Beneath the hanging tree… Witches weren’t burned in the colony of Virginia. They were hanged. But in the twenty-first century no one should be hanged from the trees of Colonial Williamsburg. Jean Fairbairn’s significant other, ex-Scottish cop Alasdair Cameron, might sometimes wish he could pass judgment on the dingbats Jean writes about. Especially when her current subjects, a set of batty conspiracy theorists, may be involved in the theft of a Williamsburg-crafted replica of the sixteenth-century Witch Box. It was stolen from a Scottish castle for which Alasdair has been supervising security—even though the original Witch Box is safe in a Williamsburg museum. The charm stone went missing from the original Witch Box two hundred years ago. Perhaps it was not a traditional healing stone at all but a cursing stone. Perhaps it was lost somewhere in the colony of Virginia. Perhaps someone will kill to find it. Can Jean maintain her resolve to abandon the academic battlefield forever, or will she be tempted back into combat by an appealing former colleague, Matthew Frost? And what about Alasdair, who is supposedly retired from the rigors of law enforcement, but who is now confronted not only by a theft but two murder cases—and by Stephanie Venegas, the detective in charge. Amid the falling leaves and autumn shadows, Jean and Alasdair must deal again with murder most grotesque, its roots deep in history and myth. With ghosts only they can see. And with things going bump in the night of their own relationship. It’s All Hallows Eve, in Colonial Williamsburg.