The Last Chance Olive Ranch

Now in paperback, the exciting new mystery from the New York Times bestselling author, in which China Bayles fears for her husband's life as an escaped convict targets him... A killer McQuaid put away years ago has busted out of Huntsville Prison and appears to be headed for Pecan Springs. China wants to stay by her husband's side and keep him from harm, but McQuaid insists that she get out of town and go to the Last Chance Olive Ranch, where she's agreed to teach a workshop on herbs. The owner, Maddie Haskell, has her own troubles. She inherited the ranch and olive oil business from the late matriarch, Eliza Butler, but Eliza's nephew is contesting the will. While China throws herself into helping Maddie, McQuaid's plan to stop the convict backfires. And now McQuaid's life is not the only one at stake--and this time may really be his last chance...

Praise for Susan Wittig Albert’s New York Times bestselling China Bayles Mysteries
 
“[Albert] consistently turns out some of the best-plotted mysteries on the market.”—Houston Chronicle
 
“Engrossing...China continues to appeal with her herbal information and savvy sleuthing.”—Booklist (starred review)
 
“[China Bayles is] such a joy...An instant friend.”—Carolyn Hart, New York Times bestselling author
 
“One of the best-written and [most] well-plotted mysteries I’ve read in a long time.”—Los Angeles Times
 
“Albert’s dialogue and characterizations put her in a class with lady sleuths V. I. Warshawski and Stephanie Plum.”—Publishers Weekly

Auteur

Susan Wittig Albert

Texte du rabat

Now in paperback, the exciting new mystery from the New York Times bestselling author, in which China Bayles fears for her husband's life as an escaped convict targets him...

A killer McQuaid put away years ago has busted out of Huntsville Prison and appears to be headed for Pecan Springs. China wants to stay by her husband's side and keep him from harm, but McQuaid insists that she get out of town and go to the Last Chance Olive Ranch, where she's agreed to teach a workshop on herbs.

The owner, Maddie Haskell, has her own troubles. She inherited the ranch and olive oil business from the late matriarch, Eliza Butler, but Eliza's nephew is contesting the will. While China throws herself into helping Maddie, McQuaid's plan to stop the convict backfires. And now McQuaid's life is not the only one at stake--and this time may really be his last chance...

Résumé
In this exciting mystery from New York Times bestselling author Susan Wittig Albert, China Bayles fears for her husband’s life as an escaped convict targets him...
 
Max Mantel, the killer McQuaid put away years ago, has busted out of the Huntsville prison and appears to be headed for Pecan Springs. McQuaid knows there’s only one way to stop the vengeful convict—set a trap with himself as bait.
 
China wants to stay by her husband’s side and keep him from harm. But McQuaid  insists that she get out of town and go to the Last Chance Olive Ranch, where she’s agreed to teach a workshop on herbs.
 
When China and her best friend arrive at the ranch, she learns the owner, Maddie Haskell, has her own troubles. She inherited the ranch and olive oil business from the late matriarch, Eliza Butler, but Eliza’s nephew is contesting the will.
 
While China throws herself into helping Maddie, McQuaid’s plan backfires when Mantel executes a countermove he never saw coming. Now McQuaid’s life is not the only one at stake—and this time may really be his last chance...

Échantillon de lecture
Chapter One

More in the garden grows than the gardener knows.

Folk Saying

I hate it when the telephone rings at night.

Granted, it wasn't night, technically speaking. It was five a.m., according to the clock on my side of the bed. But the only light in the room was a dim nightlight and my husband and I had both been sound asleep. To me, that qualifies as night.

The phone is on McQuaid's side of the bed, so he was the one who groped for it, found it on the fourth ring, and growled, "Who the hell is this and whaddya want?"

My sentiments exactly, although I admit to lying very still, stiff with apprehension, conducting a mental inventory of the people I love while McQuaid listened to the voice on the other end of the line. Caitie, our daughter, was asleep down the hall, but our son, Brian, is a student at UT Austin. He's not the kind of kid who gets into trouble, but accidents do happen. Not to mention that my mother's husband, Sam, has a history of heart problems, and that my mother-Leatha-is no spring chicken. And Mom and Dad McQuaid are both nearly eighty and-

"Aw, hell," McQuaid said, drawing out the word, profoundly regretful. "He's dead?"

Dead. I pulled in a breath and held it, squeezing my eyes shut. "Who?" I whispered. Who was he? Brian? Sam? Dad McQuaid?

McQuaid pushed himself into a sitting position, pulling the pillow behind his head. "So where did this thing go down?" His voice was tense, urgent. "Yeah. Southwest Houston, right? Bellaire?"

Southwest Houston. I relaxed a little. Sam was at home at their ranch in South Texas-I'd talked to my mother just the night before. McQuaid's dad didn't drive, and anyway, he and Mom McQuaid were home, too, in Seguin, east of San Antonio. Which left Brian-but he was in Austin.

I caught my lower lip between my teeth. I thought Brian was in Austin. He was between terms, working part-time at The Natural Gardener, out on Bee Cave Road. He hadn't mentioned going out of town. But kids are kids. He and some friends might have decided to drive to Houston on a lark and he'd forgotten to let us know.

"Who?" I asked, louder now. I propped myself up on one elbow and put a hand on McQuaid's bare forearm. The room was dark, but the glow-in-the-dark clock cast a faint green shadow over his face. "Who's dead? What's going on, McQuaid?"

McQuaid looked down at me and shook his head with a brisk don't-interrupt-me-now frown-his cop frown. No, his ex-cop frown. I flopped back on my pillow. I didn't think he was talking about Brian. And if it wasn't about family, it must be about work. My husband is a part-time private eye, and PIs don't punch a clock. He's been known to work twenty-four-hour shifts, catch a couple of hours of sleep, and do it all over again. Still, he doesn't usually get calls at this hour of the night. I squinted at the clock again and groaned. Morning. At this hour of the morning.

McQuaid was shaking his head as if he didn't quite believe what he was hearing. "How in the hell did he manage that? Death Row is tight." He listened a moment more, then spat out, "Damn it, Jessie, if they can't keep a better handle on their prisoners, maybe they deserve to lose a few."

Ah. There had been a prison break. And Jessie had to be Jess Branson, one of McQuaid's cop buddies from his days as a detective in Houston Homicide. But that still left the question of why Jessie was calling our house at the unholy hour of five a.m. about a prison break. McQuaid no longer wore a badge. If a prisoner or two had escaped, tough titty. Somebody else was dealing with it. I closed my eyes. So go away, Jess. Get some coffee, get a doughnut, get off the phone.

"It doesn't sound good," McQuaid was saying grimly. "Okay, you guys work it at your end, and I'll get on it here." He leaned over to peer at the clock. "Hell, no, not now, Jess. It's not even six yet. Nothing's going to happen in the next hour, man. Max may be a freakin' genius, but he hasn't learned to fly. So far as I know, anyway."

Max. I frowned. He …