Review
"Molly Masters is a sleuth with an irrepressible sense of humor and a deft artist's pen."
--CAROLYN G. HART
--CAROLYN G. HART
Book Description
Funding for sports or funding for the arts? There's not enough money for both, and a ruthless battle is raging among the seven members of the Carlton school board. Sylvia Greene, the board's unbalanced president, is even threatening to expose the members' most private secrets if they don't vote her way.
But a sudden dose of poison takes care of Sylvia . . . permanently. The bad news is that Molly Master's dad, the board member who was Sylvia's first blackmail target, is now the prime suspect for her murder. Shocked and furious, Molly hits the warpath, determined to find the real killer. A deadly field trip tells her almost all she needs to know--except her own perilous fate. . . .
But a sudden dose of poison takes care of Sylvia . . . permanently. The bad news is that Molly Master's dad, the board member who was Sylvia's first blackmail target, is now the prime suspect for her murder. Shocked and furious, Molly hits the warpath, determined to find the real killer. A deadly field trip tells her almost all she needs to know--except her own perilous fate. . . .
From the Back Cover
"Molly Masters is a sleuth with an irrepressible sense of humor and a deft artist's pen."
--CAROLYN G. HART
About the Author
Leslie O'Kane is the author of the Molly Masters mysteries: The Cold Hard Fax and The Fax of Life. She is also the creator of the Allie Babcock mystery series: Play Dead and Ruff Way to Go. Ms. O'Kane lives with her husband and two children in Boulder, Colorado.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Send in the Clones
This silence meant trouble. My usual loquaciousness came from a proud heritage, handed down from both sides of the family. Yet the three of us--my parents and I--had nothing to say to one another as we drove to the school board meeting.
What we now shared--in addition to this heavy silence--was a fear of the unknown. Plus the realization that my father's fate was no longer in his own hands, but rested on the red-painted lips of decidedly unbalanced Sylvia Greene, president of the Carlton school board.
Outside my car window, the leaves of the trees and shrubs were resplendent in their full array of autumnal colors, only partially cloaked by the darkness of evening. Normally, my parents would be leaving their home here in upstate New York to spend the winter in Florida. All that had changed last year when my father became so fed up with the sniping among school board members that he ran for a seat himself--and won.
I shifted my vision to the back of my father's head and smiled at a memory, now many years old, of when my children had drawn a happy face on his bald spot while he napped. Their peals of laughter had awakened him and alerted me to drop everything and run into the room, where I gasped at what Nathan and Karen had done....
My reverie switched to a fantasy, with me marching up to the front of the mini-auditorium that, even now, we were fast approaching. I would grab that fetid prune, Sylvia Greene, by the collar and shout, "You can't do this to Charlie Peterson, because he's my father! Because when my children drew a face on his scalp with Magic Marker, he just laughed and helped them add a mustache and a goatee. And because he's three times the human being you could ever hope to be!"
"Do you think she's bluffing?" my mother asked as we pulled into the parking lot of the Education Center.
"No, but all I can say is she's wrong about me," Dad answered. Mom had asked this question many times since Sylvia had threatened him at last month's meeting. "The most despicable thing I've done was to register as a Republican."
"Why did you do that, anyway, Dad?" Some of my best friends were Republicans, including my husband, but Dad had always been a staunch Democrat.
He glanced at me through the rearview mirror. The lines around his eyes and beneath his white eyebrows were deeply drawn. Even in the small view afforded by the mirror, it was clear what a toll this battle had taken on him. "I wanted to vote in their primaries. The courts must use their registration lists, though, because now I keep getting called to jury duty." He shut off the engine, then sat still, staring at the monolithic Ed Center, soon to become a lion's den. "Serves me right."
"Well, Dad," I said, "I guess if Sylvia does divulge that you registered as a Republican, we'll just have to relocate overseas. That is, if we can find a country that would accept us, despite your checkered past."
Dad sighed and patted my mother's shoulder. She was also in no hurry to leave the car. "Really, Linda, there are no illegitimate children or mistresses in my past. I've given her no cause to kick me off the board."
