Murder on Moon Mountain: When Hot Property Meets a Cold Corpse

Murder on Moon Mountain ($15.95, 5×8 Trade Paperback, 260 pages, ISBN: 978-1-60381-649-6), is the second book in A Listed and Lethal Mystery, a cozy mystery series by Jean Harrington. What happens when a hot property meets a cold corpse? Realtor Honey Ingersoll is thrilled to be selling Eureka Falls’ biggest mansion—until her client asks for a special favor that has her stumbling on a murder victim and leads her on a chase for the killer.

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What happens when a hot property meets a cold corpse?

Realtor Honey Ingersoll is thrilled to be selling Eureka Falls’ biggest mansion—until her client asks for a special favor. In the estate next door, the Velveteen Vixens, a group of bikini-clad housewives are shooting a pilot film for a red-hot reality show. One more model is needed. Will Honey become a Vixen for a day? She agrees but soon regrets it when she stumbles upon the body of a murdered woman and becomes a person of interest in her death.

Determined not to be viewed either as a Vixen or a victim, Honey sets out to find the killer and prove she can do far more than move real estate—especially now that it seems it’s her life up for sale.

Book 2 in the Listed and Lethal Mystery Series.

Jean Harrington swears she ingested ink as an infant, for words are in her blood. Her first job was writing advertising copy for Reed & Barton, Silversmiths, and she claims she has the spoons to prove it. Then for seventeen years, she taught forms of discourse and English literature at Becker College in Worcester, Massachusetts. For several years, she also directed a peer-taught writing center at the college that was available to any student with writing problems. After Jean and husband John moved to Naples, she began dreaming of murder, and the award-winning, tongue-in-cheek Murders by Design Mystery Series is the result. Murder on Pea Pike is book 1 in the Listed and Lethal series. Jean is up to her knees in dead bodies and loving every minute of it. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, having served two terms as president of her local Southwest Florida chapter; International Thriller Writers; and Mystery Writers of America. For more information, go here.

Keep reading for an excerpt:

The next morning, I drove onto the McHale property fifteen minutes early so I’d have time to return Carmen’s bikini. Yesterday I wore it home with my white shirt buttoned over it and the dratted navy suit folded on the passenger seat. Now washed spanking clean, the bikini sat tucked in a gift bag with a thank you note and a bag of Mami’s Cheese Crisps. Today I wore my red mini, the one I usually saved for weekends. In case I saw Carmen, I had a point to make, didn’t I?

Gift bag in hand, I slipped through the opening in the boxwoods. Gardenia perfume hovered in the air. I inhaled and took a moment to enjoy the scene. The pool, as crazy awesome as I remembered, gleamed in the morning sun, and beyond it, at the foot of the Bluffs, the river sparkled its way to the Gulf. Off in the distance, Moon Mountain, its highest hill swirling with mist, stood guard over us all.

I skirted the pool and strolled across the lawn, thick and soft underfoot. If I left the gift bag on one of the umbrella tables, Carmen would be sure to see it. Caught in the breeze, a piece of red fabric, one of those … pareos … fluttered up from between two of the lounge chairs. I hurried over to grab it before it blew into the trees.

Oh no. Oh God Almighty, no.

Like a rag doll someone had thrown away, Carmen lay crumpled on her side, her knees bent to her waist, her head in a puddle of blood. She was lifeless, I knew she was lifeless. Yet needing to be honest-to-God sure, I knelt down and pressed a finger her cheek. Her skin, a strange gray white, felt cold to the touch. To my horror, ants trailed through the blood seeping from her wound. Then something else caused the breath to catch in my throat. Something that didn’t make any sense. Stretched straight above her head, her arm had frozen in place, a single finger pointing at the concrete, where two words were spelled out in blood—under car.

“Aren’t you at the wrong house?” a deep voice asked. I leaped to my feet and whirled around. The killer?

A rock star look-alike stood smiling at me from across the pool. How could he smile at a time like this? I stared at him open-mouthed, unable to answer.

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