Looks at the history and cultures of ancient Europe, and describes the artifacts and ruins left behind

Someone stole a cake from the cake contest—who could it be? Twelve animal bakers are potential suspects but Detective Duck uses his deductive reasoning skills to “quack” the case. After all, the thief left hairs behind so the thief wasn’t a bird. Follow along as he subtracts each suspect one at a time to reveal just who the culprit was. This clever story will have children of all ages giggling at the puns and the play on words.

Though a small town at heart, Lawrenceton, Georgia, has its dark side-and crime buffs. One of whom is librarian Aurora "Roe" Teagarden, a member of the Real Murders Club, which meets once a month to analyze famous cases. It's a harmless pastime-until the night she finds a member killed in a manner that eerily resembles the crime the club was about to discuss. And as other brutal "copycat" killings follow, Roe will have to uncover the person behind the terrifying game, one that casts all the members of Real Murders, herself included, as prime suspects-or potential victims.

"Archaeologist Genevieve von Petzinger looks past the horses, bison, ibex, and faceless humans in the ancient paintings and instead focuses on the abstract geometric images that accompany them. She offers her research on the terse symbols that appear more often than any other kinds of figures--signs that have never really been studied or explained until now"--

In a series of different chapters Michael Baigent examines a number of enigmas surrounding such ancient mysteries as Atlantis and the Pyramids. He investigates such questions as whether there were ancient contacts between Europe and America,and whether a great catastrophe hit the planet around 10000 BC. And in the process he calls into question much of today's orthodoxy on such subjects.

Susan Ford, daughter of Former President Gerald R. Ford, brings her White House insider perspective to this sparkling debut novel, the first in a series of First Daughter mysteries. In Double Exposure, Ford introduces photographer Eve Cooper, daughter of the newly elected President, as she is swept into killer politics in Washington, DC... Double Exposure Eve and her family have barely settled into their new surroundings after the Inauguration when chaos and scandal erupt. White House photographer Michael Cauffman is taking Eve's picture in the Rose Garden when they stumble upon a corpse in the snow. It's one of the White House ushers and in his pocket is a torn photograph of an unclad and unidentified couple in the Lincoln bedroom-clearly involved in very unofficial activities. The story (complete with photos) is on the front page of The Washington Post, and the press is in a feeding frenzy. With the help of Michael, Eve sets out to clear her father, the President, by discovering exactly who took those pictures, and when, and why. As Eve closes in on the truth, she opens a vast Pandora's box of new troubles, both public and private. As the body count rises, Eve must race against the clock to find a killer who will stop at nothing to compromise the President... "Has charm...sure to attract [an] audience." -Publishers Weekly "Ford's debut offers some pleasant glimpses behind the scenes at the White House." -Kirkus Reviews

At the end of a long journey, lightning flashed outside my window…I need more control. My hand jumped to Mulberry's forearm and squeezed. Shutting my eyes, I struggled not to picture the small plane cracking in half, my body flying through the air, still seat-belted to the beige leather chair; Blue, his paws grasping at empty space, disappearing into the bruise-colored clouds. The small jet shook and our pilot's voice, smooth and steady, came over the loudspeaker, "Sorry about the bumps. We'll have you down in Miami in about twenty minutes. Just hold tight." Mulberry put his hand over mine. "Don't worry," he said. "We'll be there soon." He smiled, making his crow's feet crinkle. Mulberry's eyes were deep emerald with ochre and flashes of gold. I tried to smile back but could tell I was just giving grimace. Mulberry handed me his whisky and soda. I finished it off. The ice cubes danced in my empty glass. Then we were suddenly out of the clouds. Below us the ocean was close, steel blue with white caps cresting each wave. The city's skyscrapers looked like towers of mercury in the storm's eerie light. Raindrops clung to my window, streaking across it as our speed pushed them aside. Hugh was somewhere down there in that city, a flat landscape made multi-dimensional through the efforts of man. My stomach lurched as we dropped through the air, my seat belt pressing into me. Blue whined softly and flattened himself even further onto the floor of the plane. A giant of a dog, Blue has the coat of a wolf, the snout of a Collie, with one brown eye and one blue. Both of which were trained on me at that moment. My fear was freaking him out. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine the turbulence as a gentle rocking but it didn't work. An ice cube jumped out of my glass landing on the carpeting. Blue, his belly still flat on the ground, inched his way toward it, then his tongue stretched out and pulled the cube into his mouth. He crunched twice before looking back up at me, now hoping for more whisky-flavored ice. I couldn't help but smile at the expectant look on his fuzzy face. We touched down with a jerk that sent my heart racing one more time. But as we slowly taxied toward our hangar the storm seemed suddenly minor. Just a breath of wind fluttered across the puddles, turning them into shimmering mirrors framed by the dark tarmac. "All right Ms. Rye," our captain's voice came back on over the loudspeaker. "Sorry about that descent, but we got you here safe. Thanks for flying with us, I hope we'll have you back real soon." As soon as humanly possible. I didn't want to be here, but Hugh was in trouble, and if there was one person I cared about in this world it was him. He was a tie to my murdered brother, a shared memory bank. I would do anything to help Hugh. P.S. The dog does not die. **Beware: If you can’t handle a few f-bombs, you can’t handle this series.**