Mom ran her hand through her salt-and-pepper hair. "I believe you, Charlie. It's just that I'm afraid she'll make something up."
"Whatever happens, we'll deal with it. Together. Just like always." Resolved, the three of us got out of the car, but Dad immediately became distracted by the sight of the left front tire. "Linda? Why didn't you tell me the pressure in your tires was low? We could have taken my car instead."
I glanced at the tire in question and saw only that it appeared to be reasonably round.
Mom straightened and fired one of her patented icy stares in my father's direction. At nearly five-eleven, she could be intimidating and was slightly taller than my dad. He ignored her and, ever the mathematician, went on to say, "Under-
inflated tires can cut down on your gas mileage by as much as one-and-a-half percent. All you had to do was--"
"I'll skip a couple of meals and make up for my wanton gasoline usage." She took Dad's arm. Heads held high, the two of them entered the lobby, while I deliberately lagged a step or two behind.
The hum of conversation from the crowd milling in the lobby came to an abrupt halt. They turned their faces away from my father, but not so far as to prevent furtive, sidelong glances. A middle-aged man, notepad in hand, rushed up. "Mr. Peterson, have you decided to resign, or are you going to battle it out?"
"Hey," I interrupted, rushing over to step between him and my dad, "you're the reporter who eavesdropped on my private conversation at the grocery store the other day!"
"My quotes were accurate, Ms. Peterson," he said, his features tensing.
"The name is Masters. Molly Masters. I repeat, that was a private conversation. How was I supposed to know that the"--I resisted the urge to describe him as "silly looking," though with his concave chest and pot belly, that's what came to mind--"guy standing behind me in line was a newspaper reporter? My comments were never intended to be spread across the front page." In the meantime, as I'd hoped, my parents had continued into the auditorium and were safely beyond this muckraker's reach. "Besides which, my saying 'Sylvia Greene should be shot' did not necessarily mean
'to death.' For all you knew, I could have meant a booster shot or a shotput. Nor did you include the 'Amen to that,' which the grocery clerk said at least as loudly as my original statement."
His vision wandered partway through my tirade. "'Scuse me," he muttered and rushed off to join the crowd that had formed as Her Highness Herself entered the building. Incredibly, she was wearing a bright green dress that, with her cotton-candy-processed hairdo, made her look like an overgrown munchkin from Emerald City. Not that one could normally describe her as "overgrown" at five-one or so, not counting her spike-heel shoes. She'd insisted that her chair be raised several inches above all others on the semicircular dais for the school board. Ostensibly, this was merely so "the TV cameras can find me" (board meetings are televised on a local cable network), but I think it had more to do with her insatiable need for attention and power.
From amid the throng of reporters, Sylvia held her hands up dramatically. "Gentlemen, ladies. As the saying goes, 'Nam et ipsa scientia potestas est,' or for the pedestrians among us, 'Knowledge is power.'"
This silence meant trouble. My usual loquaciousness came from a proud heritage, handed down from both sides of the family. Yet the three of us--my parents and I--had nothing to say to one another as we drove to the school board meeting.
What we now shared--in addition to this heavy silence--was a fear of the unknown. Plus the realization that my father's fate was no longer in his own hands, but rested on the red-painted lips of decidedly unbalanced Sylvia Greene, president of the Carlton school board.
Outside my car window, the leaves of the trees and shrubs were resplendent in their full array of autumnal colors, only partially cloaked by the darkness of evening. Normally, my parents would be leaving their home here in upstate New York to spend the winter in Florida. All that had changed last year when my father became so fed up with the sniping among school board members that he ran for a seat himself--and won.
I shifted my vision to the back of my father's head and smiled at a memory, now many years old, of when my children had drawn a happy face on his bald spot while he napped. Their peals of laughter had awakened him and alerted me to drop everything and run into the room, where I gasped at what Nathan and Karen had done....
My reverie switched to a fantasy, with me marching up to the front of the mini-auditorium that, even now, we were fast approaching. I would grab that fetid prune, Sylvia Greene, by the collar and shout, "You can't do this to Charlie Peterson, because he's my father! Because when my children drew a face on his scalp with Magic Marker, he just laughed and helped them add a mustache and a goatee. And because he's three times the human being you could ever hope to be!"
