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When a young woman disappears from home without her personal effects, Detective CeeCee Gallagher is determined to find her - only to discover that she was not the first to vanish. CeeCee and FBI agent Michael Hagerman follow the trail of chilling clues deep into the West Virginia woods, and a dark world of drugs, torture, and cannibalism. With her family in grave danger, CeeCee will have to risk everything if she's to bring justice to ... Murder Mountain. The haunting prequel to Stacy Dittrich's provocative CeeCee Gallagher novels - a series based on actual police files and told by one of America's leading female crime experts.
Charged with murdering her husband in 1879, Margaret Meierhofer became the last woman executed by the state of New Jersey. Murder on the Mountain considers all sides of this fascinating and mysterious true crime story, investigating how the case's sensational details about domestic violence and female sexuality gripped the nation.
One August night in 1931, on a secluded mountain ridge overlooking Birmingham, Alabama, three young white women were brutally attacked. The sole survivor, Nell Williams, age eighteen, said a black man had held the women captive for four hours before shooting them and disappearing into the woods. That same night, a reign of terror was unleashed on Birmingham's black community: black businesses were set ablaze, posses of armed white men roamed the streets, and dozens of black men were arrested in the largest manhunt in Jefferson County history. Weeks later, Nell identified Willie Peterson as the attacker who killed her sister Augusta and their friend Jennie Wood. With the exception of being black, Peterson bore little resemblance to the description Nell gave the police. An all-white jury convicted Peterson of murder and sentenced him to death. In Murder on Shades Mountain Melanie S. Morrison tells the gripping and tragic story of the attack and its aftermath—events that shook Birmingham to its core. Having first heard the story from her father—who dated Nell's youngest sister when he was a teenager—Morrison scoured the historical archives and documented the black-led campaigns that sought to overturn Peterson's unjust conviction, spearheaded by the NAACP and the Communist Party. The travesty of justice suffered by Peterson reveals how the judicial system could function as a lynch mob in the Jim Crow South. Murder on Shades Mountain also sheds new light on the struggle for justice in Depression-era Birmingham. This riveting narrative is a testament to the courageous predecessors of present-day movements that demand an end to racial profiling, police brutality, and the criminalization of black men.
Rosefield has moose, a ski resort, and new this season, murder. Come for a visit. Bring your buds. Looking for an alpine vacation? Or do you long for the rural life where cows number greater than folks? Nestled amongst the Green Mountains of northern Vermont, Rosefield is the perfect setting to escape your problems and enjoy a cozy mystery. Within these borders, you’ll encounter over a hundred color illustrations to enhance your respite. Maybe you’ll meet one of the locals. You might share a chair with Joey Rogers, skier extraordinaire and self-proclaimed hero of this small town. Or spot Happy Smith slicing through the glades on his snowboard—as long as it isn’t Grandma Day. Enjoy an après ski at the Bent Pole, and you’ll receive impeccable service from the best bartender in town, Jane Reech. And who knows? Maybe you’ll help Sheriff Peggy McStoots figure out whodunit. You might even meet Rodney Buric II, the man responsible for the resort’s latest rebrand. Because who wants a mountain without an extra thrill? Sure, you’ve been to resorts with their fancy villages and high-speed quads. But have you ever experienced a . . . Murder Mountain? Murder Mountain is the first in the Rosefield Series, with its sequel, Day Trip to Jay Peak, coming soon. There’s a humdinger of a situation if you’re stackin’ what I’m choppin’. Things are tense in the fictional northern Vermont resort town of Rosefield. A subtle cold war brews between multigenerational Vermonters and the “flatties” — that is, tourists and other outsiders. The precarious status quo is shattered when a ne’er-do-well ski bum is found dead on