COMING IN SEPTEMBER 2008!

DEATH BOOKS A RETURN

second in the Scrappy Librarian Series

that began with BOOKMARKED FOR MURDER

PUBLISHED BY PEMBERLEY PRESS in 2006:

Reviewers' praise for DEADLY WILL:

    "Marion Moore Hill has obviously researched antiques from Ben Franklin's era thoroughly to add to her saucy tale.  It's always fun to have a mansion as a backdrop for a mystery, and when there are so many well crafted characters running around, well it just makes the book hard to put down.  Hill paces the mystery nicely, and Millie is a heroine everyone can relate to.  She is a doting mother, a rueful divorcee who is afraid to enter into a new relationship, a budding intellectual who is just beginning to develop through her schooling, and a compassionate human being whose emotional attachment to an elderly resident of her nursing home is a touching story.

    DEADLY WILL has all the elements of a spine-tingling cozy: a deadly murderer lurking around the mansion; suspicious and squabbling relatives; and a darn good puzzle to solve.  Excellent!"

                                              --Shelley Glodowski, Senior Reviewer, The Midwest Book Review

    "Marion Moore Hill has created a charming and intelligent detective, and is especially skillful in describing the Revolutionary War-era antiques and architecture that are central to the story.  She has woven an entertaining story with a premise that has danger built into every codicil." 

                                              --Laurie Trimble, Special Contributor, The Dallas Morning News

    "In this debut of a promising new series that will incorporate different locales important to the American Revolution, Hill, author of the 'Sassy Librarian' series (BOOKMARKED FOR MURDER), offers a lively look at antiques dating and collecting, conveys a great sense of old Philadelphia, and blends elements of the traditional cozy with a new twist on that genre."

                                              --Library Journal

Synopsis

    In DEADLY WILL, a letter from a Philadelphia lawyer rocks the world of Millie Kirchner, a young single mother in Richardson, TX, who's struggling to support her son Danny and to attend college on her meager salary as a nursing-home aide. Both Millie and Danny, the attorney's letter says, are heirs of Nathan Henry, who died 200 years ago!

    Millie is thrilled at the prospect of riches, though the letter gives no clue how much money she'll inherit.  There's another intriguing aspect of the legacy, too:   Henry based his odd will on that of his acquaintance Benjamin Franklin, a hero to history-buff Millie.  Both men left money drawing interest for two centuries after their deaths before being given to their beneficiaries.  Franklin's will designated the cities of Philadelphia and Boston to receive his accrued millions--which actually happened in 1990--but Henry decreed his wealth be divided among his own descendants living 200 years later.  Henry also made one addition to Franklin's scheme, leaving a few personal items (called "keepsakes" in his will) to be distributed by lottery among his descendants.

    The letter invites all the heirs to Philadelphia--to meet each other, learn about Henry's life, be told how much money each will inherit, and participate in the keepsakes lottery--but specifies that each must pay his or her own way there, a hardship to Millie, who's barely getting by.  However, an elderly nursing-home buddy who knows of Millie's love of history and longing to travel makes the trip possible.  Millie's eight-year-old son Danny begs to stay in Dallas with friends to attend a Cub Scouts camping trip, and Millie reluctantly agrees.

    At Henry's mansion in Philadelphia, Millie meets Arthur Pope, the attorney who wrote her the letter, and his co-executor of Henry's will, banker Soames Endicott, in whose bank the keepsakes have been housed until the heirs' gathering.  She's amazed to learn that Henry's line nearly died out twice over the centuries and only 16 descendants are living now.  Nine besides her made the trip to Philadelphia: mercenary brother and sister Brad and Letitia Bennett; likable fellow college student Scott Wyrick; feuding lookalike cousins Gilbert Johns and Wes Koontz; sleazy "investment counselor" Ed Cunningham; would-be actress Eileen Goggins; tough but motherly Vera Peeples; and knowledgeable, amiable Hamilton Ross, the only African-American heir.  The six other heirs, including Danny, didn't come to Philadelphia but still inherit under the will.

