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Zusatztext " The widow Goodweather is a wonderful character: plucky! hip and wise. "— Publishers Weekly Informationen zum Autor VICKI LANE lives with her husband, two sons, and daughter-in-law on a mountain farm in North Carolina, where she is at work on the third Elizabeth Goodweather mystery. Klappentext North Carolina's hills are a crazy quilt of old farmsteads and new beginnings! of locals! strangers! artists! and new age wanderers....Here Elizabeth Goodweather has made her life! a still-young widow who moves easily between the gentrified world of Asheville and old-timers in their hollows. But when a flamboyant performance artist is murdered! and Elizabeth learns the amazing history of a magnificent piece of folk art! she gets caught between her two worlds-and in the middle of an agonizing mystery. A young woman! taking her artwork to the breaking point! has brought a history of unexplained deaths and dangerous liaisons into Elizabeth's life. Courted by an ex-cop! trying to protect her love-struck nephew! Elizabeth knows that danger has entered her peaceful world. But she can't guess how deadly the threat is-nor how masterfully a killer can hide.... Leseprobe CHAPTER 1 Don't Know Much about Art, But . . . (Saturday, August 27) From her vantage point at the top of the steps leading into the gallery, Elizabeth Goodweather regarded the pile of burnt matchsticks with an expression that wavered between hilarity and disbelief. The heap of pale wooden slivers, some charred just slightly at one end, others little more than a fragile curl of carbon, sat in the exact middle of the room on a low pedestal covered with a sheet of thick red vinyl. The assemblage was about four feet in diameter and its peak was knee high. And growing. The stark bone-white walls of the gallery had been covered with a fine grid of narrow scarlet-lacquered shelves bearing red and blue boxes of kitchen matches in uniform rows. As Elizabeth watched, one after another of the dinner-jacketed and evening-gowned throng of art patrons took boxes from the wall and began striking matches, extinguishing them, and adding them to the charred accumulation that was the focus of the evening's event. Seemingly all of Asheville "society" had turned out to mark the late August opening of the Gordon Annex: a long-awaited and costly addition to the Asheville Museum of Art. It was the munificent gift of a single benefactor--Lily Gordon. This elegant little woman--"somewhere in her nineties," whispered a woman to Elizabeth's left--had cut the crimson ribbon that stretched across the entrance to the annex and had spoken a few brief words in a voice that, though slightly cracked with age, was clear and carrying. Her spare frame was upright, conceding not an inch to age. Now she sat in a comfortable chair with the museum's director crouched by her side and the chairman of the board leaning down to catch her words. The old woman wore a simple but beautifully cut evening dress of black satin accented with white--"vintage Chanel," Elizabeth's neighbor had informed a friend--and her arthritic fingers were covered with rings that glittered as she reached up to accept a glass of champagne from the chairman of the board. Behind her chair stood a tough-looking, gray-haired man in a dark blue suit. His craggy face was expressionless and his eyes scanned the throng without stopping. More a like a secret service agent than an art lover, Elizabeth decided. Fascinated, she studied the little group, wondering what this very old woman made of the scene unfolding before her apparently amused gaze. "She's always been the museum's greatest patron," someone behind Elizabeth murmured, "absolutely millions of dollars. Her house is literally crammed with art--Picasso, Kandinsky, Pollock--just to name a few. She and...
