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Poor Fiona Silk is broke again. Her romance writing career is tanking, and her tiny house in the lovely community of St. Aubaine may be sold for unpaid taxes. But Fiona's new agent has a planFiona can write an erotic cookbook. This project would be easier if Fiona had a sex life or a working oven. Soon bad things start to happen to people, but, oddly, only when Fiona is nearby. Before long, her tiny home is in flames and the body count is rising.
...As if it weren't bad enough being a failed romance writer with no sex life, poor Fiona Silk has to cope with the spectacularly embarrassing demise of her old lover, the poet, Benedict Kelly. It's exactly the sort of thing people notice in St. Aubaine, Quebec, a picturesque bilingual tourist town of two thousand. Now the police start getting nasty, the media vans stay parked on her lawn and the neighbours' tongues keep wagging in both official languages.
...It's Labour Day, Camilla's favourite weekend of the year. She's planning to relax and ponder what's happening in her relationship with policman Sgt. Ray Deveau. She's emphatically not planning to get involved in anything that means trouble. No wonder the news that an old acquaintance has had an accident comes as a surprise. There must be some mistake. By the time Camilla unearths Laura's connection to a violent revolutionary group active two decades
...Remembrance Day is a proud day for Camilla MacPhee's good friend, Mrs. Violet Parnell, one of five thousand Canadian women to go overseas during World War II. But the next day she has vanished. Camilla, with only a few letters and documents to guide her, follows her friend to Tuscany, chasing though historic towns, across high promontories and along steep mountain roads. Vanishing old partisans and Allied aircraft crash sites keep Camilla hopping
...One of Canada's best-loved sleuths returns in her sixth hair-raising adventure. Victims' advocate Camilla MacPhee is following the trial of Lloyd Brugel, a ruthless criminal kingpin charged with a fatal firebombing. Shes looking forward to seeing him convicted, but when his sleazy counsel is found dead, it conveniently delays the proceedings. The lawyer, no saint himself, was drowned and shot. In case that message was too subtle, an old joke featuring
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