Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jane Isenberg taught English to urban community college students for close to thirty years. She has been writing mysteries ever since she experienced her first hot flash. Her copies of Modern Maturity are delivered to her new home in Amherst, Massachusetts, that she shares with her husband Phil Thompkins.

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The seventh delightful mystery starring community college professor Bel Barret, the sleuth that the Baldwin City Ledger calls, "Evanovich's Stephanie Plum twenty–five years later."

Fifty–something community college professor and amateur sleuth Bel Barrett is at it again. When Dom Tomaselli, a student from her memoir–writing class for senior citizens, shows up dead, she agrees to investigate whether his fall from a rooftop was an accident––or murder. But with her aged mother so depressed that she can't even make her weekly trips to Atlantic City, and with her wedding to her boyfriend Sal coming up, she hardly has time for anything, let alone sleuthing. So with the help of Dom's daughter Flora, Bel determines that Dom's inveterate gambler brother–in–law, who owed him money, is the primary suspect. But could an extortion plot and a long–ago arson case also be central to the old man's demise? With the help of her best pals from the community college, Bel weaves together the different strands of one of the most baffling cases she's ever seen...and discovers that the history of her beloved Hoboken is far more sordid than she'd ever imagined.

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Hot on the Trail

Avon Books

Chapter One

To: Bbarrett@circle.com
From: Florag@juno.com
Re: Papa
Date: 0½1/03 16:04:04

Dear Professor B,

I'm so upset about Papa. I have to remember to breathewhile I'm typing. I know you were worried when he didn'tshow up yesterday. Papa really likes your memoir-writingclass and there was no way he would have missed that session,not with it being his turn to read. Wait a minute. Ihave to breathe again. Okay, I'm okay now. You probablyfigured Papa was having one of his weak spells that hegets when his pressure goes down and that I decided tostay home with him. Let me tell you, professor, I almostwish that was true.

What really happened is Papa just disappeared. I swearto God, none of us seen him since he went up to bed Mondaynight. When I hollered to him yesterday to get readyfor the class, he didn't answer. And he had made me promise to get him up early so he could practice readinghis essay, you know? He wanted to read good in front ofthe class. So I went up to see if he was okay, you know? Ihave to take a deep breath when I get to this next part. Hewasn't in his room. The gray slacks and blue plaid shirt Igot him for Christmas that I put out for him to wear to theclass were still on the chair. His galoshes and his navy bluedown jacket with the hood were gone. He wasn't in thebathroom either. My brother Leo lives downstairs from meand my daughter, Mary, and Papa. Leo came up and welooked everywhere, even on the roof, you know, where hispigeons used to be. Remember I was telling you howsometimes he would go up there and just walk around. ButPapa wasn't there. Papa wasn't anywhere. He was justgone. Like them damn pigeons.

Finally me and Leo reported Papa missing. I was cryingthe whole time we talked to the officer. He said Papa musthave wandered off, so they're putting his picture in thepaper and in stores in the neighborhood and sending outhis description. That detective made it sound like Papa hasAlzheimers. Like I told you Dominic Tomaselli can be apain in the butt and he does get depressed sometimes. Butdemented he isn't. So anyway I'm supposed to stay homein case he calls or wanders back. I'm trying not to thinkabout how cold it is outside. Anyway I'll be missing my Culturesand Values class with you today too. Hopefully Papa'llshow up soon, and I'll make it to the next class. I'll letyou know. Meanwhile, I have to remember to breathedeep and pray hard.

Flora Giglio

"Poor Flora. She has stress related asthma, but shehyperventilates even when things are going well. This might push her over the edge. Where could that sweetold man have gone?" I muttered. I had addressed thisquery to myself, but, seated at her desk not two feetaway from mine, my officemate Wendy could not helpoverhearing.

"What sweet old man? Listen Bel, now that you'vefinally weaned yourself off estrogen, if you're going tostart babbling to your computer, we're going to have torethink this cozy arrangement." She looked up fromthe business section of the New York Times and gesturedaround her at the claustrophobic cubicle that sheand I had shared since the seventies when we'd bothjoined the English Department at River Edge CommunityCollege in Jersey City, New Jersey. We also sharedthis "closet" with Thelma and Louise, two feistyphilodendrons that thrived on our windowsill despitedecades of sporadic watering and long outgrown pots.Their vines meandered over Wendy's cluttered desktopand would have encroached on the pristine surface ofmine except that they knew better.

Ignoring her dig, I passed Wendy the jar of M&M'sI kept on my side of the divide, and she helped herselfto a handful. "Better than estrogen, right?" shequipped. "Maybe if I eat enough chocolate the fact thatmy IRA has been shrinking like cotton undies in thedryer won't seem so important," she said. The curve ofher grin softened her drawn features. "Jeez, Bel,you've completely interrupted my efforts to calculatehow old I'll have to be before I can retire on what's leftof my portfolio." She pushed the newspaper away asshe spoke. "So, what sweet little old man were you justranting about?" Without waiting for me to answer,Wendy continued. "I hope nothing bad has happenedto that old charmer in your memoir class, the one who was bragging about having been an extra in On the Waterfront."I'd invited Wendy to a session of "Tell It LikeIt Was," my memoir-writing course for senior citizens,because she was considering teaching it in the fall.

"No. That 'old charmer' is Sam Simon, ex-war heroand ex-convict." I was gratified to see Wendy's eyebrowslift as she registered Sam's criminal record. "Hestarted his memoirs while he was in jail for takingbribes when he was head of Hoboken's ABC, youknow, the Alcoholic Beverages Control Board. You'reright, though. He's a sweetheart." I shook my head atthe irony I saw embodied in Sam Simon. The man wasundoubtedly a rogue, but a rogue who radiated comfortspiked with charisma. "But I'm worried about the otherguy in the class, Dom Tomaselli, the one who wasn'tthere, the one whose piece about the pigeons I talkedabout, remember? I assumed he was sick, but actuallyhis daughter just e-mailed me that he's missing." I picturedDom's serious gray eyes and weather-beaten faceblotched with age spots. I hoped that, like the racingpigeon he wrote about in his memoir, Dom would findhis way home fast ...

Excerpted from Hot on the Trailby Isenberg, Jane Excerpted by permission.
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