the mountain with a knife protruding from his chest. It’s up to salt-of-the-earth Sheriff Peggy McStoots to track down the killer. Vermont native Owen Curvelo fills his debut murder mystery with more than 100 illustrations from artist Katya Strasburger, beginning with a detailed map of Rosefield Mountain Resort (tagline: “Bring Your Buds”). The world of Rosefield and its colorful inhabitants comes to vivid life in these images, from small ones that break up the text to full-page “stills.” In addition to artistic renderings, Murder Mountain is chock-full of Vermont references. Example: Twentysomething skier Joey Rogers rocks out to fictional band the Rutland Rotary Boys, whose singer, Seth Alltheway, and guitarist, Hector Yacoven, might well be allusions to Vermont’s real-life blues-rock all-star Seth Yacovone. — Jordan Adams of Seven Days. Here's an excerpt of Jane Reech tending Rosefield Resort's bar, the Bent Pole: Plenty of unfamiliar faces stopped in as well. Flatties upon flatties, which should’ve added dimension, but . . . nopers. Had the rebrand brought them to Rosefield? Jane asked one couple with an overwhelmingly flat appearance. “Why are you here?” she questioned after delivering them two pints of Bacon. “We ordered—” started the male. “A drink I don’t know how to make.” Jane tapped her fingers on the bar. “Answer the question.” “Uh,” stammered the female, “w-we wanted . . .” “. . . A vacation with more excitement,” finished the male. “Honey, she’s part of the ‘Murder Mountain’ act. Play along.” “Oh. I was scared for a moment. How thrilling!” Jane stomped away before she slapped a flatty. She questioned several others, whose responses only increased her frustration. “My hubby and I skied a Magic Mountain, a Presidential Mountain, Buttermilk, Powder, and Bald Mountains. Never a Murder Mountain!” Flat. “I’m a murder mystery writer, here for research.” Flatter. “We’re spiritualist skiers. We carve with the dead.” Flattest. Jane felt her backhand tighten up. Could she keep herself contained? She almost flew over the bar at a custy wearing his jeans tucked into ski boots, a helmet-mounted MyView, and a twenty-year-old pad of wickets. But when he dropped a twenty-dollar tip, Jane forgave all those offenses. Actually, despite their vertical challenges, most of the flatties tipped well. Maybe she should share this chair. Here's an excerpt of Peggy McStoots speaking with the State Trooper Commander about the murder investigation: “Hi, Bob.” He was barely visible behind his shiny oak desk covered in framed achievement awards. Peggy sat in the opposing over-cushioned chair. “Hi, Peggy.” Bob removed his wide-framed glasses and cleaned them with his green Statie uniform. “Your troopers are finally using my proper title.” “Who, Cassie?” Bob laughed. “She’s a rule follower. I don’t care if the folks in Rosefield want to call you ‘sheriff.’” “I never asked for the title, but they’ve used it since the day I started.” “I’ve always liked ‘Sheriff McStoots.’ Although, ‘Sheriff Strongman’ is a little . . . stronger.” Peggy sighed. She had dated Bob when they attended Enosburg High School together, a mistake she still regretted. Forty years, a marriage, and three daughters later, Bob thought some chemistry remained between them. “About the autopsy report . . .” “I have it.” Bob tapped a folder on his desk. “How about I tell you what’s inside?” Peggy considered grabbing the folder and stomping out, but she risked offending him. Then Bob might order his troopers to resume their Rosefield patrol. “What did you find?” “Timmy died within moments of the knife severing his aorta.” “A knife to the ol’ blood bumper.” As Peggy diagnosed a month ago. “No signs of struggle. Whoever stabbed Timmy caught him by surprise. If somebody murdered him.” Bob sniffed. “My detective nose points to a suicide.” Bob’s ‘detective nose’ was about as valid as his actual one. “Timmy didn’t struggle at all?” “No bruises, scrapes, nothing under his fingernails.” Bob stuck his hands out, then thrust them towards his chest. “Suicide. Bag it, tag it, and call the game warden.” “What about the piece of flannel?” Peggy debated telling him what Rufus described earlier, but then she’d have to reveal her source. Bob would laugh her out of the barracks. “If he killed himself, how did it end up in his hand?” “Maybe it was his lucky