Available:*
Item Barcode | Collection | Call Number | Status | Item Holds |
---|---|---|---|---|
33607001735342 | Adult Fiction | KRICH | Searching... Unknown | Searching... Unavailable |
Bound With These Titles
On Order
Summary
Summary
Tuesday, February 17. 11:40 a.m., Corner of Vermont Avenue and Sunset Boulevard. A robber approached the victim from behind and put a knife to her stomach. . . . Stabbings, even fatal ones, are not uncommon in Los Angeles. But the stabbing death of Aggie Lasher--a vibrant young woman dedicated to helping others and, it seemed, deeply loved by everyone who knew her--was especially tragic. For almost six years she has been obsessed by the mystery of her best friend's murder: If she had been with Aggie, would the killer have chosen another victim? Will the killer ever be caught? When Molly's LAPD pal Detective Andy Connors shows her a locket found on the body of a dead man, suddenly the case seems solved. Molly had given that locket to Aggie. Still coiled inside it is the red-thread good-luck charm that Molly had brought back years ago from Rachel's Tomb in Bethlehem, a thread with the reputed mystical power to protect its wearer. The presumed murderer--a good-looking aspiring actor named Randy Creeley--was found dead of an overdose in his shabby Hollywood apartment. But Molly has unanswered questions. And though she should be focused on her wedding, only weeks away, she is driven to find out more--about Creeley; about his nervous sister, Trina; about his missing girlfriend, Doreen. About Aggie, who, it turns out, didn't tell her best friend everything. The more Molly discovers, the more she wonders: Was Aggie's life snuffed out so an addict could shoot up? Or has Creeley been framed? What if Aggie was deliberately murdered by someone else, someone who is ready to kill again to ensure that his motives stay buried with Aggie and Randy Creeley? Molly's search for the truth sends her scurrying for answers in an L.A. tourists seldom see. But closure is elusive, and seeking it can exact a stiff price--sometimes even a life. Rochelle Krich's third Molly Blume mystery is irresistible: an inexorably compelling chiller.
Author Notes
Rochelle Majer Krich was born in Germany to Holocaust survivors. She received a master's degree in English from U.C.L.A. and taught high school English for eighteen years. During this time, she received the Milken Families Foundation Award for Distinguished Educator of the Year and the Samuel Belkin Memorial Award for professional achievement. In 1990, she published her first novel, Where's Mommy Now?, which won the Anthony Award. She also writes the Jessie Drake series and the Molly Blume series. Dead Air won the Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Award for Best Mystery or Suspense and Grave Endings won the Mary Higgins Clark and Calavera Awards.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (2)
Publisher's Weekly Review
In Krich's third entertaining thriller starring spunky L.A. true-crime writer Molly Blume (after 2003's Dream House), Molly at last gets on the trail of the killer who murdered her best friend, Aggie Lasher, six years earlier. Molly is blissfully preparing for her upcoming marriage to Zack, an ultra-cool rabbi (who doesn't mind if Molly wears jeans under her skirt), when Andy Connors, her friend at the LAPD, asks her to identify a locket found on the body of aspiring actor Roland Greeley, an apparent drug overdose victim. Molly identifies the locket as the one she bought 10 years before at Rachel's Tomb in Israel and gave to Aggie. The locket contains a sacred red thread "whose mystical power wards off the evil eye lurking behind envy and arrests its malignant reach." Was Greeley guilty of Aggie's murder? The more Molly digs into his past, the more she doubts the recovering addict killed Aggie, a dedicated social worker at Rachel's Tent, a haven for at-risk and abused women. Krich never misses a beat as her heroine unravels the dark tangle of the senseless crime, affirming Rachel's legacy and the blessing behind the red thread: the healing power of truth. Krich once again expertly mixes Orthodox Jewish faith with crisp whodunit plotting. Agent, Sandra Dijkstra. (Sept. 28) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Library Journal Review
