Blurb
Heather Richards, a retired Canadian accountant who thinks in ledgers and cooks when the numbers won’t settle, arrives in Ghent with her best friend Jane for art, good food, and a quiet holiday.
Instead they find Professor Henri Dumont dead in St. Bavo’s Cathedral — a puncture wound in his neck, Heather’s knitting needle the perfect match. He believed he was hours from recovering the Just Judges, the panel stolen from Jan van Eyck’s 1432 Ghent Altarpiece. Someone made sure he never reached it.
In 1934, Arsène Goedertier stole that panel and died without telling the Bishop of Ghent where he hid it. Ninety years later, witnesses saw Heather and Jane talking with Henri that morning. Their passports are confiscated. An obstinate inspector wants them for murder — while a killer still loose knows they are looking.
Can two retired Canadians clear their names and bring the Just Judges home before forty-eight hours run out?
The Just Judges is the first Heather Richards Mystery.
Excerpt: Chapter 1 — The Knock
The knock came at four in the morning.
Not a knock — a fist. Three impacts against the door, sending Heather upright in the dark before she understood where she was or why her heart was hammering. Jane’s voice from the other bed: “What?”
“I don’t know,” Heather said.
The fist hit the door again. Three more blows.
“Who is it?” Jane called.
“Politie.” A pause. Then, in English: “Open the door please. Now.”
The please was not a courtesy. It was a formality — the thinnest layer of civil procedure over something that had already been decided.
Heather crossed the room in the dark and opened the door.
Two uniformed officers stood in the corridor — the blue of the Lokale Politie. Behind them stood Meneer Claes, the hotel owner, sweating through his collar despite the chill.
“Ms. Richards?” said the officer nearest her.
“Yes,” she said. “What has happened?”
He did not answer that question. Instead he said they were required to come with him, they should dress, their travel documents would be needed.
Meneer Claes met her eyes over the officer’s shoulder. His face said: I am sorry. I had no choice.
“Give us five minutes,” Heather said.
She closed the door — or tried to. The officer put a hand on it. “Please leave the door open.”
She left the door open.
“Get dressed,” Heather said.
“Heather.” Jane’s voice, barely above a whisper. “What is going on?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “But we’re going to find out.”
She checked her tote by habit — the zip pouch with her needles. Two needles. A pair of steel, 1.2 mm. The pair balanced.
The cable needle was not in the pouch.
“Our passports,” she told the officer. “We’ll need to bring them?”
“We will take them,” he said.
That was a different thing. Watching them disappear into his jacket pocket felt like watching a door close on something she couldn’t quite name.
