A mousy, secretive researcher at a news-clipping service who recently won $20,000 on Jeopardy! is missing. Who is Irene March? That's the answer (in the form of a question) facing investigator Jane da Silva, who can collect on her eccentric uncle's vast legacy only when she solves a mystery that's stumped everyone else.

When Jane places a large "Have you seen this woman?" ad in the Seattle paper, she gets intriguing responses from a rodeo queen, a dying child, and a disgraced church deacon . . . leads that send Jane east of the Cascades. By the time she gets to Electric City, the site of more violence, she realizes that Irene March's placid exterior shielded a cunning, even ruthless soul. And a deadly dangerous game that could have people asking, "Who killed Jane da Silva?"

1.

When Jane da Silva opened the door one day around noon, two strangers stood there, staring at her with interest. The Greenpeace solicitors, who came around Seattle neighborhoods regularly, often looking like white Rastafarians, usually came singly. These two didn't look like Mormons or Jehovah's Witnesses either.

Whoever they were, Jane smiled nicely and prepared to come up with one of her canned rebuffs. A fanatical gleam in her eye and the phrase "I am very strong in my own faith" or "My political convictions are cast in cement" delivered with eager breathlessness ordinarily sent them packing. They usually seemed afraid that she would try and convert them to something, and scrambled off her porch. If they were selling something, a simple and sober "I just got laid off" killed any pitch.

The woman was young and pale. Her neat little face, with an upturned nose and big hazel eyes with orange bursts around the pupils, was dwarfed by a large squashy felt toque hat in bottle green, something a turn-of-the-century suffragette might have worn before she threw herself in front of a horse. She also wore a long wrinkled rayon print dress, the uneven hem of which grazed the tops of her logging boots. That season, similar outfits had recently emerged from the streets of Seattle to make it onto runways in New York, but this woman wore the real thing.

Her smooth white arms were bare and lightly freckled in orange. Jane imagined the hat hid red hair. Her face looked intelligent and slightly nervous. She shifted a bag on her shoulder. The bag was made out of old Oriental carpeting, and Jane wondered what it contained. Clipboards with some cranky petition? Household products? Magazine subscription forms?

The man had a round face and body, and seemed somewhere in middle age, with salt-and-pepper hair parted neatly and held down by some old-fashioned hair preparation. Jane rather suspected the creamy, drugstore smell that hung around them came from whatever he plastered it down with, rather than any scent the woman was wearing. He had on a striped bow tie, a white shirt, gray slacks and a pair of red suspenders-- a practical necessity for any man with such a large stomach. The whole impression was of a cheery toy shop proprietor from a children's picture book.

"Are you Jane da Silva?" said the woman in a fluty, dramatic voice.

"Yes," said Jane, trying to sound wary. Whoever they were, she doubted very much they were selling aluminum siding or anything predictable. Always drawn to eccentricity, Jane tried to resist the impulse to invite them right in and demand their life stories.

The two strangers exchanged nervous glances.

"We think maybe you can help us," said the woman.

"We think," said the man, "that we know who you are." He held up a blue file folder. "We have a file on you."

"Oh stop it, Clark," said the woman. "You sound too weird."

"Do you keep files on a lot of people?" said Jane.

Clark giggled. "Tons," he said.

The woman gave him an I-can't-take-you-anywhere look and said to Jane, "We work for a newspaper clipping service. Don't pay too much attention to Clark. He's very bright but he has a strange sense of humor. Sometimes he alarms people."

Clark just giggled again at this description of himself.

 

"Well-plotted, swiftly paced, slightly cynical, and vastly entertaining . . . strong characters and the breezy Beckian wit."

 

"Cleverly inventive, suspenseful . . . Filled with odd twists and turns. Laugh-aloud humor and a little light romance round out this engrossing, thoroughly entertaining mystery."

 

"Excellent . . . Beck is a charming storyteller with a lively sense of humor."

 

"Jane and her story are as likeable as ever."

 

"Beck's descriptions and details are every bit as engaging as the plot itself, and da Silva is an appealing travel companion."

 

"Beck tells a story with a compelling narrative drive."

 

K. K. Beck is the author of fourteen books, including We Interrupt This Broadcast, Cold Smoked, Electric City, and Amateur Night. She lives in Seattle with her husband, crime writer Michael Dibdinn, and her three children.

 

Electric City by K. K. Beck
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