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Zusatztext Praise for The Riverbank Knitting Mysteries “Delightfully clever! As warm and cozy as a handmade sweater. Readers will love Allie Pleiter’s new series.”—New York Times bestselling author Krista Davis “Allie Pleiter skillfully knits together endearing characters, a leap-off-the-page setting, and a delightfully perplexing mystery with this debut.”—USA Today bestselling author Laura Bradford “Allie Pleiter’s first Riverbank Knitting Mystery has all the elements needed for a successful series, particularly a great hook.”—Criminal Element “Pleiter excels at creating characters you care about, and On Skein of Death is no exception. . . . A well-plotted mystery, clever red herrings, and intriguing layers give the book its focus, and the lovely hint of romance potential will appeal to spark-loving readers like me without alienating mystery purists. I can’t wait for the next book!”—Reading Is My Superpower “Even those who have no particular interest in knitting or crafting will doubtlessly enjoy On Skein of Death.”—Brianne’s Book Reviews Informationen zum Autor Allie Pleiter is an author with more than thirty-five books to her name. She is also a nationally booked public speaker and an expert knitter. Klappentext The owner of Y.A.R.N., Libby Beckett finds the holiday looking merry and bright for her business, but when her ex-husband turns up in town, and then turns up dead, her life slowly unravels as she tries to knit the clues together to solve this case. Leseprobe Chapter One Those eyes. They were heart-stoppers. Large, brown, and soulful. I could stare at this guy's eyes for hours and not feel the time pass. As it was, I was barely aware of the Christmas carols playing on a loudspeaker. As much as I loved "It Came upon a Midnight Clear"-it was my favorite carol, after all-the melody's beauty couldn't match these eyes. Even the decorations behind him in the shop window, a joyful collection of green, white, red, and silver hand-knit stockings on a mock fireplace, weren't nearly as distracting. There was no street, no sound, no holiday rush. There was just me and him. He blinked-a knowing sort of blink that let me know he was aware of my stare. I swallowed hard, transfixed. I'd seen pictures of him, videos even, but he was finally here, live, right in front of me. Talk about your yuletide treasures-any breathing woman would swoon. He wasn't a brute; he was elegant and sophisticated. I watched him turn his head regally, as if to prove he didn't need to look at me like I needed to look at him. And then, after a moment of denying me his magnetic gaze, he looked at me again. Deeper this time, I swear. I've always been a goner for a great pair of eyes, but these were magnificent, framed with the kind of thick lashes women would die for. I stepped a bit closer, feeling hopelessly drawn to him. I'm too old to fangirl anyone, but he was a celebrity. One of a kind. I'd probably never get the chance to be this close to him again in my lifetime. I was dying to touch him, to see if he'd feel as fantastic as I was certain he did. So I took one more daring step closer. And then he spit on me. After all, vicu–a are a close relation to camels and alpacas, and both are notorious spitters. I blinked and reared back, the shock of vicu–a spit on my cheek blasting me out of my stupor. "Pardon Zorro's bad manners," came a deep voice from behind me. A linen handkerchief held by a tanned hand floated into my field of vision. "He's not always a gentleman in new surroundings." Vincenzo Marani held up a chastising finger to his vicu–a charge. "You should never spit on a woman like Libby Beckett. You should revere her." Still, a wry smile crept across his face as he turned back to me and wiped my cheek. "But I did tell you to take care if you got close." He had indeed. I felt a flus...
