On the Run is a group of four highly acclaimed and award-winning Australian crime writers, who have recently been awarded a grant by the Australia Council for the Arts to tour the United States. It is the first tour of its kind, involving four established Australian writers from four separate Australian publishers. On the Run is comprised of:. Robert Gott is the author seven historical crime novels set in Australia in the s for adults.
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On the Run will be featured at Bouchercon, in Dallas. That panel will be livestreamed to the Terror Australis Festival in Tasmania. The Australian reading public will join them on tour via vlogs, blogs, and social media. On the Run will be send back daily pieces to be published on Arts Daily and other websites.
The Crown Season 3 Trailer. When: Thursday, November 7, , 7 p. Joe Clifford. Read an article by Joe Clifford that appeared here on Mystery Fanfare. Sunday, October 20, Cartoon of the Day: Dogs. Labels: Cartoon of the Day: Dogs. Friday, October 18, Cartoon of the Day: Apostrophe.
Labels: Cartoon of the Day: Apostrophe. From the amazing Tom Gauld:. Email us at Scholarship LeftCoastCrime. Labels: Left Coast Crime Scholarships. Labels: Cartoon of the Day: Poetic Justice. Friday, November 1, 11 am. Landmark Ballroom, Hyatt Regency, Dallas. Hope to see you at one of the events! Saturday, October 5, Cartoon of the Day: Cats. Labels: Cartoon of the Day: Cats. Labels: Cartoon of the Day: Book Deal. MWA brings mystery to NorCal! Come for a panel and nibbles. Newer Posts Older Posts Home.
Dancers held their ground and fanned their faces, shifting from foot to foot in anticipation of the next round. Out of the corner of his eye McIntire spotted Arnie Johnson headed in his direction, threading his way through the crowd like a trout swimming upstream. Even The World According to Arnie would be a welcome distraction tonight.
The band cranked to life again, a polka this time, only slightly less boisterous than the previous selection. People came from over in Ishpeming, Houghton, even a bunch down from Marquette. Fishermen, miners, loggers on one last toot before heading out for the woods. Johnson was particularly animated in the telling of this tale. McIntire held his breath for the climax. Hell, it was like the middle of Joo -lie!
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It was four days before the plows got through, and half that crew ended up stuck right here. McIntire hastily lowered his glass. Johnson shrugged away his disappointment. His assessment of the situation was reinforced by a shrill scream that sliced through the cacophony and halted musicians and dancers alike in mid-polka.
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Within seconds the thuds, grunts, and curses issuing in through the open windows sent them all into action once more. McIntire barely made it out the door ahead of the stampede. He rounded the dark side of the hall and strode toward a cluster of pale-faced adolescents who fell silent and backed away like a flock of startled sheep at his approach. At the center of their circle a stick-thin youngster with lank black hair obscuring the upper half of his face, and blood pretty much covering the lower, struggled to rise from the frost-slicked grass.
McIntire stepped forward and seized the upraised arm of a sturdy youth lunging in for another blow. After a single brief attempt to free himself, the young man stood still. The injured boy slipped to the ground again, grabbing at his ankle with fumbling movements. McIntire grasped his bony shoulder and yanked him to his feet.
He shuddered and swayed but remained erect. Blood spurted from his nose, and McIntire released his hold long enough to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and thrust it toward him. The boy glared and wiped his sleeve across his face. His gasp told McIntire that the nose was probably broken. Now what? He had absolutely no wish to know the details of this altercation.
Not to mention that he had the entire community and then some standing at his back, probably even now taking bets on what action, or inaction, their constable would take.
A muffled giggle came from somewhere in the dimness. McIntire gave up and dragged the two into the cloakroom. He swept a collection of scarves and mittens off a wooden bench and shoved them down next to each other. They immediately moved to opposite ends of the seat, folded their arms, and sat staring straight ahead. McIntire took a deep breath. He then abruptly swapped his belligerent pose for a more nonchalant attitude, stretching his stubby legs in front of him and speaking with a smirking confidence.
McIntire took his time dragging a chair from the corner and seated himself to face his prisoner. In the light from the ceiling bulb he appeared older than McIntire had first guessed, eighteen or nineteen, maybe. He was stocky and muscular, with a glint of humor in his light brown eyes that almost served to soften the pretentious sneer. The response was an appropriately deerlike snort. Bambi abandoned his David Niven persona. His nose wrinkled as if McIntire had suggested that he occupied a basement apartment in the privy.
My family summers here in Michigan, at the Club. Adele, but he was perverse.
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Bambi smiled, showing dimples and perfect white teeth. How thoughtless of me. I was referring to the Shawanok Fishing Club, but of course you would have others. To which do you belong? McIntire could see that he was no more match for Bambi at not-so-thinly veiled derision than his other prisoner was at fisticuffs.
But he went home already. McIntire heard the opening pulses of a lively schottische and wished fervently to be among those prancing around the room. Not that as constable it would be prudent to consume anywhere near an amount of alcohol sufficient to get him out on the floor for a schottische. Another penalty for being a civil servant. He prayed for strength. Did his position oblige him to ask the girl herself? He recoiled at the prospect of such a tawdry inquiry. McIntire clenched his jaw. Surely that fulfilled his civic duty. McIntire motioned him to his feet. Bambi rose slowly, flexed his fingers and brushed a few flecks of dried grass from his sleeve.
As he crossed to the door, Marvin Wall casually stretched a leg into his path. Bambi stumbled, righted himself, ignored Wall, and preceded McIntire out.
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McIntire sucked in a few lungfuls of unsullied air before returning to the fusty cloakroom. Marvin Wall still sat on the corner of the bench, but his posture had gone from defiantly erect to a dejected slump. McIntire herded the onlookers out and sat down next to him. Marvin pulled up the muddy cuff of his baggy twill pants, stretched back a wide rubber band, and extracted a leather-sheathed knife.
He handed it to McIntire without argument. McIntire drew the knife from its sheath and felt his heart thump at the sight of the lethal five-inch blade protruding from the intricately carved bone handle.
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