NORA SIMMONS DROVE past the old Victorian that sat on the outskirts of Emmett's Mill as she went on her way to Sonora to meet with a prospective client, and what she saw made her stomp on the brakes and nearly eat her steering wheel.
A sleek, shiny black import convertible sports car sat in the driveway, completely out of place for the aging home with its chrome wheels and leather interior, parked as if it had a right to be there when it certainly did not.
Sonofabitch trespassers. She made a quick U turn, kicking up dirt and gravel as her truck chewed up some of the shoulder and barreled toward the house. Whoever it was, they weren't local. Nora was willing to bet her eyeteeth on that score. No one in Emmett's Mill drove a BMW roadster, as far as she knew—a car like that would stick out in the little community. Driving such a hot little number around town was likely to drop jaws and send a lot of die hard American manufacturer purists shaking their heads in ...
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