By Beth Groundwater
A dying at her brother's sturdy ropes Claire right into a basket of trouble
When reward basket dressmaker Claire Hanover saddles up for the outlet occasion at her brother Charley's new using good, the very last thing she expects is for Kyle Mendoza, one of many reliable fingers, to be stumbled on lifeless. everybody assumes a horse trampled him, until eventually it's stumbled on that somebody murdered Kyle sooner than dragging him right into a stall.
Charley's problems aggravate whilst a rival solid proprietor steals his consumers and Kyle's kin comes to a decision to sue him for negligence. Claire is set to corral the killer and retailer her brother's company. in spite of the fact that, fixing the secret can be more challenging than discovering a needle in a haystack . . . and even perhaps lethal.
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Extra resources for A Basket of Trouble (Claire Hanover Mystery, Book 3)
Many of the regulars looked at Johnny with a mixture of pity and suspicion. No one mentioned Angela's name, though some patted him on the shoulder as they passed by, and a few, including the publican, stood him a drink. Others were more circumspect, perhaps wary of being seen to take sides, in case at a later date it transpired that Johnny himself had been involved in some way in the murder of the blonde-haired child. m. crossing the bridge above the point where the rivers Finn and Mourne merge into the Foyle.
Just clearing some things up. " "Muire, run up and fetch them tablets from the bathroom, love," Sadie said, and the younger of the two girls - the girl whom I had thought was going to speak on my last visit - ran up the stairs, her footfalls thudding across the ceiling above us. While I waited for her to return, I promised Sadie that we would bring Angela to them as soon as possible. "And her belongings, Sadie. You'll want that gold ring back, I'm sure," I said, remembering the ring Angela had been wearing.
I stood by the river as she worked, wondering what to say to Johnny Cashell, and watched the sun exploding low over the horizon, turning the ribs of the clouds first pink, then purple and orange. Cashell was a barrel-chested, red-faced man with thick, curly red hair that he kept tied back in a ponytail. He dressed as if from a charity shop and his clothes had a musty, damp odour. He was more particular about his feet, and I never met him wearing the same pair of trainers twice: they were always new and always a brand label.