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Zusatztext " Q Is for Quarry provides more insight into the detective's convoluted family relationships than any of Grafton's previous novels! and it's a cracking good story! as well." —Bookpage "Grafton weaves an intriguing story! convincing in detail and satisfying in development. Still! what lifts this above the crowd is the character of her protagonist! Kinsey Millhone! who rings true both as a detective and as a woman." —The San Diego Tribune "Starring affable private eye Kinsey Milhone! Q is quintessential Grafton. It is so well-written that many readers might consider it one of her best." —USA Today Informationen zum Autor Sue Grafton first introduced Kinsey Millhone in the Alphabet Series in 1982 and since then, both writer and heroine have become icons and international bestsellers. Ms. Grafton was a writer who consistently broke the bonds of genre while never writing the same book twice. Named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, her awards and honors include the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Private Eye Writers of America, the Ross Macdonald Literary Award, the Cartier Diamond Dagger Award from Britain's Crime Writers' Association, the Lifetime Achievement Award from Malice Domestic, three Shamus Awards, three Anthony Awards, a Lifetime Achievement Award from Bouchercon, and the Ross Macdonald Literary Award. She died in 2017. Klappentext Our #1 New York Times bestselling series. Back in 1969, young people were hitting the road. More than one of them wound up dead-including the girl in daisy-patterned pants who was found in a quarry off Highway 1, the victim of multiple stab wounds. Eighteen years later, she's still a Jane Doe-and the cops who found her are still haunted by the case. Anxious to solve it, but no longer in their prime, they turn to Kinsey Millhone for help. But this ice-cold case heats up more quickly than they expected. 1. It was Wednesday, the second week in April, and Santa Teresa was making a wanton display of herself. The lush green of winter, with its surfeit of magenta and salmon bougainvillea, had erupted anew in a splashy show of crocuses, hyacinths, and flowering plum trees. The skies were a mild blue, the air balmy and fragrant. Violets dotted the grass. I was tired of spending my days closeted in the hall of records, searching out grant deeds and tax liens for clients who were, doubtless, happily pursuing tennis, golf, and other idle amusements. I suppose I was suffering from a mutant, possibly incurable form of spring fever, which consisted of feeling bored, restless, and disconnected from humanity at large. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I'm a private detective in Santa Teresa, California, ninety-five miles north of Los Angeles. I'd be turning thirty-seven on May 5, which was coming up in four weeks, an event that was probably contributing to my general malaise. I lead a stripped-down existence untroubled by bairn, pets, or living household plants. On February 15, two months before, I'd moved into new offices, having separated myself from my association with the law firm of Kingman and Ives. Lonnie Kingman had purchased a building on lower State Street, and though he'd offered to take me with him, I felt it was time to be out on my own. That was my first mistake. My second was an unfortunate encounter with two landlords in a deal that went sour and left me out in the cold. My third office-related error was the one I now faced. In desperation, I'd rented space in a nondescript cottage on Caballeria Lane, where a row of identical stucco bungalows were lined up at the curb like the Three Little Pigs. The block-short, narrow, and lined with cars-ran between Santa Teresa Street and Arbor, a block north of Via Madrina, in the heart of downtown. While the price was right and the location was excellent-in easy walking distance ...
