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 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
