When police officer Stan Shepherd is rushed to the hospital complaining of gastric pains, his horrified friends and family find out that he has been poisoned with arsenic. The situation is especially traumatic for Stan's wife, Celia, whose first husband died after being given arsenic. Although she was acquitted of that crime, local police decide that there is no way two husbands being poisoned in the same way was a coincidence, and Celia is arrested. The number of people who believe in her dwindles. Trying to prove her innocence, Celia finds herself turning more and more to her faith in God to get through her troubles. Blackstock's second mystery in the "Newpointe 911" series (following Private Justice, Zondervan, 1998) is a real page-turner, with some exciting sequences and a truly surprising ending. Libraries looking for mysteries with a strong Christian element should find this book pleasing to most patrons.
Shadow of Doubt
Narrated by J.C. Howe
Terri BlackstockUnabridged — 11 hours, 12 minutes
Shadow of Doubt
Narrated by J.C. Howe
Terri BlackstockUnabridged — 11 hours, 12 minutes
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Overview
A poisoned past. A bitter present. Is Celia a murderer ... or a victim? Detective Stan Shepherd lies comatose in the hospital, a victim of arsenic poisoning. The Newpointe police have a suspect: Celia Shepherd, Stan's wife. Celia is no stranger to such charges. When her first husband died of poisoning, a technicality scuttled the case against her and Celia got of scot-free. Now it looks like the same old story-only this time, the motive appears plain. An old flame has moved into town under circumstances bound to raise suspicion. And that's just for starters. More evidence is gathering that can put Celia away for good. But attorney Jill Clark thinks the pieces of the puzzle fit together a bit too neatly. Either her client's Christian faith is a sham or she's the victim of a deadly frame-up-and the real killer is still afoot ... Shadow of Doubt is book two in the Newpointe 911 series by award-winning novelist Terri Blackstock. Newpointe 911 offers taut, superbly crafted novels of faith, fear, and close-knit small-town relationships, seasoned with romance and tempered by insights into the nature of relationships, redemption, and the human heart. Look also for Private Justice, Line of Duty, Word of Honor, and Trial by Fire.
Editorial Reviews
Celia Shepherd recognizes the symptoms all too well. Unless she receives help immediately, her beloved husband will die of arsenic poisoning. She'll be accused of murder, just as she was when her first husband died. But Celia didn't do it, and this time she'll find out who did. Given his gravelly British voice, John McDonough delivers a surprisingly fine Cajun dialect and beautifully believable female characters. His always sparkling narrative lends the story a touch of elegance far removed from the bayou, and his compassion during the passages of prayer carries conviction. This Christian crime title is just as entertaining as its secular sisters. R.P.L. © AudioFile 2002, Portland, Maine
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940172579004 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Zondervan |
| Publication date: | 12/08/2009 |
| Series: | Newpointe 911 , #2 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
The thing about upset stomachs was that, eventually, they got better, but Stan Shepherd's stomach was proving that theory wrong. He hadn't slept a wink all night. First he'd had stomach cramps, and then it had turned to nausea, so he'd spent half the night in the bathroom standing over the toilet, but that brought no relief. His T-shirt and boxer shorts were soaked with sweat, but he was too weak to change clothes. A cold shower might help -- except that the prospect of walking those few feet to the bathroom again was more than he could bear. He was tired, and his head ached. Still, there had to be something he could do. He grabbed the corner post on the bed for support and tried to pull up. His heart raced, and his breathing accelerated as if he'd just climbed ten flights of stairs. Wearily, he fell back onto the bed with a bounce.
Celia woke up and squinted at him in the darkness. "Stan, what's wrong, honey?"
"I'm sick." The words came with great effort between short raspy breaths.
He knew his retching in the bathroom had already awakened her twice, and both times she had scurried around getting cold compresses and glasses of water. Each time he had convinced her he felt better, and she had managed to go back to sleep. Now it was evident that he had lied.
She crawled across the bed and slipped her bare feet to the floor. The lamp came on, and she bent over him, touching his head, looking into his eyes, feeling for his pulse. "You're worse. Stan, this isn't just a little nausea. I'm taking you to the emergency room!" She tried to pull him up, but he resisted.
"No, I'll be okay. I must've eaten something . . ."
"What?" she asked urgently. "I ate everything you ate tonight, and I'm not sick."
"There must've been something. Just . . . find me some Pepto Bismol. Baking soda. Something. And more water. My throat's on fire. Help me get in the shower first."
She slipped her arm under his and tried to help him pull up, but she was only five-three, and his six-foot, two-inch frame was too big for her. He managed to sit, but then dizziness assaulted him again. She struggled to pull him into a standing position. Instead, he collapsed onto the floor, worrying even as he fell that he would pull her down with him.
"Stan, I'm calling 911!" She was crying now. He hated making her cry. He tried to tell her just to help him back into bed, that he didn't want her to get all nervous and upset. Tomorrow was her birthday, and he'd made so many plans. She needed her rest.
He heard her talking to the dispatcher, Newpointe's busy-body who would have the word of his illness all over town before the sun even came up. He wished Celia would just go for the Pepto. If she'd just get him some Pepto . . .
"Stan, can you hear me? Stan? Stan?"
He couldn't seem to respond, nor could he breathe, and the pain in his throat and gut felt like a knife probing around, but he was too weak to double up with the pain. She was pulling on him, trying to revive him, trying to make him sit up, and he kept wishing for the pink stuff . . .
He wanted to throw up again, but it wouldn't come, and he prayed for a breath, just a breath that could go all the way into his lungs, and for the room to stop spinning, and for something to stop the nausea.
And then he stopped praying as he felt her pulling him up. He fell forward again, this time into a deep hole, where it was dark and he couldn't find the end, and there was nothing to reach out for that would stop his fall, and he didn't know where the darkness would take him . . .
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