The answer lies with Keats... With these cryptic last words, the man sprawled out on the floor of the rustic cabin expires - murdered. What could he have meant? Why Keats? Which answer? (For that matter, what was the question?) All this and more passes through the mind of the young householder who discovers the body. If only he knew the guy's name. Or anybody's name. Including his own..."

Corporate tycoon Thomas Redding is dead, murdered by way of antique golf club during his firm's company retreat. His bodyguard, Warren Kingsley, is certain the killer is gunning for him now. With a list of suspects as long as a corporate tax return, and a small town sheriff well over his head in the investigation, Warren knows he has only one option to keep from ending up like his late client: hire his own bodyguard. Together the pair will sift through the evidence-dodging femme fatales, murderous impostors and motivational speakers-eventually uncovering a devious killer; not to mention...

Freelance courier John Hathaway just wanted a weekend away: two days of wine, women and high stakes poker. Instead, he finds himself diverted to an English-style mansion in the backwoods of Maine-compelled to transport a priceless trinket at the bidding of his overbearing uncle. Once arrived, he quickly finds that half of the residents are not who they say they are, and all of them want his package. It's up to Hathaway to sort through the confusion, dodging cops, jewel thieves and his own bodyguard. In the process, he will meet the woman of his dreams and manage to deliver just the right...

A missing Baltimore attorney, a handful of gangsters and a reclusive billionaire... What does any of this have to do with Ted Soulfield? That's exactly what Ted would like to know. Throw in the stock of a dubious ice cream company, a dash of mistaken identities, and a pair of charming women whipping up a mess of lunacy, and Ted finds himself knee-deep in the sorbet.

John Hathaway just wanted a quiet weekend alone with his fiancee. Instead, he receives a cryptic postcard from a man he's never met, gets wrapped up in an elaborate art heist and finds himself framed for murder. And what's worse, his future in-laws are in town The palette is certainly thickening here, and there might be only one person who can rally the muses in time to string it all together: the Master himself, Enescu Fleet, retired private eye."

Baltimore's Pendleton Institute of Music wants to host a dinner to pay tribute to George Enescu, Romania's most famous composer. Naturally, they call on the man's most distinguished descendent: Enescu Fleet, the world-renowned (semiretired) private detective. The only problem is, Enescu Fleet isn't related to George Enescu. He isn't even Romanian. From this mild deception comes a cacophony of lies, intrigue and murder. And that's barely before the salad course has arrived. It will take a steady hand to conduct the Pendleton through the chaos. Can Fleet serve up another winning performance?

Freelance courier John Hathaway just wanted a weekend away: two days of wine, women and high stakes poker. Instead, he finds himself diverted to an English-style mansion in the backwoods of Maine-compelled to transport a priceless trinket at the bidding of his overbearing uncle. Once arrived, he quickly finds that half of the residents are not who they say they are, and all of them want his package. It's up to Hathaway to sort through the confusion, dodging cops, jewel thieves and his own bodyguard. In the process, he will meet the woman of his dreams and manage to deliver just the right...

A missing Baltimore attorney, a handful of gangsters and a reclusive billionaire... What does any of this have to do with Ted Soulfield? That's exactly what Ted would like to know. Throw in the stock of a dubious ice cream company, a dash of mistaken identities, and a pair of charming women whipping up a mess of lunacy, and Ted finds himself knee-deep in the sorbet.

Corporate tycoon Thomas Redding is dead, murdered by way of antique golf club during his firm's company retreat. His bodyguard, Warren Kingsley, is certain the killer is gunning for him now. With a list of suspects as long as a corporate tax return, and a small town sheriff well over his head in the investigation, Warren knows he has only one option to keep from ending up like his late client: hire his own bodyguard.

The answer lies with Keats... With these cryptic last words, the man sprawled out on the floor of the rustic cabin expires-murdered. What could he have meant? Why Keats? Which answer? (For that matter, what was the question?) All this and more passes through the mind of the young householder who discovers the body. If only he knew the guy's name. Or anybody's name. Including his own..."