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'Vern slung his crocodile-skin bag up onto my counter. ‘Twelve of the bastards in there. Counted ’em myself.’ I tried but failed to avert my gaze from the bag. It smelled: not a good smell. And really not the kind of smell you welcome in a quality food establishment.
'FOR Cass Tuplin, proprietor of the Rusty Bore Takeaway (and definitely not an unlicensed private investigator), it’s weird enough that her neighbour Vern has somehow acquired a lady friend. But then he asks Cass to look into the case of the dead rats someone’s dumped on Joanne’s doorstep.
'She’s barely started when Joanne goes missing, leaving hints of an unsavoury past. Then a private investigator from Melbourne turns up asking questions about Joanne’s involvement in a fatal house fire— and before you can say ‘unauthorised investigation’ Cass is back on the case.' (Publication summary)
'Cass joins the ranks of fictional detectives as a feisty woman in early middle-age with the gift of the gab.'
'Cass joins the ranks of fictional detectives as a feisty woman in early middle-age with the gift of the gab.'