fabric.” Bob flipped open the folder and searched through the pages. “Like you, my forensics guy’s convinced someone murdered Timmy. He’s excited about a hair he identified on the flannel. Nonhuman. Canis lupus familiaris.” “Black or chocolate?” “Yellow. Did Timmy own a Labrador?” “Noper. Tell your forensics guy to contain his excitement, as it’s most likely Tug-Tug’s. Everyone who visits Cody’s General Store rubs his belly on their way in, even jerks like Timmy. Did he discover anything on the knife?” “No other DNA besides Timmy’s.” “Anything else?” “Nothing of note.” Bob shut the folder and slid it across his desk. “There’s your copy.” “Thank you.” Peggy stood up. “I don’t know if you’ve heard,” said Bob, hopping to his feet. “A new Italian/seafood restaurant opened in St. Albans. I reckoned you might wanna taste. My treat, of course.” “Sorry, guy.” Peggy had prepared a lie for this eventuality. “I promised to watch Lyndsay’s kids so she could rest for a night.” “You can be a little late.” Bob trotted around his desk and grabbed her shoulder. “Remember the nights we shared in high school? Cruising dirt roads in my green van with the white racer stripes and vinyl interior. I still maintain it, you know.” “No.” Peggy recalled the van—mostly its stench. Wet dog mixed with body odor and a pinch of urine, not too dissimilar to how Bob currently smelled. “A grandmother’s duty never ends. Maybe next time.” She turned and stepped to the door. “I almost forgot, we heard from our out-of-state connections about Timmy’s missing years.” Peggy stopped. “He ski-bummed up and down the Rockies, working at most of the major resorts.” “Which leaves a lot of holes in his timeline.” She sighed. “Do you have a list of all the resorts?” “I do.” Bob smirked. “Plus how long he worked at each. I’ll email it to you.” “Thanks. Goodnight.” She stomped back down the hallway. Cassie snoozed, so Peggy didn’t bother her with a farewell. She hopped into the Road Runner and drove home, encountering two (two!) stoplights. Here's an excerpt of Happy Smith playing dominoes with his grandma, but he can't concentrate after she asks for a mysterious favor: Once the coffee finished brewing, they moved to Grandpa’s oak dining table he chainsaw-carved thirty years ago as a wedding anniversary present. “Before we play,” said Grandma. “I hanker a favor.” “Anything.” Happy laughed. “Ope. Not anything. Remember when you dared me to shoot a rifle from horseback like the cowboys? I almost broke my neck!” “Whatever doesn’t break you will make you.” One of Grandma’s favorite sayings and a mantra she drilled into her two boys. A primary reason Uncle Pete and Happy’s dad grew into two of the toughest guys in Rosefield. Grandma grabbed an envelope from her purse and slid it across Grandpa’s table. “I need you to deliver this to Peggy.” “Sure.” Happy scratched his head. “Uh, which Peggy?” “Sheriff McStoots, your ‘beloved’ Mary Anne’s mother.” “Hah.” Happy flipped the letter over and felt the seal. She licked the glue, but he could probably steam it open. “What’s it about?” “I’ll only tell you if you swear to bring it right to Peggy. No peeking.” “I swear on the soul of my favorite shotgun.” Grandma raised an eyebrow. “Okay, okay.” Happy contemplated his sweet baby Remi. “I swear on the soul of my favorite hunting rifle.” Grandma raised her other eyebrow. “And?” This required the ultimate deal. Happy would stay strong. His curiosity wouldn’t overpower his love for Remi. “If I peek, she’s yours.” “All right then!” Grandma slapped knee. “You know Diane Robbitet? She manages Cody’s deli.” “Yepper, she prepares the best sandwich in town, large enough to dislocate your jaw.” “Well, Diane and I partnered for team cribbage, and she learned this from her cousin Florence. You might know him from the Sled. He lives in Stowe.” “Unrung bells.” “Doesn’t matter. Florence told Diane about an alternative version of cribbage, with brand-new rules.” Grandma giggled and squirmed in her seat. “Two cribs. Two!” “Why don’t you tell Peggy at cribbage night?” “She hasn’t attended since the murder investigation began. She’s determined to identify the killer by summer. No distractions. A shame, Peggy’s my favorite partner when we play team cribbage.” “You could call her.” “I hate these new phones, worse than computers. Too many buttons and pictures. Besides, I want