    The first evening, Millie's ecstatic to learn that each Henry descendant will receive half a million dollars from the two-centuries-old savings account!  Her joy is tempered somewhat, however, when she fails to draw any Henry keepsake in the lottery, either for herself or Danny.  She had really wanted Ben Franklin's letter to Nathan Henry, even though antiques-collector Ross estimates its monetary value at much less than either the quilt made by Betsy Ross or the silver inkstand like that used at the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

    Over the next few days, several heirs die under suspicious circumstances, some at historic sites visited by the heirs and executors.  The killer's motive seems to be to decrease the number of heirs dividing Henry's money.  But perhaps someone's trying to obtain one or more of the valuable keepsakes?  Or is there some less obvious reason?  Fearing for her own life, Mille is forced to suspect first one, then another, of her new-found relatives.  Ultimately she comes face to face with the killer.

DEADLY WILL is first in the Deadly Past Mysteries, which feature history buff Millie Kirchner solving crimes that relate to various giants of American history.  Later novels will feature aspects of the lives of Thomas Jefferson, John and Samuel Adams, George Washington, and others.

SAMPLE DEADLY WILL:

Prologue (1789)

    "That's my scheme, Dr. Franklin." Nathan Henry inhaled snuff from the back of a ruffled wrist, eyes watching his host for signs of approval. "Is it not a worthy refinement on your own remarkable legacy?"

    "Interesting, Henry." Benjamin Franklin actually thought the plan overly complex, possibly foolhardy. "But have you considered what changes may occur over two centuries? In the way banking and legal business are conducted, for instance."

    Henry stiffened. "Detailed instructions shall guide my executors, sir. They must adapt them to practices then current."

    "Your personal belongings will certainly deteriorate. In any event, why leave such items as a map, a quilt and a rifle to these unknown descendants?"

    Henry patted the waistcoat snugging his girth. "The keepsakes are symbolic of my various selves—merchant, domestic man, revolutionary. And my heirs are bound to prize any memento of such an illustrious forebear, in whatever condition. My favorite, of course, is that letter you wrote me from Paris."

    Franklin winced as a kidney stone stabbed him. He had nearly forgotten writing that polite but distant reply to Henry's fawning missive. Snowflakes wafted through the window he kept ajar winter and summer, yet the room felt close, laden with the scents of snuff and hickory burning in the fireplace.

    "You can hardly leave a token for each, Henry, even if you could know how many will then be living."

    "I flatter myself I have anticipated all difficulties."

    Franklin frowned. "The money troubles me most. It should grow to a great sum in two centuries' time. Have you considered what conflict it may cause among your descendants? Remember what Poor Richard says about man's character with regard to greed: 'He's a fool that makes his doctor his heir.'"

    Henry waved away the warning. "Please don't distress yourself, sir. We may trust my progeny to behave properly."

    Strength spent, Franklin lay back, his thinning locks gray against the creamy pillow. At least he wouldn't be around to see the consequences of Henry's folly.

One (2001, pre-9/11)

    Humming a popular tine, Millie entered the drab lobby at her apartment complex and worked the combination lock on her mailbox.  She flipped through the mail: a utility bill, a sweepstakes offer, and a yellow slip of paper indicating that a registered letter awaited her at the post office.

    Registered?  Anxiety prickled her spine, halted her humming.  If Danny's father was in trouble again, asking for money--

    Worse, he might be renewing his bid for custody of Danny.  Her mouth went dry.  Even if she won again, the fight would be emotionally exhausting, the financial cost devastating--

    The lobby door jerked open, and a small figure dashed through.

    "Come quick, Mrs. Kirchner! Danny's hurt!" Her son’s friend Jeff flung the heavy door behind him, banging the outside wall.

    The mail slid from her grasp. "Where? Show me!"

    She grabbed his small shoulder and pushed him from the modest brick building. He led her towards a tiny park across the street.

    God, Millie thought with a hammering heart, Danny's fallen on his head and killed himself.

    They reached the jungle gym sheltered by a showy deep-rose crepe myrtle. Below the parallel bars lay her son's motionless form, one tennis-shoed foot curled under his other knee. His eyes were closed. The whole side of his face, forehead to chin, was a moist red.

