CHAPTER 1 My past sold quickly, despite the down market. Of course, no one actually died under my roof. Just a couple of near-miss murders that my real estate agent assured me didn't need to be disclosed to potential buyers. But now I needed to move fast and she promised me this was the place. "I have a feeling about you and this remodeled bungalow," Jan Meyer said. "The owner is anxious to leave town and just dropped the price twenty grand." Jan enjoyed playing matchmaker between buyer and seller. Especially since she knew I'd made a killing on my own real estate deal and had plenty of cash to put down. So she took the key out of the lockbox and prepared to give me the tour. "You might just fall in love with the kitchen," she said. Not love at first smell. The house had a definite odor. And it didn't seem to be coming from the kitchen. While Jan went to open some windows, I followed my nose to a closed door where the smell seemed strongest. Journalists prefer open doors. So I turned the knob and peeked inside. Then quickly slammed it shut before any flies could escape. "What is that horrible smell?" Jan asked. "I think it might be the owner." "Is he dead?" she gasped. I nodded as I headed back outside to call the police from my cell phone. "Did he have a heart attack?" Jan followed behind, anxious for details. "In a manner of speaking." I hadn't gotten close to the man on the floor. But I could see the congealed pool of blood around his body and the knife sticking out of his chest. That's when I decided to keep renting. CHAPTER 2 Some days I wish I could just write about sweaters. After all, sweaters never hurt anyone. And no reporter ever got kidnapped, blindfolded, and paraded in front of Al Jazeera's audience for writing for Vogue. Of course, no sweater ever got a gold-medal 40 share in TV ratings either. Except perhaps Kathleen Sullivan's figure-hugging crew necks during the Winter Olympics in Sarajevo. Sweaters are the mashed potatoes and gravy of a woman's wardrobe--the ultimate comfort clothing--unless gravy accidentally drips onto a pricey cashmere. But I was nowhere near the kitchen, so I could safely curl up in a hand-knit sweater of scratchy wool looking out an upstairs window at a narrow view of White Bear Lake. I don't actually live on the lake, but if I angle my chair and crane my neck just right, I can watch the whitecaps and fishermen on the legendary water. I'm Riley Spartz, an investigative reporter for Channel 3 in Minneapolis. Close to five months ago I fled my highly sought-after urban neighborhood for a fresh start after a TV sweeps story went bad. Lakeshore homes in this northern Twin Cities suburb go for a million bucks plus, but the rest of the town is quite affordable. My landlord recently moved out, listing this place for rent because his next-door neighbor held perpetual yard sales that attracted traffic at annoying times. Always looking for a bargain, I'd even checked out the inventory myself, but found only overpriced junk. Today I paged through the weekly White Bear Press, delighted by irksome crimes that wouldn't merit a mention on a major-market TV newscast. Nothing makes a woman living alone feel safer than reading police reports about teens caught smoking behind the school and bicycles stolen from open garages. A want ad for an item I definitely wasn't looking to buy caught my eye and my imagination. FOR SALE: WEDDING DRESS. NEVER WORN Mystery and emotion, all in one line. Forget sweaters. A wedding dress is much more likely to garner a 40 share. Viewers love weddings. The research proves it. In the world of television ratings, two weddings stand out. And both brides would probably have been happier if their Excerpted from Missing Mark by Julie Kramer All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.