Guest Post from M.S. Spencer

​Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to talk about my brand new release, In the Crosshairs: the Body on Leffis Key.
Someone is killing people with a crossbow, but what connects the murders is a mystery, and only a birder and the aide to a dead Senator can find the answers

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Intro
Almost all of the murders in In the Crosshairs: the Body on Leffis Key are committed by a crossbow. A crossbow consists of a short bow fixed transversely on a stock, with a groove to guide the feathered missile, usually called a bolt, a sear to hold the string in the cocked position, and a trigger to release it.

The crossbow may have been invented in China as early as the sixth century, but quickly spread to Europe. Capable of piercing chain mail at a distance of up to a thousand feet, it was the most popular weapon of the Middle Ages. Originally made of wood, by the tenth century the great Italian artisans of Genoa used wrought iron or steel. Today crossbow hunting is a popular sport, but also, being silent, it is favored by snipers or for ambushes. And murderers.
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The hero of In the Crosshairs is a crossbow enthusiast, and when one of his collection turns up at the scene of a crime, he is the obvious suspect.

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Blurb
Palmer Lind, recovering from the sudden death of her husband, embarks on a bird-watching trek to the Gulf Coast of Florida. One hot day on Leffis Key she comes upon—not the life bird she was hoping for—but a floating corpse. The handsome beach bum who appears on the scene at the same time seems to have even more secrets than the dead man.
His story begins to unravel as the pair search for answers to a growing pile of dead bodies. Spies, radical environmentalists, and wealthy businessmen circle around each other in a complex dance. Which one is lying? What do a seemingly random group of individuals have in common, other than being targeted by a crossbow?
In the Crosshairs: The Body on Leffis Key
The Wild Rose Press, May 27, 2024
Mystery, Suspense
89,710 words; 392 pp.

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​Excerpt: Arrested!
When the expert had left, Thrasher reclaimed his desk. “Okay, Hawk. We’ve already ascertained that you are a crack shot with a crossbow. Know anything about antique armaments?”

Something about the detective’s body language signaled to Palmer that he already knew the answer. Carson must have sensed the same thing, for he nodded. “I am a collector.”

“Not only that, but you reported a robbery the day after Senator Wren was found dead.”

Carson straightened, his expression wary. “So?”

“Among other items, an antique crossbow and a set of bronze bolts were stolen from your apartment. Unfortunately, you could not provide paperwork for the crossbow, hindering the investigation.”

“I gave the police the serial number, but the sales receipt is back at my house in Illinois. I keep all my important papers there, since I only rent a loft in DC.”

“Lucky for you they accepted your explanation. Were any of the other things recovered?”

“No. Well, they found my watch in a garbage can a block away.” His lip curled. “I guess they couldn’t be bothered with a Timex.”

Thrasher turned a page in his file. “I had them check for any crimes committed with an uncommon weapon in the last two months. Turns out criminals are just as set in their ways as other folks. Unwilling to try out some newfangled toy, they all stuck with their illegal Smith and Wessons. So.” He closed the file and locked his eyes on Carson. “I’ve been exploring a new hypothesis. That you were never robbed.”

Palmer gasped.

“You mean, that I brought the crossbow with me to Florida and used it to kill Tipsy Swallow?” Carson’s voice was taut and low.

Thrasher shrugged. “Let’s say he traced you here. You discovered he was on your trail and waited for your opportunity. I’ve been reading up on crossbows. They’re not good for close quarters—not like, say, a blunderbuss. You could hit a target from some distance.”

“They have a range of up to a thousand feet,” said Carson wearily.

“Right.” Thrasher beamed at him. “So you shot him—likely from your bass boat. Then you motored to one of the Sisters, extracted the arrow—excuse me, bolt—dragged the jon boat into the brush, and went your merry way.”

“Why didn’t I simply leave him to drift? That way there wouldn’t be any clues that I’d been in the vicinity.”

“According to the autopsy, the metal filings in Swallow’s heart indicated the bolt had been ripped from the body, which means you must have had contact with your victim after he was dead. I asked myself, why would you do that? Why not split before you were caught?”

“Because the bolt could be traced back to me.”

“Bingo.”

“Okay, how did I manage two boats?”

“Tied a line to his bow and towed him.” Thrasher sat back with a self-satisfied air.

Carson leaned forward. “When I got out of my boat to retrieve the bolt, why didn’t I leave the crossbow behind? Why lug it along?”

“Hmm. Maybe you wanted to be sure he was dead?” He peered at Carson, who sat rigid in his chair, his face a mask. “Have I left anything out?”

Carson exhaled. “Motive?”

“That’s the easy part. Swallow worked for Wilfred Vogel. Vogel is a key supporter of Senator Wren. Vogel is not pleased that you’ve killed his golden boy. He sends Swallow to bring you back to face justice.”

Carson’s eyes were troubled. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Does to me.”

“I mean, aside from the fact that I didn’t kill either Wren or Swallow, why would Vogel be upset that Wren died? The senator was sponsoring a bill that Vogel adamantly opposes. I’d say the timing of Atticus’s demise worked in his favor.”

“Only for that particular bill. As I understand it, Wren and Vogel agreed on ninety-nine percent of the issues. Vogel is one of the richest men in the world. He’s used to getting his own way. Your disposing of a fellow traveler and source of his power over Congress would stick in his craw. He wouldn’t think twice about taking the law into his own hands.”

Carson muttered something about watching too many Godfather flicks.

Palmer put a placating hand on his arm. “What are you going to do, Captain?”

Thrasher opened his door. “Officer?” Sergeant Jaeger came in. The captain faced Carson. “Carson Hawk, I’m arresting you for the murder of Tipsy Swallow. Ollie, read him his rights.”

Palmer slumped in her chair. Her mind was in turmoil. She wanted to shout, to howl that Carson was innocent, that this was all a misunderstanding, that Thrasher was an idiot. Her mouth opened and shut again. She watched the policeman take Carson away, unable to move.

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About the Author:
Librarian, anthropologist, research assistant, Congressional aide, speechwriter, nonprofit director—M. S. Spencer has lived or traveled in five of the seven continents and holds degrees in Anthropology, Middle East Studies, and Library Science. She has published seventeen mystery or romantic suspense novels. She has two children, an exuberant granddaughter, and currently divides her time between the Gulf Coast of Florida and a tiny village in Maine.

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