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Daughter Am I

Daughter Am I
Pat Bertram
304 pages


When twenty-five-year-old Mary Stuart learns she inherited a farm from her recently murdered grandparents—grandparents her father claimed had died before she was born—she becomes obsessed with finding out who they were and why someone wanted them dead. Along the way she accumulates a crew of feisty octogenarians—former gangsters and friends of her grandfather. She meets and falls in love with Tim Olson, whose grandfather shared a deadly secret with her great-grandfather. Now Mary and Tim need to stay one step ahead of the killer who is desperate to dig up that secret.


“A delightful treasure-hunting tale of finding one’s self in a most unlikely way.”- Publisher's Weekly

“I loved this book—who doesn’t like a good old gangster story? I loved Teach’s speeches, too. They add flavor to the story and to the character.”-Rachael Wollet, Freelance Editor

"Pat Bertram’s work is insightful, superbly crafted, and completely involving.”-Suzanne Francis, author of the Song of the Arkafina series from Bladud Books


      “God damn it,” Bill said. “Why won’t you listen to reason? The place is crumbling to bits. It won’t take much for the whole thing to crash on top of your head. Look.” He thumped the wall. A chunk of plaster fell to the floor. “See what I mean?”
      Mary pointed to the wall. “What’s that?”
      “A hole. Believe me, there will be a lot more of them, too.”
      She shook her head. “No. There’s something inside. I think I caught a glimpse of metal.”
      “There’s nothing.” Reaching behind him, he ripped out a handful of plaster. “See?”
      Mary stared open-mouthed into the hole. Instead of the dining room, which should have been on the other side of the wall, there was a windowless room not much bigger than a walk-in closet.
      “What are you looking at?” Bill turned around. “What the—?” Within minutes he had ripped away enough of the plaster so they could squeeze through the struts.
      Once inside, they could barely move a round. A folded rollaway bed, a shallow wooden cabinet, a metal desk and chair took up most of the available space.
      “A secret room,” Mary breathed. “It’s like something out of Nancy Drew or the Hardy boys.”
      “It’s a storage area,” Bill said.
      “Then where’s the door?”
      “Probably behind the gun cabinet.”
      “But how did the cabinet get in front of the door?”
      Bill raised his right shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “Maybe it is a secret room. So what?”
      “I think it’s romantic.”
      He snorted. “You would.”
      She jerked her head around to stare at him. “Did you say gun cabinet?”



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