    Her throat closed. Memories of another scene slashed through her brain--blood, blood...wet, sticky human life spilling....

    She knelt beside Danny and touched his narrow wrist with a trembling hand. Thank God, she felt a pulse!

    He raised his head, his snaggle-toothed grin impish.

    "Surprise! Foolja, didn't we, Mom?" He wiped blood—catsup, she now realized—off his cheek.

    Relief, then fury, coursed through Millie. A minute ago, she had thought him dead, or seriously hurt.  She would have given her own life to spare his.  And he'd been teasing, not giving a thought to the awful fear and pain he was causing his mother.  She swallowed a taste of bile welling up in her esophagus and managed to quell the urge to paddle both boys till their fannies glowed red. Yanking her son erect, she glared from him to his partner in crime.

    "Daniel John Kirchner, just for that, you can’t play with Jeff for a whole week."

    Rolling his eyes at Danny, Jeff sidled away towards his house down the street.

    "Aw, Mom, it was just a joke," Danny whined.

    "Scaring the poop out of your mother isn't funny." Millie took a deep breath and felt the remnants of panic ebb away, leaving only anger.  "Come on, I'll be late."

    Her thin shoulders rigid with ill temper, Millie stomped home through a humid Texas morning. Danny plodded after her, toes scuffing the pavement. They entered the apartment-house lobby, where she scooped up her fallen mail and shoved it into her uniform pocket.

    Minutes later, she sat next to her sullen son on a Dallas Area Rapid Transit bus as it sped along Greenville Avenue in Richardson. He slumped away from her, lower lip out, toe tapping the seat ahead.

    Had she overreacted? A week was forever at Danny's age. It was hard to get it right, the balance between teaching him proper behavior and letting him be a kid.

    The bus passed a strip mall containing an Asian food store, a Vietnamese restaurant, and other ethnic businesses serving immigrant families, who—like her—had been drawn by the area's relatively low-cost rent. She and Danny often walked to the grocery, shopped a little, and browsed a lot. She was learning what to call the unfamiliar foods, and the friendly owner had taught her some simple recipes. Millie loved the shop's aromas, hinting of distant lands. She had scanned the restaurant's menu, longing to try the exotic-sounding spring rolls, lemon-grass chicken, and stuffed squid. Yet even its moderate prices exceeded her budget.

    At eight, Danny was rooted in the here-and-now, or in the fantasy worlds of TV and video games. But Millie tried to encourage his lively curiosity in the direction of other places and times, her own passions. She was determined that once she finished her degree and got a better job--if ever--they would travel, especially to historical sites

    Mingled odors of perfume and sweat from a passenger behind them made Millie faintly nauseous. She twiddled her finger at the back of Danny's neck, but he twisted away.

    The only travel on her schedule today was a series of short hops complicated by a teachers-meeting holiday. Usually, Jeff's mom chauffeured both boys to and from school and kept Danny till Millie returned in late afternoon. But today Mrs. Thompson was taking Jeff clothes-shopping. Millie would have to drop Danny at the sitter's, get another bus to work, bum a ride with a co-worker to do errands at lunchtime, reverse the two-bus process after her shift, bolt a quick supper at home, and catch a third bus to the University of Texas at Dallas. At least a friend in their building would baby-sit while she was in class.

    Life would be so much simpler with an automobile, she thought for the thousandth time. But even a second-hand car and its upkeep lay beyond her reach.

    "Sorry, Mom," Danny mumbled, so low she barely heard him. "We didn't mean to scare you."

    "I know, Danny, but you did." She stroked his slim arm.

    "Can I play with Jeff tonight? Ple-e-ease. We'll be good, I promise. His mom's going to let us plant beans behind their house." Tears glistened in the beautiful hazel eyes, so like Jack's, part of the reason she had made that disastrous early marriage.

    She was tempted. Her son loved anything to do with plants, digging in dirt, watering and watching their window-box flowers grow and change.

    But she couldn't retract the announced penalty. Could she?