The popular Molly Blume series returns with a whodunit that, however well written, somehow falls flat. As mentioned in Blues in the Night and Dream House, Molly's best friend, Aggie Lasher, had been murdered six years earlier, but the killer was never found. The story picks up here two weeks before Molly's wedding: a necklace that Molly had given Aggie turns up in the personal effects of a dead drug dealer, which leads the cops to close the case. Molly, however, isn't so sure they've got their man and becomes obsessed with finding the truth. Everyone becomes suspect, the cops aren't as forthcoming as Molly would like, and the murdered girl's family and former co-workers tell conflicting and confusing stories. Molly eventually ferrets out the facts, has a few close calls, and marries her fiance. But gone are any hints of romance or those warm and funny moments we've come to expect from the Blume family, which makes the book feel one-dimensional. Recommended for larger fiction collections. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 6/1/04.]-Stacy Alesi, Palm Beach Cty. Lib. Syst., Boca Raton, FL (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter One There is a centuries-old tradition, gleaned from the arcane pages of the Kabbalah and supported by stories too numerous to dismiss as myth, about a red thread whose mystical power wards off the evil eye lurking behind envy and arrests its malignant reach. Women yearning to conceive hope the thread will work where nature and science have failed. Pregnant women wear it to ensure a safe delivery and a sound child. Those who are ill or face adversity wear it to reclaim their health or find better fortune, and those who are fortunate wear it to hold on to their blessings. I've seen the thread circling a person's neck or entwined around the band of a watch. I've seen it looped through the slats of a newborn's crib or peeking out from the doughy folds of a tiny ankle. Mostly I've seen it worn as a bracelet, usually on the left wrist, tightly knotted and left in place until the fibers are frayed by water and soap and body oils, and time. The thread looks thin and ordinary. What makes it special, and potent, if you believe the stories, as I do, is the larger skein from which it has been snipped, a length of red wound seven times around the tomb in what is now the center of Bethlehem and that, centuries ago, was the desolate spot where Jacob buried his true love, Rachel. Rachel, who died while giving life to her second son. Rachel, who cries for all her children, those who emerged from her womb and those of future generations, and intercedes on their behalf. Ten years ago, when I was nineteen and about to return home after a year's study in an all-girl Orthodox Jewish seminary in the hills of Jerusalem, I took a cab to Rachel's Tomb on a June day so hot that the air baked my face and dried the perspiration before I could lick it off my lips. Ten years ago Bethlehem was free of sniper attacks and consequently safer to visit, though even then my parents had warned me to be careful. Ten years ago the tomb wasn't surrounded, as I hear it is now, by tall walls and guard towers that offer protection to the many who, despite the danger, travel in bulletproof Eged buses to pray at the side of Rachel's resting place. There were throngs of people when I arrived that day. Bareheaded men in slacks or shorts; men wearing yarmulkes, some of them with beards. Some of the women, their hair covered with wigs or scarves or berets, wore modest clothing and stockings that defied the heat. Others defied strict rules of modesty with short sleeves and with skirts that revealed tanned bare legs and brightly polished toenails. More than a few of the women were big with child, their hands resting on swollen bellies that strained against the cotton of their blouses. After dropping coins into the cupped palms of several hunched elderly turbaned women who formed a queue near the entrance to the white stone building, I passed through the anteroom into the cool interior of the domed edifice and, with more than a little awe and reverence, I approached the black-velvet-draped sepulcher. My eyes quickly adjusted from the sun's glare to the soft dim light of the chandeliers, and my low voice joined the hum of the other supplicants. Then, with the help of a middle-aged woman who held on to the end of a spool of red thread I'd purchased a few days before, I walked around the sepulcher, reciting a special psalm as I pressed the thread against the velvet while the woman, smiling and nodding approval, counted each circuit aloud until I had completed the seven. Outside, I snipped a length of my red thread and asked someone to tie it around my wrist. Days later, back home in Los Angeles, I gave lengths of the thread to friends and family. My father, my mother, my three sisters and three brothers, my grandmother and grandfather, aunts, uncles, cousins. My grandfather, Zeidie Irving, wore the thread around his thin wrist, but it didn't avert the heart attack that took his life a few months later. And it didn't protect my best friend, Aggie Lasher, from the person who killed her almost six years ago. "Is that the one?" Detective Andrew Connors asked now, pointing to the rectangular silver locket he'd taken out of a brown evidence bag and set on the table in front of me. He was watching me, and I was staring at the locket. Its face was embossed with the image of Rachel's Tomb, just like the face of the locket I'd bought in a Pico Boulevard store that sells Judaica. There are thousands of similar lockets, I told