Synopses & Reviews
Chapter One
It wasn't the paper cut that was causing my good mood to evaporate, however. I was sitting, freezing, in my faithful, though beat-up Civic outside the gates of the Shrewsbury Foundation, and as their newest Fellow, I really hadn't expected the kind of treatment I was receiving. All I wanted to do was get up to my room, unpack, and get ready for the four weeks of research that awaited me, but the supercilious guard who had so thoughtlessly snatched my acceptance letter away was taking his time checking his clipboard.
The views of the Berkshires were wonderful from the highway, vistas of craggy, wind-buffeted trees and steep gray cliffs, and I realized, a little guiltily, at how much I was looking forward to getting away from the never-ending home improvements and escaping into work that was purely my own. Libraries had always been where I'd gone to make sense of the world, and this one had the added lure of primary sources directly related to my work. I even had a chance to visit friends who worked nearby. I was on my own, and it was a good day for driving: clear, cold, and just a little overcast. After a couple of uneventful hours, I found myself in Redfield County, where the hilly terrain made my ears pop regularly and the pines and bare oaks stood out against the empty March sky. There the driving got a little more interesting; I was wrestling for the steering wheel with the wind, resisting the pull to the edge of the road and the cliff.
And then I didn't resist. I pulled over, got out, and considered the vista before me, cataloguing it as would a social scientist and someone with a nodding acquaintance with geology and environmental studies. My stomach contracted even before I reached the guardrail and considered the drop down to the icy river below. I forgot to wonder whether the area had been formed by volcanism or tectonic smashing and forced myself to edge over and look straight down. I craned my neck to see, as if the mere act of moving closer to the cliff meant that I would immediately hurlmyself over the side. The black water one hundred feet below me looked as though it sucked all the light and heat from the surroundings, keeping the town on the opposite rocky bank firmly entrenched in late wintry gloom. As if that weren't enough, the little factory town -- I didn't even know what its name was appeared to have seen better days since its founding; there was no smoke coming from the stack and there were no lights in the windows. A lone car moved along the street on the opposite bank, and I shivered. It might have been that the mill or factory was now converted to a high-technology haven, and the light was wrong for me to tell that there was any life inside; it might have been that the town was enjoying a well-earned rest before they geared up for a thriving summer tourist trade, but I had no way of knowing. From this distance, it all seemed as bleak as the cliffs, as scrubby and weather-worn as the firs I saw by the riverbank. I pulled my coat closer and got back into my car. I was surprised that the view should have had that dismal effect on me, but I chalked it up to a too-hectic schedule and fatigue.
Driving another twenty minutes brought me to Monroe, the town closest to the library, and the source of the Shrewsbury family's wealth. At least I could see signs of life here -- cars filled the main street, shops were open and busy -- and that cheered me again.
The Shrewsbury Foundation was located a short distance outside of Monroe, a tall wrought-iron fence surrounding its grounds. From what I could see of the house from the breaks in the trees along the road -- one of the hazards of creating a view for yourself is that it also tends to put you on display --the fence suited the place, all Victorian gothic and curlicues. The real blot on the landscape was this foolish, imposing, and totally inappropriate guardhouse at the main entrance, complete with an orange-and-white-striped hinge barrier -- nothing could have been more obvious or obnoxious a bar to the outside world. When I pulled up to it, its occupant was watching a monitor carefully ...
Review
“This is one terrific read which will keep you turning the pages.” Rendezvous Magazine
Synopsis
The past's blood stains the present
The opportunity of a lifetime awaits archaeologist EmmaFielding in the Berkshire foothills of Western Massachusetts: the chance to study the eighteenth-century diary of Margaret Chandler, the accused witch and murderess whose home Emma excavated only months before. However, the three other Shrewsbury Foundation fellows she must share the premises with are a disturbingly odd bunch, and before too long one of them is dead.
But Emma can find no solace in the bleak beauty of thesurrounding wilderness, for there are dark secrets encoded in Madam Chandler's writings, and shocking parallels between an ancient slaying and the strange, brutal demise of her colleague.When the killer strikes again, Emma realizes her own life isat stake. And suddenly there is no choice left: she is driven to investigate bloody crimes past and present -- before her own death becomes a footnote in a chilling, three-centuries-old story.
About the Author
Dana Cameron is a professional archaeologist, with a Ph.D. and experience in Old and New World archaeology. She has worked extensively on the East Coast on sites dating from prehistoric times to the nineteenth century. Ms. Cameron lives in Massachusetts. Ashes and Bones is her sixth novel featuring archaeologist Emma Fielding.