which way on the crust and then dragging as she crossed hard, bare ground. Ruby's reddish gold hair whipped across her face, obscuring her view of the ice and for a horrible moment she thought she was too late, that the idiot had already fallen through.
But no, when she pushed back her hair, she saw the figure striding onward as determined as before. Ruby took two steps onto the pocked and milky ice, watching, gathering up her nerve to attempt a rescue.
It was a woman; she could see that now. The poised stride, one foot in front of the other. Slender and upright, calf-high leather boots too stylish for real winter.
A stinging blast of wind from across the lake forced Ruby to close her eyes. When she opened them, the burgundy hood had blown off the woman's head. Her features were still indistinct, but her hair blazed in the drab day.
Reddish gold, the same color as Ruby's, the same as Jesse's. The same color Ruby's mother had once claimed hers had been, before Ruby's father had driven every vestige of color out of her.
Ruby dropped the saucer's rope and stared, ignoring the bump of the saucer against her shin. Her sister Phyllis lived in Albuquerque, and Ruby hadn't seen her in thirteen years, but she was positive that was who now crossed the lake toward her. The hair was shorter, cropped close to her head. She recognized the slope of her shoulders, the upright position of her head as if her chin were raised, that familiar determined walk: Ice be damned.
Phyllis didn't pause in her stride, but continued toward Ruby, and she felt the intensity of her sister's stare. No smile flashed there.
Ruby watched, biting her lip, until Phyllis reached the firmer ice a hundred feet from shore. Then Phyllis stopped, shoved her black-gloved hands into her jacket pockets, and gazed at Ruby. From this distance she appeared thinner than Ruby recalled, but as striking as ever, as if no time had passed since their last heated meeting.
"That was a very dramatic entrance," Ruby said. Her voice easily carried across the ice; there was no need to shout.
"What's wrong with your voice?" Phyllis asked. The wind feathered her hair.
Sounds and smells, Ruby had read once, were the most evocative of memories. Hearing the clear tones and rhythm of Phyllis's voice, Ruby felt the past wash over her. She helplessly shook her head to banish the images and said, "I have a cold."
"I can see why." Phyllis removed a leather-gloved hand from her pocket and waved it to encompass Ruby's half-zipped jacket, her flannel pajamas, the saucer, mismatched gloves, and bare head. "You're not exactly dressed for sledding."
"That ice is dangerous as hell," Ruby said, nodding toward the lake. She felt in her jacket pocket for a frazzled tissue and wiped her tender nose.
"Don't you think I know that?" Phyllis asked, her voice growing peevish. "I lived here longer than you did." She kicked at a hump of snow but made no move to come any closer to shore. "I bought these boots in Chicago," she said, turning her foot to admire the slouchy gray leather of her boot. Even from this distance they said expensive. "I knew I wouldn't find anything but mukluks and Russian grandmother boots around here."
"They'd be more appropriate," Ruby said.
"I made it across the lake in these, didn't I? That's appropriate enough for me."
"You could have driven in on the driveway," Ruby told her. The cold wind blew through the thin flannel covering her legs. She might as well be bare-legged. "You didn't have to risk your life."
"I wanted to see t...
"I hope you know what you're doing," she said aloud to the distant dark figure, and took another sip of black coffee. She'd skipped her usual generous splash of milk, recalling vague warnings about avoiding milk products when you had a cold. "Clog you up good." This was the disgusting phase, and she was ripe to try any advice or superstition, desperate even, sick of toting around boxes of tissues and breathing through her mouth, her head feeling like an overstretched balloon.
Behind her a fire crackled in the fieldstone fireplace. She'd kept it burning at full tilt during these two days she'd stayed inside, overheating the cabin, which was as good as any medicine from a bottle. A small door in the log wall beside the fireplace opened onto a woodbox that could be filled from outside. It usually held enough oak and beech logs for a week, but not at the rate she was burning the wood.
Dirty snow, gone flat and crusty, still surrounded the cabin, revealing whatever had lain beneath each snowfall all winter long like stratified life: a blue rag kicked from Ruby's car, twigs blown from the trees, dog manure, acorns and pinecones, a bright spot of pink that might be Jesse's lost glove.
Around the base of the trees, and in open patches, the snow had melted, exposing muddy tracts of earth that froze solid each night and softened to muck by noon the next day. No matter how hard she prodded her imagination, Ruby couldn't make out the slightest hint of green: the world seemed dead to living things.
March in Michigan dragged on, a month of false hope, when the sun teased with warmth that turned to subfreezing temperatures during the night, when balmy winds suddenly whipped into gales, and snow shovels were put away too soon.
Ruby had caught sight of the figure on the ice a few minutes earlier, walking below the public boat ramp across the lake, a dark shape moving against the white landscape. There was probably a car parked up near the picnic shelter. The ice was still solid, but it had taken on a treacherous dull gray and pocked appearance. Now, whoever it was, was heading farther out toward the center of Blue Lake, where the natural springs had weakened the ice even more. Ruby tapped her fingernails against her cup and frowned, willing the idiot to turn back.
A week ago, during a sudden warm spell, she'd been awakened in the night by the crack and boom of the shifting ice, at first thinking she'd heard gunshots. And as if all of Waters County had heard the ominous sounds, too, the next day fishermen began hauling their fish shanties off the lake on sled skids. No more snowmobiles buzzed out from the trees and whined across the tempting flats. People who ventured out stayed close to shore, where they at least had a chance in the shallower water.
But now, here was someone heading straight toward the softest ice and not walking casually either, but striding purposefully, without caution, as if they had no idea of the ice's danger, or didn't care. She couldn't make out whether it was a man or woman. What she'd thought was a black jacket now proved to be deep burgundy--a hooded parka--covering the figure from head to thigh. She glimpsed the blue of denim jeans.