    "Both of you need time apart, to think about what a mean trick that was, and about how you'd feel if Jeff's mom or I did it to you."

    "Aw-w-w, Mom."

    Millie hesitated. "After tonight, though, you're off the hook." She tousled his hair, got a scowl in return. But when she pulled him close, she felt him snuggle against her.

    Later, in the afternoon, she sank into her favorite chair on the nursing home patio, grateful for the breeze stirring her ponytail. Propping an elbow on a wrought-iron table, she grimaced at the frail-looking woman in the wheelchair beside her.

    "Sylva, you always give me good advice. Was I too hard on Danny? He's still just a kid."

    Sylva Jaeckel shrugged her withered shoulders. "A week away from his best friend sounds a bit much, hon, but you have to do what seems best at the time. If there's a parenting rulebook, I never found it."

    "Or was I wishy-washy, reducing his punishment that way?"

    "Don't beat yourself up. You're not your mother."

    "How do you always know what I'm thinking, Sylva? She tried to be a good mom, I know, but when I was a kid I could never be sure where the boundaries were. Mother'd go ballistic about something one day, then let it slide the next."

    The faded eyes lit in a sympathetic smile. "From what you've said, she was unstable. You're far from that."

    "I haven't told Danny much about her. He's not old enough to hear it all. But I'm afraid I sometimes make him suffer for what she did."

    "You can't help the way she died."

    "It terrified me this morning, seeing him like that. But the boys meant it as a prank." Millie rubbed a chigger bite on her wrist, and heard paper crackle under her forearm. "Oh—the mail. I've been running all day, had to deposit my check and go by the post office at lunchtime—" She removed the pocket's contents, dropped a stamped bank slip on the table, and fanned out three envelopes beside it.

    "You can forget about that sweepstakes," Sylva said. "I've already won. Me and eighty million others."

    Millie picked up the fat, official-looking envelope she had signed for at the post office. Of creamy expensive-looking paper, it had black engraved lettering in the upper left corner that said "Pope, Emerson and Caudill, Attorneys at Law."

    "I haven’t even opened this one yet. Can’t be good news. I swear, if Jack's trying again to get custody of Danny— Philadelphia? What’s he doing up there? Jack always said he'd never go north of the Red River except in chains or a pine box."

    "It's a radical idea, but you could open the letter and see."

    "Anybody ever tell you what an old nuisance you are?" Millie slid a fingertip under the flap and took out several sheets of stationery.

    "That's how they wake me for breakfast: 'Yo, Old Nuisance!'"

    Millie smiled, then, drawing a resigned breath, ran her eye over the first paragraph. She stopped, read it again.

    "Oh! Oh, wow!"

    A sobering thought struck. This had to be a mistake. Still, the letter was addressed to her—

    She re-read the opening and continued through the other pages, her breath quickening as one amazing sentence followed another. She reached the signature, shut her eyes and clutched the sheaf of stationery to her forehead.

    Sylva fidgeted with the loose gold band on her finger. "So what's the bad news from your ex?"

    A jumble of conflicting emotions made Millie feel her head was spinning. She mustn’t let herself believe the letter’s tidings—if there later proved to be a Catch 22, the disappointment would be crushing—but oh, if they should be true! She fought to stay calm.

    "It's the—strangest thing I’ve ever heard of, Sylva," she said through quivering lips.

    "Strange how?"

    "Just plain weird."

    "I don’t have many years left, Kirchner."

    "Well, it's—"

    A memory of Danny’s triumphant grin this morning brought Millie up short. This could be someone’s idea of a prank, another cruel one.  But who disliked her that much? And why such an elaborate scheme?

    Maybe it wasn’t a joke. Just maybe.

    "This lawyer—Arthur Pope—says there’s a—legacy. Danny and I are heirs of someone named Nathan Henry." Spoken aloud, the words seemed even less believable.

    "A rich relative!" Sylva cried. "Congratulations, hon! I gather you two weren’t close."

    Millie smiled ruefully. In the elderly woman’s privileged sphere, inheriting wealth was probably a real possibility, perhaps even expected. The thought steadied Millie, restoring something of her usual protective cynicism.

