Frankenstein's Guide (Book 1, the LiteraTours Cozy Mystery Series)

Sneak Preview of "Sibylline Greetings"

Not until the LiteraTours coach skidded around the corner, climbed the kerb and almost flattened a Gelati stand did Ike realise the group was in trouble. The tourists behind her, by now acclimatised to Brigitte's driving style, chattered on unconcerned. A quick glance at her colleague, usually so Zen, shock-frosted Ike's innards. The Frenchwoman's lips were flatlining in a grim face; white knuckles gripped the steering wheel in a death grip. Again, and again, Brigitte's foot stomped on the brake pedal, but other than a series of hollow thumps she drew no response.

Ike's stomach lurched in synch with the vehicle as it bounced back onto the road. Next, it cannonballed downhill, gathering speed while somehow still dodging the infernal traffic that clogged the eternal city.

A cold, wet nose pressed against Ike's elbow, and her head shot around. With a whimper, Boris the Corgi, aka the true Frankenstein monster, sent a questioning look from his big brown doggie eyes. The poor beast must have sniffed the sharp pang of panic clawing into Ike's guts. She dug her fingers into his fluffy fur and held on to his body just like an aeroplane passenger would grip the handle of her seat during turbulence.

Reassuring, but futile.

Another wild wobble drew a collective "Whoa!" from the cabin.

Great. Now the tourists had been shaken from their ignorance.

As acceleration pressed her against the backrest, Ike's head whipped back to face their driver.

"Brigitte?"

Slim fingers, half-submerged in the overlong sleeves of a silky mauve sweater yanked at the wheel, and the LiteraTours coach roared past a swarm of Vespas hogging the road—straight into the path of one of Rome's geriatric public transport buses, belching oily diesel fumes. Another yank and their vehicle veered back into the right lane.

Ike ducked, expecting a crunch, a scream coming from the foremost Vespa.

Not so. A lucky miss.

"Brigitte!"

"Mince alors!" Brigitte crunched gears, the engine yowled in response and, serenaded by horns, the coach shot through a crossing, into a narrow street on the other side. Nothing more than a cobbled lane really, it was lined by crumbling mansions whose glory days had faded into history together with their plasterwork.

Bang!

A dustbin slammed against a wall covered in graffiti and spilt its contents onto the sidewalk.

Accompanied by a chemical burning stink and the cloying aromas of over-ripe rubbish, the coach sped on uphill until the road levelled out in a cul-de-sac.

There, it slowed down.

Came to a standstill.

Brigitte groaned and slumped over her steering wheel.

Above them, thunder clapped from the clouds, then the heavens opened.

Jupiter, being pissed off about our escape?

Behind them, cheers bounced through the cabin, accompanied by loud applause.

Ike wriggled her jaw to unclench her muscles and fixed a grimace on her face that, with a bit of luck, might pass for a professional smile.

The explanation she gave for their bumpy ride sounded suitably harmless: just a temporary mechanical failure. The coach would be repaired. Ike would find an alternative way of conveying the group towards the final highlight of the tour.

No worries, ladies and gentlemen, we nearly died, but all is well.

Not quite. Not when the real reason for the disaster was something else entirely.

Another boom from above.

Sabotage.