Praise for
The Alex Lightwood Series
"I had a hard time putting it down last night and fell asleep with my iPhone in hand. I really enjoyed the twist at the end.” (Glen Lemert, Mystery Author)
"Funny and cute. Relatable characters. Interesting photography aspects. Very real dialogue. I loved it!” (Tennille Gilreath, Cozy Author)
"Well-written"
"Loved the witty banter"
"I look forward to reading more from [Kari Ganske] in the future"
(Goodreads reviews)
Also by Kari Ganske
Alex Lightwood Series
Secrets in a Still Life
One Click in the Grave
Bait and Click
(a Halloween short story available Fall 2021)
Lenses Leather and Lies
(a FREE novella for subscribing to Kari’s Cozy Newsletter)
SECRETS IN A STILL LIFE
An Alex Lightwood Cozy Mystery
Book 1
By
Kari Ganske
Copyright © June 2021 by Kari Ganske
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permissions requests, contact the author at the web address/email below:
Kari Ganske
kariganskeauthor@gmail.com
Website: https://kariganske.com
Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
If you want more cozy mysteries, photography tips, and Alex Lightwood adventures, join Kari's VIP Readers Club: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/ssn3i8nmeh
To my beautiful daughters:
Camden and Avery
Table of Contents
Praise for
Also by Kari Ganske
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Excerpt from One Click in the Grave
Author’s Note
About the Author
Chapter 1
In the middle of Rural Route 97, I sat pouting in my idling car, vacillating between forging ahead to my childhood hometown or crawling under a rock and hiding.
Forever.
This was not the triumphant return I'd imagined. No, this was the adult equivalent of a walk of shame. Riding back into town, not the successful one-who-got-out but, instead, with my tail between my three-weeks-overdue, unshaven legs.
I had left Piney Ridge, a teeny-tiny town in a teeny-tiny county in teeny-tiny Maryland, right after high school graduation. I crossed the stage, hung a left, and headed north to New York with no plans of looking back. Despite pleas from my family to stay, Piney Ridge was not the place to kick off what I hoped would be a successful photojournalism career. The biggest news headline to hit town during my childhood—"Escaped Cow Pins Mail Carrier Against Truck."
Well, except for my big brother Harrison who went missing at nine years old, but I tried not to think about that at all.
Sure, I'd been back to Piney Ridge several times in the intervening years. But those were just visits—with an end date. I'd been passing through on my way to the next great adventure. This time, however, I had an open ticket.
If I continued on my current trajectory, toward Piney Ridge, Harrison's disappearance wouldn't be the only ghost threatening to creep back into my life. Not that I cared to admit it, but I'd burned a few bridges when I left so quickly after graduation. And small towns weren't quick to forget past indiscretions. They thrived on gossip, absorbed the secrets of their inhabitants, cradled memories for generations. The more painful and salacious, the more power the small town seemed to have. And Piney Ridge proved the cliché. One of the many reasons I had chosen New York City—for its perfect, blissful anonymity.
On the other hand, finding a rock big enough to store my camera gear and my precious crowntail betta fish, Lashatelle Lady Gretchen, under would be near impossible.
I was still in a war with my right foot when two things happened in quick succession. First, my cell phone rang, startling me out of the solo pity party. Second, as I reached to silence it, a horn honked loudly behind me, scaring me into fumbling the phone and simultaneously floorboarding the gas pedal.
Right into the Welcome to Piney Ridge sign.
After impact, I batted the airbag out of my face and coughed from the dust. I checked on Lash—pronounced Lah-sh, not lash because she wasn't part of an eye—still sloshing around in her bowl and mean-mugging me, but otherwise fine. I opened the door to get out of the stench from the airbag, but my seat belt locked me in place. A cracking sound paused my efforts to unbuckle. I leaned forward in my seat to peer out the windshield. The large wooden Welcome sign above me tipped precariously backward.
Perhaps "sign" is a bit misleading. The town calls it a sign—specifically the Welcome sign—but size-wise it's somewhere between a billboard and the drive-in movie screen. It had stood for generations as a guidepost and landmark for giving directions, as a photo opportunity for proud mayors and out-of-town visitors, and as a reminder of the beautiful landscape from which Piney Ridge took its name. This was no metal highway sign. Oh no. This sign was carved from locally sourced wood and featured a once colorful, beautifully detailed depiction of the local reservoir and surrounding pine forest.
With a final crack and a sad, resigned, little shudder, the sign gave in to its injury and hit the ground with an echoing boom. A dust cloud formed around it and enveloped
