Why do people keep dying in the mountain town of St. Germaine? It’s hard to say, but as the police chief of the “Murder Capital of Western North Carolina,” Hayden Konig has his work cut out for him. As a detective, Hayden is famous for solving crimes. As the organist at St. Barnabas Episcopal Church, he’s renowned for his musical skills. As a crime novelist, he has no peer — no peer, and no discernible talent. Still, he is not deterred. With Raymond Chandler’s old 1939 Underwood typewriter for inspiration, he continues to inflict his efforts upon whoever will read them.
The Maestro was a terror: a choral genius with an AA, a BME, an MME, a PhD, and a DMA in conducting from Florida State which is not a diploma mill, I don’t care what they say. The letters trailed after her name like educated baby ducks, waddling advertisements of her brilliance. When she sneezed (as she did often, being allergic to Eric Whitacre) all the letters flew out her nose and nearby singers gleefully wiped them up with bath towels and sold them on eBay. This case was coming together like two things that come together and make one thing, and there you have it, one final thing.
Autumn is drawing nigh, and when a skeleton turns up in the woods, it’s all anyone is talking about. That is, until the Maestro and her minions come to town. Now there’s another dead body, a thirty-year-old murder mystery, and all the usual suspects. Can Hayden, Nancy, and Dave figure it all out before another victim is found? Is there any doubt?