Peggy to witness the official rules printed out. She’s gonna jump right out of her Jeep!” Grandma giggled and shook her arms in a happy dance. Happy hadn’t seen her this excited since Uncle Pete bought her a new four-wheeler. “Why don’t you deliver it yourself, then?” “Because I’m old. I only leave this house to kick your ass on the way out. Or the occasional cribbage night. Just complete the task and no more questions, or I receive your rifle.” Happy bit his lip and nodded. Grandma always cut a shrewd but fair deal. “Okay.” He put the envelope in a pocket. “With that deer tied to the grill, shall we proceed to what’s important?” He reached over to the sill and grabbed the cloth bag. “If I remember, I won the last two weeks in a row.” “Your dementia just turned on.” Happy spread the dominoes across the table. “You haven’t won since they invented electricity.” “You insult my memory? When you’ve clearly forgotten how well I crack a belt?” They laughed and slapped knee. They chitchatted through three games, addressing every essential topic: snow accumulation, the upcoming sledding season, the Powder Crew’s exploits, and gossip from cribbage night. Grandma won every match, and she bragged about it all the way out of the farmhouse. “Come back after you watch one of them YouTube things,” she called from the porch. “It’s spelled D-O-M-I-N-O-E-S.” “Love you, Grandma.” Happy pulled out of the driveway with his head hung. He never stood a chance, no way he could focus on dominoes with that letter in his pocket. What did it really contain? Grandma could out-lie a lawyer, but Happy knew her since he popped out of his Mama. The letter didn’t involve Deli Diane, her cousin, or cribbage. She needed to send Peggy a message, but why not deliver it herself? It required all of Happy's willpower not to open the letter on the drive home. Whenever he felt his fingers scrape at the seal, he considered his dear Remi. He couldn’t abandon her after all their hunts together. After hiking with the Powder Crew, Happy forgot all about the letter. Nothing like a twelve hundred foot vertical up and down to work the worms out of the hay. Well, at least until he returned home and noticed the letter on his dining table, once more calling to his natural curiosity. No, he’d remain steadfast, for Remi’s sake. He’d bring it to Peggy in the morning on his way to work. He brought it to his truck, at least, but Happy forgot to stop as he drove up Left Mountain Road. No problem, he’d drop the letter off after his rental shop shift. Except that didn’t happen, either. He had a month before the next Grandma Day. He’d decide by then what was more important, his favorite hunting rifle or discovering his grandmother’s secret. To celebrate our release on Google Play, we're offering Murder Mountain at a 50% discount. Maybe you should hop on the chair before the trails are skied off.
The shocking true story of murder on Colorado's Snipe Mountain. Struck by three rifle bullets, newlywed John Bruce Dodson supposedly died in a hunting accident. But District Attorney Frank Daniels suspected Dodson's wife-and would stop at nothing to prove his suspicions before another man suffered the same fate.
Getaway With Murder is the first in a cozy series from Diane Kelly set in a lodge in the Blue Ridge Mountains, where secrets hide behind every hill. As if hitting the half-century mark wasn’t enough, Misty Murphy celebrated her landmark birthday by amicably ending her marriage and investing her settlement in a dilapidated mountain lodge at the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains. With the old inn teetering on both a bluff and bankruptcy, she must have lost her ever-loving mind. Luckily, handyman Rocky Crowder has a knack for rehabbing virtual ruins and for doing it on a dime, and to Misty’s delight, the lodge is fully booked on opening night, every room filled with flexible folks who’d slipped into spandex and ascended the peak for a yoga retreat with plans to namastay for a full week. Misty and her guests are feeling zen—at least until the yoga instructor is found dead. With a killer on the loose and the lodge’s reputation hanging in the balance, Misty must put her detective-skills to the test. Only one thing is as clear as a sunny mountain morning—she must solve the crime before the lodge ends up, once again, on the brink.