myself, sold in hundreds of similar stores all over the country and abroad. "Molly?" Connors prompted. "Can I turn it over?" I wanted to pick it up, dreaded touching it. I'd arrived at my apartment only minutes before Connors, and the heater had just begun to battle the chill of the February day, but my lips were as parched as they had been that summer day ten years ago. "Go ahead." He nodded. "It's been printed." Still, I didn't rush. For nearly six long years I'd hounded the Wilshire Division detectives, phoning the station every few months, sometimes more often, asking whether any leads about Aggie's murder had surfaced, knowing I was making a nuisance of myself but not giving a damn. For nearly six years there had been nothing. Then around eight-thirty this Thursday morning Connors had phoned. Something he wanted to show me, he'd said. Could I come to the Hollywood station? "Can it wait till tomorrow, Andy?" I'd asked. "I have a wedding gown fitting in half an hour, then tons of errands, and a six o'clock tasting at the caterer's. In that order, or they'd have to let out a few seams." I was prepared for a wisecrack--Connors and I do lots of friendly verbal jousting--but it didn't come. "How about between the fitting and one, Molly? I can come to your place if that makes things easier. Unless your errands are with your rabbi?" "I wish." My rabbi, formerly the high school heartthrob who dumped me, is my fiancé, a fact that my family and many of my friends find humorous, and I do, too, at times. "Zack has meetings all day at the shul. This is a switch, you calling me." I write books about true crimes under my pen name, Morgan Blake. I'm also a freelance journalist and I collect data from detectives in police stations all over the city for my weekly Crime Sheet column that appears in the local tabloids. That's how I met Connors. "How's eleven?" he asked. "Eleven is fine." His solemnity was making me uneasy. "What's this about? Did I step on any departmental toes?" Not everyone in the LAPD appreciates my inquisitiveness and persistence. "Tell you when I see you," Connors said, and hung up before I could press. He showed up early. I was still in my powder blue wool suit but had kicked off my four-inch BCBG stiletto heels, so the gap between my five feet five and his lanky six-two seemed greater. I was about to make a quip, but the somber look in his hazel eyes stopped me. That and the absence of his usual slouch, and the brown paper bag in his hand. "What's up?" My heart did a little flip, even though I'd talked to my mom minutes ago and knew my family was fine. I wasn't thinking Aggie. Connors is with Hollywood Division, and Aggie's case belonged to Wilshire. "Can we sit down, Molly?" he asked. I scowled at him. "You're making me nervous. Just tell me why you're here." I pointed to the bag. "What's in that? Leftovers?" He hesitated. "Something that may have belonged to your friend." He spoke gently, but the words rocked me as though I'd been slammed against a wall. My legs were wobbly, my chest was hollow. I felt his hand steadying my elbow, and a minute later we were sitting across from each other at the breakfast room table, the space between us occupied by twin towers of the wedding gifts that had arrived yesterday, still wrapped in bright-colored floral papers and ribbons that looked obscenely cheerful. Connors pushed aside a stack of boxes, slipped the locket out of the bag, and placed it in front of me. "Where did you find this?" I'd described the locket to Connors years ago. I'd described it to the Wilshire detectives, too. I never thought I'd see it again. "On a guy named Roland Creeley. Does the name ring a bell?" I shook my head. My heart pounding, I picked up the locket and read the inscription on the back: kcam ebfje kwubi "That's Hebrew, right?" Connors said. "What does it say?" "For Aggie. My Best Friend." Saying the words filled my eyes with tears. I unsnapped the tiny latch. There was the coiled red thread I'd tucked inside the locket I'd given Aggie a year before she died, the locket that she wore daily but that was missing when the police found her body in a Dumpster. "So it's hers?" Connors asked. "Yes." I clicked the locket shut. "But you knew that," I said with a prickling of resentment. "We had to make sure. I know this is tough for you, Molly. I'm sorry." In my mind I was sitting cross-legged on the daybed in Aggie's bedroom, watching her pry the locket open with her long, slim fingers, taking pleasure in the delight that warmed her dark brown eyes and the smile that widened as she pulled her curly black hair to one side and fastened the silver chain around her neck. Oh, Molly, this is perfect. At some point I realized Connors was talking. I wiped my eyes and looked at him. "Sorry. What did you say?" "I need it back, Molly." Excerpted from Grave Endings: A Novel of Suspense by Rochelle Majer Krich All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.