    "I’d never even heard of him till now," she said. "But get this part, Sylva: the letter says Henry died two hundred years ago."

    "What?"

    "Read these." Millie laid the pages in front of Sylva. If their promises weren’t on the level, as she suspected, this canny old woman would spot the flaw.

    Sylva skimmed the sheets, then studied each. "I've never heard of anything like this. But a legacy—how wonderful! What a shame the lawyer doesn't say how much you'll get."

    Encouraged by her friend’s favorable reaction, Millie linked her fingers behind her head, looked up at a spreading liveoak branch, and imagined herself doing the things mentioned in the letter: taking a magnificent journey with Danny, receiving wealth, meeting new, possibly exotic people—.

    Just inheriting money could change life as she knew it. "Wouldn't it be super if I’d get enough to pay my debts and next semester's tuition?"

    "I hope it buys you a car. You sure need one."

    "Amen to that. Or we might be able to move closer to my school or to work. Even rent a little house with some yard for Danny…."

    A cloud of gloom settled over Millie. What was she thinking? The whole pattern of her hardscrabble life argued against any of that coming true. And such dreams would only make her more discontented with reality.

    Things weren't so bad. She and Danny got by, never ate lavishly, but didn't starve.

    "If only the part about having living relatives could be true, at least," she said wistfully. "I've often wished Danny had family besides me."

    "Better not celebrate that part till you've met them. Something I’m wondering about is those 'keepsakes.' Henry's personal items. What do you s'pose they are?"

    "Rusty razors and threadbare tea cozies. Anything two centuries old would be falling apart by now."

    "I'm not sure the tea cozy was used that early, hon. But anything from those days could be valuable."

    Millie shook her head. "This'll turn out to be a big disappointment, you'll see. It's a law of the universe: The Millie Kirchners of this world don't inherit wealth. Or travel to exciting places. Or have ancestors who knew famous people."

    "You're too young to be so pessimistic."

    "Just realistic."

    "Tell you what, hon. I'll have my lawyer son check this Pope guy out, make sure he's on the level. "

    "Oh, that's a great idea, Sylva! Thanks."

    "Even if the inheritance doesn't prove to be much, at least you and Danny will enjoy that trip."

    "I would love to see Philadelphia with Danny." For a moment, Millie envisioned the two of them retracing Washington's and Jefferson's steps.

    She shook herself. "But there's no way we could go."

    "They have 'kids fly free' deals."

    Millie grinned sadly. "Unless I'd go gratis too, it's impossible. I juggle bills as it is to get from paycheck to paycheck." She shrugged, trying to resign herself to actualities.

    Sylva stretched a shriveled hand towards her. "My treat, hon. Even with the quacks pushing drugs at me, I have plenty. What's left'll just discourage my kids' initiative. You need and deserve this trip, hard as you work."

    Millie laid her young hand over the old one. "I appreciate the offer, Sylva, I do. But staff can't accept money from residents. I could get fired."

    "A loan, then. Pay me back a buck a month."

    "Can't do that either. But you're a dear to suggest it."

    They sat in silence for a time, Sylva gazing thoughtfully down at Millie's papers spread out on the table. Millie looked out across the shady lawn, towards traffic sounds a block away on North Central Expressway, the artery linking Richardson with Plano to the north and Dallas to the south. North Texas was home, but Philadelphia offered Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell....She glanced at her watch.

    "Speaking of getting fired, my break's over."

    "Hon, would you run get me some juice? I'm parched."

    Millie eyed the dark fluid in the catheter hooked to the wheelchair. "Gladly, sweets. You don't drink enough liquids." She left, returning shortly with a tumbler of cranberry juice.

    "Thanks," Sylva said, lifting her delicate hand from the table. "This is fantastic news, Kirchner. Aren't you just over the moon about it?"

    "Ye-e-es, sometimes. But it seems too much like that prize we're both supposed to have won. What'll be in the fine print?"

    "Make that Philly trip, Kirchner. The way you feel about history, you mustn't miss it."

    "If only I could," Millie said regretfully.

