About this ebook
Metamorphosis isn't all it's cracked up to be. But when a private investigator with dryad ancestry has to find her ex's killer, she might have to embrace it.
Ngaire is desperate for a case to pay the bills. She needs to feed herself and her teenage daughter, not to mention paying the rent. But the case she gets turns out to be more challenging than she was prepared for when it turns out to be a murder investigation. As a part-dryad, she's able to use some non-standard investigative procedures. But partial metamorphosis isn't much fun, and it's not something she wants to advertise either. As the information she obtains leads her closer to the person who killed her ex, she finds herself obliged to moonlight as an arborist, a job she's really not cut out for. Can she find the murderer, or will it be too hard to separate the wood from the trees? Find out in this quick read.
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Treescape - Melissa Gunn
Treescape
Melissa Gunn
image-placeholderMelissa Gunn
For Moss
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or institutions is coincidental. Some localities are used in a fictional context for dramatic effect.
Copyright © 2022 by Melissa Gunn
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher.
It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
Cover design by Getcovers.com
ISBN POD Softcover 978-0-473-62196-4
ISBN epub 978-0-473-62197-1
ISBN audiobook 978-0-473-62198-8
Author's note
image-placeholderThis book is written in New Zealand English.
Contents
. Chapter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Afterword
About the Author
Also By Melissa Gunn
Trees are Earth’s endless effort to speak to the listening heaven
Rabindranath Tagore
Chapter 1
image-placeholderI want to report a murder,
said the diminutive blond woman standing in front of my desk. She made me feel like a giant. Well, I’m used to that, I guess. I’m the tall, statuesque type. But seriously, this woman was cushions to see over the steering wheel small. I tried to ignore the feeling and addressed her problem.
You need to call the police,
I said. I don’t do murders. Petty theft or embezzlement, sure. Cheating husbands, no problem. Murders, no. The police cover murders.
I sighed internally. I could do with an actual case.
I did call them,
she retorted. They didn’t listen.
Are you sure? In my experience the police are very down on homicide.
Homicide, yes. That implies murder of humans. This is more complicated.
How can murder be complicated?
I asked.
She gave an exasperated sigh. I wasn’t liking this woman at all, but I needed work, so I gave an encouraging Hmm?
When it’s not exactly a human murder, of course.
Murder-not-of-humans? That could be something I could deal with. I sat forward. My chair creaked loudly as I did so. I’d tried fixing it myself a few times, but it always broke again. I really just needed a new one. If I had more lucrative cases, it’d be the first thing I bought – after I’d paid the rent on this office, fixed my ailing car, replaced the kitchen cupboard doors that kept falling off, and bought a ton of non-perishable groceries to see me through the lean times. Seemed likely I’d be sitting on this creaky chair for a few more years.
Focus, Ngaire.
How can murder be complicated? Perhaps you should tell me a bit more,
I invited.
The woman looked dubiously at me, her gaze lingering on my crown of pink hair. People always judge me by my hair.
I guess it can’t hurt,
she muttered.
I nodded and waved a hand at my only other chair, a hard wooden escapee from a school classroom. I’d acquired it from a junk pile, but it was surprisingly sturdy. Just seriously uncomfortable, which was why I wasn’t the one sitting on it.
Start at the beginning,
I said.
The woman looked suspiciously at the chair, took out a handkerchief and dusted the seat. I barely restrained myself from rolling my eyes.
Never insult the client, remember? You need her cash.
I came home last night about 7 o’clock,
she began. "That’s later than usual. I take the train home and there’s always delays at the inner-city stations. Too many people trying to get on, that sort of thing. But last night was crazy, I