It is almost Christmas and yards glow with twinkling lights.
But more than chestnuts are roasting.

A raging fire sweeps through the decorated landscape of Sled Run, destroying the home of Chief Deputy Oren Rosenberg and killing two.

An accident? Or did something toxic fuel the flames?

Sheriff Piper Blackwell and Detective Basil Meredith believe Oren was targeted and are tasked with finding motive and means before more than the holiday burns bright.

With many clues reduced to ashes, can Piper and Basil catch the culprits before they strike again? Or is this blaze just the start of the most murder-filled time of the year?

Dead of Autumn is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out here: http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries.
Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series: mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio

Sign-up for her newsletter: https://jeanrabe.com/sign-up-for-my-newsletter/ and follow her on Amazon: http://author.to/JeanRabe to keep up with her latest works!

Author Bio:

About the Author:
USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe’s impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief.
From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers.
She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre–and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur.


Find out more about her at www.jeanrabe.com

Excerpt:

“Freya! Here, kitty!” One more step and the smoke yanked him to his knees. The heat pulsed from the floor up and down his legs.
If he could just find the cat.
Oren crawled fast, his fingers fumbling across a rug that was hot to the touch, but not yet blazing. It would catch fire soon enough. Down the hall, he closed his eyes and kept going. Oren knew the house by heart; he didn’t need to see.
“Freya.” A whisper.
The smoke, searing and awful, burrowed to the bottom of his lungs. The detectors had stopped wailing, had probably melted. He felt like he was melting, too.
Oren still didn’t hear sirens, just the angry voice of the fire. Dizzy and sweat-soaked, he kept crawling toward the study, Freya’s favorite haunt. She would hide there. He risked a look.
Through watery eyes all he saw were bands of swirling gray shot through here and there with tongues of fire.
“Freya! Please, kitty.” Hard to talk, all the smoke, thicker and darker than moments ago. Harder to breathe. Couldn’t breathe. All he smelled was ash, burning wood, and heat. He swore he could smell the heat in the hell that his house had turned into.
“Frey—”
He reached to his office chair beneath the crocheted afghan, felt her brush against his arm. He couldn’t see her for the smoke, but the double-coated fur was familiar. He thought she meowed, brushed by him again, then collapsed.
No! Freya, no! He had to think the words, his throat was an oven that kept the sound inside. He couldn’t tell if she breathed. Don’t be dead. Don’t. Be. Dead. Oren fell next to the chair, trying to find one more swallow of air.
Get up. Get up or she’s dead for certain. Get your sorry old ass up and get out of here.
The fire screamed even louder, and the smoke wrapped around him ever tighter, trying to anchor him in place. Wobbly, he forced himself back up to his knees, gently cradled the cat and held her against his chest, then somehow managed to get to his numb feet. Oren shuffled backwards, the way he’d come, using his memory of the home he’d lived in for twenty years.
It felt like hours had passed since the smoke detector woke him. Likely just minutes, he thought, terrible minutes. The fire gobbled it all so fast. He managed to reach the front door, where the shot of cold fought with the heat, both of them winning.
So tired and so hot, fading, falling.
So cold.
Strong hands thrust under Oren’s armpits and lifted, pulling him up and out onto the porch.
“I’ve got you,” Basil Meredith said. His voice, remarkably calm, cut through the roaring fire.
Basil picked him up and carried him down the sidewalk and toward the street, laying him on the icy lawn. Oren still cradled Freya, her cream-colored fur the shade of cold ashes.