    "You've a legacy coming, remember. Borrow from a bank on the strength of that."

    For a moment, it seemed possible. Then Millie sighed. "Sure. I've no clue how much money there is or how many people will split it. I could inherit a nickel after spending hundreds of dollars to get there. Any banker would leap at that deal."

    "Do it, Kirchner. Or I'll never speak to you again."

    "Even more incentive to stay home." Millie gave Sylva's knee an affectionate tap. "Anyway, the letter says Danny and I would get our shares even if we don't go. So whatever money there is—if any—we can sit tight and wait for it."

    "Then do it for me, hon. When you get back, you'll take me out of my fee-ee-ble old self, telling me about the people you've met and showing me great caricatures you've drawn of them."

    "Sylva--"

    "I'll go along in spirit. This place may hold my body, but not me."

    "Why don't you pretend you're Millie Kirchner?  You make the trip, and tell me all about it when you return."

    "Deal, Kirchner. Let's go pack my evening gowns and eye shadow."

Two

    The taxi that had brought Millie from the Philadelphia airport wheeled away, coughing exhaust back at her. Three weeks after getting the attorney’s letter, she stood on a sidewalk in the old part of the city, Society Hill, admiring an eighteenth-century house. White shutters and dormers dotted the gray-brick exterior, and stone steps led from sidewalk to columned entry. Afternoon sun glinted off a stone lintel over the door, while ancient oaks threw the third story into shadow. A metal-rail fence surrounded the property.

    Ritzy place.  Glad you came now, Kirchner?

    Sylva's voice. Since leaving home that morning, Millie had heard it in her mind, supplying tart comments the elderly woman might have made about everything from an obnoxious fellow plane passenger to traffic in the City of Brotherly Love. By some finagling of time-space laws—or more likely by power of suggestion—Sylva had indeed managed to come along.

    "It's gorgeous," Millie murmured, her stomach queasy with apprehension. "But I'm out of my depth here, Sylva. This place screams Old Philadelphia and old money. My grungy apartment doesn't belong on the same planet."

     Texans walk tall, Kirchner.  And you've faced worse challenges.  Like that awful foster home you told me about.

    Stalling, Millie looked around at the neighboring structures, similar in style to the Henry house but more modest in size. A ripple of excitement went through her as she imagined men in knee breeches and buckled shoes tramping along the narrow, tree-lined street.

    Her eyes fell on a green Oldsmobile parked some twenty yards away across the street. A man sat in it, looking at her. It gave her an odd feeling, finding herself watched in a city where she knew no one....

       Marion Moore Hill is also the author of Bookmarked for Murder, the first in a series featuring sassy Oklahoma librarian Juanita Wills, and of  "Bear With Me," a short story in the mystery anthology ALMOSTLY MURDER...WITH PETS.  To read a sample of Bookmarked for Murder, click the "BOOKMARKED" link.  To read a sample of "Bear With Me," click the "ALMOSTLY" link. 

     Hill and the heroine of her novel Bookmarked for Murder are featured in A Second Helping of Murder, a cookbook composed of recipes contributed by various mystery writers.  Helping was a finalist for the 2004 Agatha Award in Non-Fiction.  Hill's recipe, "Swiss Toblerone Souffles," is a great do-ahead company dessert.  Poison isn't a required ingredient.

Marion Moore Hill's favorite sites:

www.mysterybooksellers.com       Independent Mystery Booksellers Assn.

www.ipgbook.com                         Independent Publishers Group (distributor)

www.pemberleypress.com               Pemberley Press (publisher)

www.fictionworks.com                   The Fictionworks (publisher)

www.sistersincrime.org                 Sisters in Crime

www.mysterywriters.org                Mystery Writers of America

www.cluelass.com                          Mystery news and reviews

www.reviewingtheevidence.com    Mystery reviews

www.ala.org                                   American Library Association

www.pla.org                                   Public Library Association

www.proliteracy.org                       ProLiteracy America

To direct a question or comment to the author, e-mail marion@marionmoorehill.com or write P. O. Box 5172, Durant, Oklahoma 74702.

Site last updated 2/8/08.

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