Ruby's log cabin was the oldest structure on Blue Lake, occupying an acre of land that jutted into the lake. A peninsula, almost an island if she counted the little swamp her driveway crossed to reach Blue Road, a wooden bridge she sometimes fantasized raising like a castle drawbridge.
Ruby gasped as the figure on the ice suddenly halted, raising its arms like a tightrope walker about to lose balance in a precarious spot. She held her breath, watching the still figure stand like a dark cruciform. Finally the figure moved and Ruby breathed again, watching it skirt a section of ice and, instead of turning back, continue onward, straight toward Ruby's cabin.
"You fool," she said, and set her coffee on the windowsill so hard that liquid sloshed unheeded onto her hand. She glanced down at her slippered feet. She wore a sweater over the flannel pajamas she'd worn for two days, but there wasn't time to change now. Her jacket hung beside the kitchen door, and she kicked off her slippers as she raced across the cabin toward the jumble of winter clothes that belonged to her and Jesse.
She jammed her bare feet into a pair of fleece-lined boots and pulled on her jacket, then fumbled for gloves, finding one red mitten and one blue glove; good enough. A leash she'd bought for Spot but never used hung on the wall, and Ruby snatched up that, too.
The three-legged collie clambered up from beneath the kitchen table, barking once, her tail wagging, then her hackles rising as she tried to read Ruby's intent.
"No, Spot," Ruby said, reaching for the doorknob. "Stay."
After the warm cabin, the outdoor air knifed her to the bone. The frigid wind snatched her breath away, gusting straight into her face. Jesse's red plastic saucer sled leaned against the cabin wall, and Ruby grabbed its pull rope, dragging it behind her toward the shore. It was important to distribute weight on soft ice. If the fool on the lake broke through the ice, she might be able to lie flat on the saucer and push herself to him, then throw out Spot's leash. She'd watched a similar maneuver during the rescue of a drunk snowmobiler when she was a child.
She clumsily tried to zip her jacket as she ran across the rough lawn. It was still early in the day and the crusty snow held her weight, crunching beneath her feet. The saucer bumped behind her, slipping every which way on the crust and then dragging as she crossed hard, bare ground. Ruby's reddish gold hair whipped across her face, obscuring her view of the ice and for a horrible moment she thought she was too late, that the idiot had already fallen through.
But no, when she pushed back her hair, she saw the figure striding onward as determined as before. Ruby took two steps onto the pocked and milky ice, watching, gathering up her nerve to attempt a rescue.
It was a woman; she could see that now. The poised stride, one foot in front of the other. Slender and upright, calf-high leather boots too stylish for real winter.
A stinging blast of wind from across the lake forced Ruby to close her eyes. When she opened them, the burgundy hood had blown off the woman's head. Her features were still indistinct, but her hair blazed in the drab day.
Reddish gold, the same color as Ruby's, the same as Jesse's. The same color Ruby's mother had once claimed hers had been, before Ruby's father had driven every vestige of color out of her.
Ruby dropped the saucer's rope and stared, ignoring the bump of the saucer against her shin. Her sister Phyllis lived in Albuquerque, and Ruby hadn't seen her in thirteen years, but she was positive that was who now crossed the lake toward her. The hair was shorter, cropped close to her head. She recognized the slope of her shoulders, the upright position of her head as if her chin were raised, that familiar determined walk: Ice be damned.
Phyllis didn't pause in her stride, but continued toward Ruby, and she felt the intensity of her sister's stare. No smile flashed there.
Ruby watched, biting her lip, until Phyllis reached the firmer ice a hundred feet from shore. Then Phyllis stopped, shoved her black-gloved hands into her jacket pockets, and gazed at Ruby. From this distance she appeared thinner than Ruby recalled, but as striking as ever, as if no time had passed since their last heated meeting.
"That was a very dramatic entrance," Ruby said. Her voice easily carried across the ice; there was no need to shout.
"What's wrong with your voice?" Phyllis asked. The wind feathered her hair.
Sounds and smells, Ruby had read once, were the most evocative of memories. Hearing the clear tones and rhythm of Phyllis's voice, Ruby felt the past wash over her. She helplessly shook her head to banish the images and said, "I have a cold."
"I can see why." Phyllis removed a leather-gloved hand from her pocket and waved it to encompass Ruby's half-zipped jacket, her flannel pajamas, the saucer, mismatched gloves, and bare head. "You're not exactly dressed for sledding."
"That ice is dangerous as hell," Ruby said, nodding toward the lake. She felt in her jacket pocket for a frazzled tissue and wiped her tender nose.
"Don't you think I know that?" Phyllis asked, her voice growing peevish. "I lived here longer than you did." She kicked at a hump of snow but made no move to come any closer to shore. "I bought these boots in Chicago," she said, turning her foot to admire the slouchy gray leather of her boot. Even from this distance they said expensive. "I knew I wouldn't find anything but mukluks and Russian grandmother boots around here."
"They'd be more appropriate," Ruby said.
"I made it across the lake in these, didn't I? That's appropriate enough for me."
"You could have driven in on the driveway," Ruby told her. The cold wind blew through the thin flannel covering her legs. She might as well be bare-legged. "You didn't have to risk your life."
"I wanted to see t...
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- PublisherDell
- Publication date1998
- ISBN 10 0440222230
- ISBN 13 9780440222231
- BindingMass Market Paperback
- Number of pages336
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Dell
(1998)
ISBN 10: 0440222230
ISBN 13: 9780440222231
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