Here you can read online Esther Loewen Vogt - Edge of Dawn full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. year: 1990, publisher: Herald Press, genre: Science fiction. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:
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ACADEMIC SLEUTH BEN REESE IS BACK--SMOKING OUT A KILLER IN SCOTLAND.Parson Jonathan MacLean is too healthy and widely loved to die so young. Yet suddenly and mysteriously hes dead. Archivist Ben Reese, in Scotland to appraise the treasures of Balnagard Castle for his old friend Lord Alexander Chisholm, suspects cold-blooded murder. And he is absolutely certain it was one of Jonathans kith and kin who slipped into his picnic hamper the bees that triggered his fatal allergy. What Ben doesnt suspect is that the same venomous killer is now arranging a most creative death for Ben himself. . . .
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Vogt, Esther Loewen. Edge of dawn/Esther Loewen Vogt. p. cm. ISBN 0-8361-3520-2 I. Title PS3572.03E34 1990 813'.54dc2O 90-33404 CIP
EDGE OF DAWN Copyright 1990 by Herald Press, Scottdale, Pa. 15683 Published simultaneously in Canada by Herald Press, Waterloo, Ont. N2L 6H7. All rights reserved. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-33404 International Standard Book Number: 0-8361-3520-2 Printed in the United States of America Cover art by Susan K. Hunsberger Book design by Merrill R. Miller 96 95 94 93 92 91 90 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Page 5
To my daughter Shirley precious, wise, thoughtful and always loving
Page 7
They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint (Isaiah 40:31).
Dr. James McCauley, of the Kansas Geological Society, provided the facts regarding the lead and zinc mines which pockmark eastern Kansas.
All names and places in this story are fictitious, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Page 9
1
I watched the horizon deepen with pink as the sun crept above the brooding green hills far to the east. My little two-door Honda purred smoothly down the Kansas highway and I stepped on the accelerator to pass a slow-moving camper in front of me. The road was jammed with tourists, eager to escape the steel and concrete jungle of the cities, pulling their intrepid campers behind them.
On either side the view from the road was magnificent: wheat fields, knee-deep in furled grain, were now turning to gold, ready for harvest. I vaguely remembered spending one summer on my uncle Joseph Sutton's farm during wheat harvest with the sharp, hot smell of chaff forever in my nostrils.
Suddenly the scenery changed. The low roll of hills seemed to arch their backs like sinewy cats waiting for their food, reminding me it was time to stop for breakfast. I had been on the road since early morning, after nearly three days of driving from the West Coast. It would take another three or four hours before I reached Waylan in the southeast part of Kansas.
Waylan... where Meriweather Hall sat sedately on its outskirts, like a prim English lady in court.
I mulled over Paul Ward's cryptic message in my mind once more: Your Aunt Corinda needs you, Amy. Can you come?
Page 10
I sighed, wondering for the thousandth time why my great-aunt Corrie hadn't summoned me herself if she needed me. I hadn't seen her in twelve years. That summer I was eleven and stayed at Meriweather Hall with her and Uncle Bentley while my parents were in Europe. She and I had corresponded spasmodically through the years since. Always an independent woman, she had valued her own self-reliance, never seeming to need anyone after Great-grandpa Daniel Meriweather had died. I remembered him as a fragile gray man with gentle brown eyes, always full of stories about his mines.
I recalled earlier childhood visits to Meriweather Hall with my mother. The big old brick house set in an old-fashioned garden surrounded by a low stone fence had always intrigued me. The place was unforgettable, and I would always think of my great-aunt as a permanent fixture in its shadowy walls. She surprised us when, at age fifty-two, she married Bentley Ward, a widower with three teenagers. After her marriage I had visited her only that one summer. Somehow I had never gone back, for the place was no longer the same after my mother died. Three lively young strangers filled the old mansion with their own laughter. My father had encouraged me to cut the ties. Why, I don't know. He had died just two years ago and now I was alone, and on my own.
Roadside signs ahead beckoned me to stop for gas and food. I slowed down and pulled up beside the nearest caf. The hot tomatoey aroma of ketchup and hamburgers drifting from the open door drew me inside, and I slid into a booth near the window.
"May I help you?" a blond slim-hipped, tight-skirted waitress scurried beside me and slammed a glass of tink-
Page 11
ling ice water on the table and flipped open her pad.
I glanced up at the regular menu offerings posted on the wall. "A plate of scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, and a glass of chilled orange juice will be fine."
Sipping a bit of ice water, I bowed my head for a brief silent prayer and looked around the crowded room. The usual bustle of workaday people were grabbing a bite before hurrying to their jobs. Tourists were dragging in for a breakfast before heading down the road again.
"Pardon me, miss, may I sit here?" A fortyish woman, plump shoulders bulging from the narrow straps of a grimy striped blouse, eased her bulky figure into the seat across from me. Her hair was a dirty, ashy gray and hung in straggly wisps on either side of her round face. Her smile was shy, I noticed, and her blue-eyed gaze candid.
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