An investigative reporter explores an infamous case where an obsessive and unorthodox search for enlightenment went terribly wrong. When thirty-eight-year-old Ian Thorson died from dehydration and dysentery on a remote Arizona mountaintop in 2012, The New York Times reported the story under the headline: "Mysterious Buddhist Retreat in the Desert Ends in a Grisly Death." Scott Carney, a journalist and anthropologist who lived in India for six years, was struck by how Thorson’s death echoed other incidents that reflected the little-talked-about connection between intensive meditation and mental instability. Using these tragedies as a springboard, Carney explores how those who go to extremes to achieve divine revelations—and undertake it in illusory ways—can tangle with madness. He also delves into the unorthodox interpretation of Tibetan Buddhism that attracted Thorson and the bizarre teachings of its chief evangelists: Thorson’s wife, Lama Christie McNally, and her previous husband, Geshe Michael Roach, the supreme spiritual leader of Diamond Mountain University, where Thorson died. Carney unravels how the cultlike practices of McNally and Roach and the questionable circumstances surrounding Thorson’s death illuminate a uniquely American tendency to mix and match eastern religious traditions like LEGO pieces in a quest to reach an enlightened, perfected state, no matter the cost. Aided by Thorson’s private papers, along with cutting-edge neurological research that reveals the profound impact of intensive meditation on the brain and stories of miracles and black magic, sexualized rituals, and tantric rites from former Diamond Mountain acolytes, A Death on Diamond Mountain is a gripping work of investigative journalism that reveals how the path to enlightenment can be riddled with danger.
Now a Netflix Limited Series "...A compulsively readable tour de force." —The Wall Street Journal New York Times Book Review recommends M.T. Edvardsson’s A Nearly Normal Family and lauds it as a “page-turner” that forces the reader to confront “the compromises we make with ourselves to be the people we believe our beloveds expect.” (NYTimes Book Review Summer Reading Issue) M.T. Edvardsson’s A Nearly Normal Family is a gripping legal thriller that forces the reader to consider: How far would you go to protect the ones you love? In this twisted narrative of love and murder, a horrific crime makes a seemingly normal family question everything they thought they knew about their life—and one another. Eighteen-year-old Stella Sandell stands accused of the brutal murder of a man almost fifteen years her senior. She is an ordinary teenager from an upstanding local family. What reason could she have to know a shady businessman, let alone to kill him? Stella’s father, a pastor, and mother, a criminal defense attorney, find their moral compasses tested as they defend their daughter, while struggling to understand why she is a suspect. Told in an unusual three-part structure, A Nearly Normal Family asks the questions: How well do you know your own children? How far would you go to protect them?
Nancy Pfister, heir to Buttermilk Mountain, the world-renowned site of the Winter X Games, was Aspen royalty, its ambassador to the world. She lived among the rich and famous: she partied with Hunter S. Thompson, dated Jack Nicholson, had a joint baby shower with Goldie Hawn, and globetrotted with Angelica Houston. She was also a philanthropist, admired for her generosity. But behind the warm façade, she could be selfish, manipulative, and careless. Pfister enjoyed bragging about her wealth and celebrity connections, but those closest to her, like Kathy Carpenter, Pfister's personal assistant, drinking companion, and on one occasion lover, knew better. In 2013, after a long fall from grace, Dr. William Styler and his wife, Nancy, relocated to Aspen to reinvent themselves. They'd lived the high life before a misguided lawsuit left them near poverty, and Nancy Pfister was their answered prayer. She took them in, gave them a place to live, and allowed them to launch their new spa business. Everything seemed perfect until Pfister turned on them, making increasingly irrational demands and threatening to throw them out on the street. When Nancy was found beaten to death in her own home, the Stylers and Carpenter were all under suspicion for the gruesome murder. But in this close-knit, wealthytown set on keeping its reputation and secrets safe from the public eye, the police struggled to solve the mystery of what really happened.
A visiting American and a clever police detective attempt to unravel an intricate web of intrigue, deceit, and subterfuge to uncover the truth concerning a family murder