COCKTAILS AND LIES
Genre: Cozy Mystery
When Hannah’s house is burgled, she gains as much as she loses: she meets Jan, her reserved Dutch neighbour and successful antiques dealer, and Callum, the detective in charge of the case, then finds some hidden letters to her dead grandmother that take her on an emotional journey of discovery.
As Hannah juggles the attentions of the two men now firmly in her life, she works to uncover the secrets of the past, only to find these encroach on the present in unexpected ways.
And then there are the two men in her life, both vying for her attention, both hiding things from her and each other. What does Callum really know about Jan? What is Jan hiding from everyone? And what did her grandmother—whose house it once was—hide from the world?
As if Hannah doesn’t have enough mysteries to solve, her best friend Rachel enlists her help in solving her marital crisis, while her pleasure-seeking mother seems intent on finding her a husband.
With so many skeletons rattling the door of Hannah’s house, can she unravel these mysterious threads and reveal the truth, changing her life forever?
"Are you stealing our junk mail?"
Voice accusing, mocking even, with a hint of an accent; masculine, unfamiliar and unexpected—so much so it made me lose my precarious balance and topple sideways, cracking my knee on the marble floor and putting me at an even greater disadvantage. I bit back my sarcastic retort, realising I must appear pretty suspicious, crouching in front of the mailboxes in a building in which I didn't even live.
"Well, strictly speaking, no, I'm not. I mean, some of this is mine," I said, pushing myself into a more dignified kneeling position. He moved a step closer, making it even more difficult to see the face at the top of the rather long, charcoal grey-suited body without me aping Quasimodo. He surveyed the neat pile of mail, mainly junk I must confess, on the floor beside me.
"You care about it that much?" He sounded mystified.
"Yes. I mean no. I imagine it must look odd, but I can explain," I told him, pushing myself upright and using the mailboxes to my left to haul myself up. He didn't offer a helping hand, which was perhaps just as well. I pride myself on my self-sufficiency. "You see, I live in the little house just around the side of your building and since this new block opened, the postman has been leaving a lot of my mail here—too lazy to walk around the corner, I suspect."
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