Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) by J. A. Menzies
Authors: J. A. Menzies
Tags: Crime Fiction, Police Procedural, romantic suspense, serial killer, British Mystery, mystery novels, Mysteries, whodunit, detective fiction, contemporary mystery, Agatha Christie, georgette heyer, Canadian Author, thriller books, best mystery novels, contemporary mystery romance, Patricia Sprinkle, Maureen Jennings, african american fiction Kindle short reads, Sisters in Crime, classic mystery crime, police procedurals series, top mystery, award-winning mystery novels, cozy mysteries women sleuths series, Peter Robinson, Jacquie Ryan, recommended by Library Journal, mystery with lawyers, cozy British mysteries, Dorothy Sayers, murder mystery novels: good mystery books, Paul Manziuk, Ngaio Marsh, classic mystery novel, P. D. James, Robin Burcell, mystery with humor, Crime Writers of Canada, Canadian mystery writer, Gillian Roberts, Jaqueline Ryan, award-winning Canadian authors, contemporary mysteries, classic mystery, recommended by Publishers Weekly, contemporary whodunits, classic mystery novels, Louise Penny, Carolyn Hart: modern-day classic mysteries, J. A. Menzies, murder will out, Canadian crime fiction
Ads: Link
happening. She was in Toronto! Seated in what she thought was rightly called a limousine, in traffic that seemed to go wall to wall, being driven by a wealthy city lawyer. She shivered with excitement; then glanced over at George. He was staring straight ahead at the road and he seemed completely preoccupied. With all this traffic, one would have to concentrate.
Her eyes narrowed. George was dressed in clothes that looked well-cut and expensive. But he didn’t quite live up to the clothes or the car. In fact, her first impression was that he reminded her of a neighbor who worked as a plumber. The smallish stature (Lorry was 5’ 5” and, when she was standing beside him in her heels, George had been only slightly taller), thinning gray hair, matching mustache—somehow it didn’t add up to what she would have expected the senior partner of a very prestigious law firm to look like. But he was certainly at ease behind the wheel of the expensive car.
She allowed herself to relax into the cushions. Her mind drifted. She’d come to Toronto for the summer to join a group of people who worked with street kids. She didn’t expect to have a lot of fun. Rather, she knew there would be long hours of hard work and lots of frustration. Still, she couldn’t wait to get started! After four years of studying youth and psychology, she was ready to put what she’d learned into practice.
Spending the summer in Toronto also would give her a chance to look objectively at her life. While there were several young men whose company she enjoyed, she wasn’t ready to settle down with any one of them. “Haven’t met Mr. Right!” was how she put it.
But in actuality there was someone who had been trying for several months to persuade her she was mistaken.
So far, she wasn’t convinced. But lately she’d been wondering if she knew her own mind. After all, Dean was intelligent, trustworthy, capable, and, as he repeatedly said, crazy about her. And she liked him very much. But was that liking the kind of love that would last for fifty years? It was hard to decide. So it was good to get away, to have the opportunity to think about him from a distance.
Her mind returned to the weekend before her. In a way, it was an unwelcome distraction. So different from what the rest of the summer would be like. When the letter came inviting her, she’d wanted to write back and refuse. Frankly, she didn’t feel some people should have large houses and everything money could buy when there were starving people in the world.
But not to go or to cause a scene would be rude.
So here she was, committed to spending a weekend with relatives she barely knew and didn’t expect to like.
Butterflies took up a fast polka in her stomach.
She shut her eyes and began to pray that she wouldn’t do or say anything really stupid.
Beside her, feeling guilty because of his lack of conversation, George Brodie glanced over and noticed her eyes were shut. He was pleased. He intensely disliked small talk and had no idea what to say to this girl. Good that she was taking a nap. With all the traffic, he hoped it was a long one.
Watching the other cars with one part of his mind, he allowed the other, larger part to return to where it had been before he went in to meet Lorry. He knew his doctor would just say this uneasy feeling was caused by the ulcer he was treating. But George honestly didn’t think so. The only thing he’d inherited from his Irish father was a sort of second sight that often gave him a premonition of good or bad to come. Right now, he felt that something bad was about to happen. But what?
If George had known what was going on in a very modern, beautifully decorated and furnished apartment in North Toronto, just a few miles from his new home, more warning bells might have pealed in that receptacle of his intuition which he privately acknowledged as his gut.
In that apartment, which was a dream of soft taupes and warm grays highlighted with
Her eyes narrowed. George was dressed in clothes that looked well-cut and expensive. But he didn’t quite live up to the clothes or the car. In fact, her first impression was that he reminded her of a neighbor who worked as a plumber. The smallish stature (Lorry was 5’ 5” and, when she was standing beside him in her heels, George had been only slightly taller), thinning gray hair, matching mustache—somehow it didn’t add up to what she would have expected the senior partner of a very prestigious law firm to look like. But he was certainly at ease behind the wheel of the expensive car.
She allowed herself to relax into the cushions. Her mind drifted. She’d come to Toronto for the summer to join a group of people who worked with street kids. She didn’t expect to have a lot of fun. Rather, she knew there would be long hours of hard work and lots of frustration. Still, she couldn’t wait to get started! After four years of studying youth and psychology, she was ready to put what she’d learned into practice.
Spending the summer in Toronto also would give her a chance to look objectively at her life. While there were several young men whose company she enjoyed, she wasn’t ready to settle down with any one of them. “Haven’t met Mr. Right!” was how she put it.
But in actuality there was someone who had been trying for several months to persuade her she was mistaken.
So far, she wasn’t convinced. But lately she’d been wondering if she knew her own mind. After all, Dean was intelligent, trustworthy, capable, and, as he repeatedly said, crazy about her. And she liked him very much. But was that liking the kind of love that would last for fifty years? It was hard to decide. So it was good to get away, to have the opportunity to think about him from a distance.
Her mind returned to the weekend before her. In a way, it was an unwelcome distraction. So different from what the rest of the summer would be like. When the letter came inviting her, she’d wanted to write back and refuse. Frankly, she didn’t feel some people should have large houses and everything money could buy when there were starving people in the world.
But not to go or to cause a scene would be rude.
So here she was, committed to spending a weekend with relatives she barely knew and didn’t expect to like.
Butterflies took up a fast polka in her stomach.
She shut her eyes and began to pray that she wouldn’t do or say anything really stupid.
Beside her, feeling guilty because of his lack of conversation, George Brodie glanced over and noticed her eyes were shut. He was pleased. He intensely disliked small talk and had no idea what to say to this girl. Good that she was taking a nap. With all the traffic, he hoped it was a long one.
Watching the other cars with one part of his mind, he allowed the other, larger part to return to where it had been before he went in to meet Lorry. He knew his doctor would just say this uneasy feeling was caused by the ulcer he was treating. But George honestly didn’t think so. The only thing he’d inherited from his Irish father was a sort of second sight that often gave him a premonition of good or bad to come. Right now, he felt that something bad was about to happen. But what?
If George had known what was going on in a very modern, beautifully decorated and furnished apartment in North Toronto, just a few miles from his new home, more warning bells might have pealed in that receptacle of his intuition which he privately acknowledged as his gut.
In that apartment, which was a dream of soft taupes and warm grays highlighted with