"Do you think she's bluffing?" my mother asked as we pulled into the parking lot of the Education Center.
"No, but all I can say is she's wrong about me," Dad answered. Mom had asked this question many times since Sylvia had threatened him at last month's meeting. "The most despicable thing I've done was to register as a Republican."
"Why did you do that, anyway, Dad?" Some of my best friends were Republicans, including my husband, but Dad had always been a staunch Democrat.
He glanced at me through the rearview mirror. The lines around his eyes and beneath his white eyebrows were deeply drawn. Even in the small view afforded by the mirror, it was clear what a toll this battle had taken on him. "I wanted to vote in their primaries. The courts must use their registration lists, though, because now I keep getting called to jury duty." He shut off the engine, then sat still, staring at the monolithic Ed Center, soon to become a lion's den. "Serves me right."
"Well, Dad," I said, "I guess if Sylvia does divulge that you registered as a Republican, we'll just have to relocate overseas. That is, if we can find a country that would accept us, despite your checkered past."
Dad sighed and patted my mother's shoulder. She was also in no hurry to leave the car. "Really, Linda, there are no illegitimate children or mistresses in my past. I've given her no cause to kick me off the board."
Mom ran her hand through her salt-and-pepper hair. "I believe you, Charlie. It's just that I'm afraid she'll make something up."
"Whatever happens, we'll deal with it. Together. Just like always." Resolved, the three of us got out of the car, but Dad immediately became distracted by the sight of the left front tire. "Linda? Why didn't you tell me the pressure in your tires was low? We could have taken my car instead."
I glanced at the tire in question and saw only that it appeared to be reasonably round.
Mom straightened and fired one of her patented icy stares in my father's direction. At nearly five-eleven, she could be intimidating and was slightly taller than my dad. He ignored her and, ever the mathematician, went on to say, "Under-
inflated tires can cut down on your gas mileage by as much as one-and-a-half percent. All you had to do was--"
"I'll skip a couple of meals and make up for my wanton gasoline usage." She took Dad's arm. Heads held high, the two of them entered the lobby, while I deliberately lagged a step or two behind.
The hum of conversation from the crowd milling in the lobby came to an abrupt halt. They turned their faces away from my father, but not so far as to prevent furtive, sidelong glances. A middle-aged man, notepad in hand, rushed up. "Mr. Peterson, have you decided to resign, or are you going to battle it out?"
"Hey," I interrupted, rushing over to step between him and my dad, "you're the reporter who eavesdropped on my private conversation at the grocery store the other day!"
"My quotes were accurate, Ms. Peterson," he said, his features tensing.
"The name is Masters. Molly Masters. I repeat, that was a private conversation. How was I supposed to know that the"--I resisted the urge to describe him as "silly looking," though with his concave chest and pot belly, that's what came to mind--"guy standing behind me in line was a newspaper reporter? My comments were never intended to be spread across the front page." In the meantime, as I'd hoped, my parents had continued into the auditorium and were safely beyond this muckraker's reach. "Besides which, my saying 'Sylvia Greene should be shot' did not necessarily mean
'to death.' For all you knew, I could have meant a booster shot or a shotput. Nor did you include the 'Amen to that,' which the grocery clerk said at least as loudly as my original statement."
His vision wandered partway through my tirade. "'Scuse me," he muttered and rushed off to join the crowd that had formed as Her Highness Herself entered the building. Incredibly, she was wearing a bright green dress that, with her cotton-candy-processed hairdo, made her look like an overgrown munchkin from Emerald City. Not that one could normally describe her as "overgrown" at five-one or so, not counting her spike-heel shoes. She'd insisted that her chair be raised several inches above all others on the semicircular dais for the school board. Ostensibly, this was merely so "the TV cameras can find me" (board meetings are televised on a local cable network), but I think it had more to do with her insatiable need for attention and power.
From amid the throng of reporters, Sylvia held her hands up dramatically. "Gentlemen, ladies. As the saying goes, 'Nam et ipsa scientia potestas est,' or for the pedestrians among us, 'Knowledge is power.'"
