Order THE QUEEN ANNE FOX at your local small bookstore Trade Paperback ISBN: 1-59374-190-1

Or purchase from Whiskey Creek Press

For a signed copy - send $15.00 (includes tax and postage) to:
Jerol Anderson
P.O. Box 339
Cambridge, WI 53523

REVIEWS:

"Creepy twists and turns all the way, fueled by fascinating characters you won't forget." ~Christine DeSmet, Spirit Lake, Hard Shell Word Factory

"The Queen Anne Fox is so chilling you're afraid to turn the page, and so compelling you have no choice." ~Liz Hunter, Plain Jane's Tight End, HSWF, March 2005

"Pretty edge of your seat. I wondered up until the very end. Good stuff." ~Samantha Niemeyer Proof Reader for Whiskey Creek Press

"This story is full of suspense, danger and unexpected twists. I enjoyed the way Jesse
and David were drawn into the plot and then pulled from one suspect to the next." ~Sheryl - Coffee Time Romance

Rating: 4 CUPS
Called in to help the Seattle Police Department find the killer of two people who were found murdered the same way, Jessica Tyson is also trying to cope with the loss of her beloved grandfather. Will she be able to use her sixth sense or will the answers evade her before she can solve the case?
David Chapman works for Hoyte Middle School as the school psychologist and was on friendly terms with one of the dead victims. He has become close to Jesse and hopes to help her find out why these people died. But what is David’s connection to both victims?
This story is full of suspense, danger and unexpected twists. I enjoyed the way Jesse and David were drawn into the plot and then pulled from one suspect to the next. This story gives hints of who could have done it or why, but it is not until the end, that the full impact and reasons of why the victims were killed comes to light. This was a very
intriguing and tension riddled story that I thoroughly enjoyed reading.
Sheryl
Reviewer for Karen Find Out About New Books
Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance
Interviewer for Coffee Time Romance

EXCERPT:

All she needed was a “sign”.

Eyes burning, Jessica Tyson drew in a deep, stabilizing breath. It didn’t matter what labels people put on the dead woman’s body. Prostitute or not, Ann Smith was somebody’s little girl—possibly somebody’s mother.

Life to Jessica felt as raw as the weather. Though pro-tected under the Aurora Bridge in the Fremont neighborhood of Seattle, the surrounding morning drizzle sliced into her soul. Today she hated police work.

Flying back to Wisconsin last week for her grandfather’s funeral during her finals at Western Washington University had really started her thinking. Just because he was the al-mighty savior-sheriff for forty years of his life didn’t mean she had to follow in his footsteps.

Just two days ago, little Denny Kellerman’s broken body had been left on this hard cement surface on a cold, dark morning—wrapped in a blanket—for strangers to find. Three months earlier the body of Annie Smith was left in a similar soft blue blanket. Identical M.O., broken neck, animal-like scratches to the face.

She braced herself for the onslaught of emotional pain that accompanied a “sign.”

None.

Her gaze followed the thirty-foot cement pillars leering above, supporting Hwy 99. A continual swoosh of cars rushed far overhead; drivers racing to early morning jobs. A re-minder—the rhythm of life goes on.

“You know,” Jesse mused aloud, “as a child I once saw a picture of Atlas maintaining the weight of the universe on his shoulders. That’s what these pillars remind me of. That’s how this whole miserable situation makes me feel.”

Granddad always said, when a person is under heavy stress you find out what they’re really made of. Everyone returns to what they were at five years old.

Was this where she was at five?

Deserted by her mother at three, Jessica learned to create her own comfort inside. She’d have to dig that deep again to find solace now.

She stared across the crime scene at Sergeant Cardon of the Seattle Police Department. His beige trench coat flapped from his shoulders revealing the overweight, round body of a cop who’d had one too many donuts.

“What positive feedback ever comes from this feeling of isolation and desolation of investigating dead bodies? Searching into the negative side of people’s lives?”

“It pays the bills.” Cardon shrugged. “Sorry to hear about your dad. Passing on and all.”

“He was my Granddad.”

“Oh, I thought...”

“My grandparents raised me. Thank you for the concern.”

Her ESP was something that only her loving Granddad had understood. He’d helped her through adolescence to hone it to perfection. And now he was gone. One year to the day af-ter Grandmother’s death.

“Any vibes, yet? What’s all that feel like anyway?”

Jesse stared at what was left of the chalk marks. If she tried to explain, maybe he would lighten up.

“If I meld into the neighborhood where the victim lived, get the feel for those people who surrounded him or her, then while standing at the scene of a murder, I can see it. Watch exactly how it went down.”

“Hm,” Cardon replied.

Jesse couldn’t tell if he digested the information or, more likely, discounted it. After all, he didn’t allow her to expound.

“Well, you know why you’re here.” He shrugged. “Our men at the SPD can’t connect the murders. Same animal-like attack. Signature killings is what they call it at the department. The third body shows up and the killer earns the title of serial killer. We’re looking to you to halt this with your special tal-ent.” He spat out the final words.

“You’re just unhappy with me because I didn’t apply to serve and protect at the SPD right after graduation. Even if I’d considered it, I wouldn’t apply without an invitation.”

“Invitation?” Cardon raised an eyebrow. “Hell, solve this one and maybe the chief will offer you an invite,” he sneered.

Jessica shook her head. It was times like this she was grateful she still worked free-lance and alone. If he’d just stop filling the air with his negative remarks, maybe she could start her investigation.

“Everyone’s a suspect,” he continued. “The parents are number one in my book. Big bucks attorneys and living out on Mercer Island in their mansion. Never computes for me, par-ents killing their offspring.”

Denny’s mother’s words from the police-taped interview rang in Jessica’s ears. They kept accusing my Denny of these terrible things. He was such a good boy. My only child, my baby.

She smoothed an errant lock of long, jet black hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear, studying the remaining chalk outline of a body between them on the cement—Denny’s body.

“Probably the same size outline as Annie Smith.” Jesse shook her head to ease the tension building in her chest.

“’Bout the same. Three months ago, same spot.” Cardon chortled. “Annie,” he added in a growl.

Jesse swallowed hard to hold tears of anger at bay. Every time she’d read that name, Ann, in the report...

Her mother’s name was Ann. The way she disappeared just after Jessica was born...

She fingered the serpentine ring on her left forefinger. No, the age was all wrong.

“The Troll That Eats Bugs, they call this thing.” Sergeant Cardon waved his hand up toward the cement sculpture and let out a coarse laugh. “Endowment of the arts commissioned it to the tune of 30K. Fifteen-foot troll devouring a Volks-wagen bug.”

The cement giant’s wide lips sported a menacing smile. Eyes of oversized headlights glared down at Jessica. A six-foot claw encased the windshield of a yellow Volkswagen with its bumper nearly hidden in the sculpture.

Jesse cocooned her black trench coat tightly around her body, shivered against the damp, biting mist of the Seattle dawn. At another time, the frivolity of the cartoon-like troll would not have been lost on her. But now with death and murder rumbling through her head, the knot in her throat kept the corners of her mouth stiff, unable to smile. “Mon-sters,” she mumbled.

“Only one monster we suspect. Killed ’em both.”

Jesse stared in silence, wished it were that easy. Just find a monster.