It’s January in Rosedale, Tennessee, and Mae December is preparing for her March wedding to Sheriff Ben Bradley. Mae, who boards dogs for a living, is also busy tending to her pregnant dog and scouting locations for the movie featuring the music of her former fiancé Noah West, who died in a car accident four years earlier. Fortunately, the picturesque old house at the end of Little Chapel Road is for rent.
Just as filming is about to begin, a man is shot on the set, but manages to drive himself to the hospital, where he dies before he can ID his killer. He was a member of the film crew, but also a local, and circumstances point to his being a confidential informant for Ben’s predecessor, Sheriff Trey Cantrell, also the owner of the house turned movie set. At the time of the shooting, the victim had been stealing a large sum of money from a safe on the premises. Whose money is it, and where does it come from?
The Rosedale Sheriff’s Office not only has another murder case on its hands, but one that will dredge up a past long buried. How far will the guilty parties go to protect their secrets?
Book Details:
Title: Six Dogs ’til Sunday (A Mae December Mystery) Author: Lia Farrell
Patient name: Wayne Nichols, Chief Detective, Rosedale Sheriff’s Office
Objective: Asked Detective Nichols to summarize his relationships with women—to understand what is preventing him from bonding to current live-in lover, Dr. Lucy Ingram & control his impulses toward violent behavior with men who abuse women.
Who was the first woman, other than your foster mother, you had feelings for? Her name was Tiani. She was an Indian girl. She was working for the BIA, placing off-rez Indians, getting them housing and employment. She helped me get a job transporting patients at the hospital and al room at the YMCA.
What was she like? She was slim with long dark hair, a bronze complexion and dark eyes. Very lovely. I was totally alone then, having run off from foster care at 17. No family or tribal connections. I was isolated and Tiani was the first person who reached out for me. She was mesmerizing.
Did the two of you have an intimate relationship? Not really. Not that I didn’t try. God, I tried. We took walks outside as winter came on. She would let me kiss her. Once in a spare room in the office, I pulled up her shirt and touched her breasts but when I tried to go further, she would take my hands away. I thought she was my girlfriend, I believed she cared for me.
How did the relationship come to an end? I went to the office one day in late winter. She wasn’t at her desk and when I asked where she was the girl asked how I knew Tiani. I said I was her boyfriend. ‘You’re not her boyfriend,’ the girl said. ‘She married her boyfriend last week. Expecting a baby by summer.’ I stumbled from the office, never returned.
That must have been pretty tough for you. What happened next in your romantic life? I swore off women then. Left the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, went south. Took the police course, set my sights on becoming a detective. I listened in on their conversations, copied their mannerisms. I wanted to duck under the yellow tape at the crime scene, wear suits and ties instead of a uniform. Wanted in on their code-like conversations filled with acronyms, APB, GSW, LUD’s, and so on.” But you asked about the next woman in my life. I was at a bar with one of the senior detectives one night. He said he was going to Madame Jeanne’s. He gave me her card. It took me months to get up the courage, but one night—blind with need—I did. Madame Jeanne had a big old Victorian house. She took me upstairs. I was trembling, watching her body ahead of me on the staircase. She led me into her office and asked me about my sexual preferences. I had to confess I’d never had a woman. We talked for an hour. When I left she told me I owed the house fifty dollars. I paid happily. She never touched me but I felt an enormous release. Walking home, my gratitude for her kindness overwhelmed me.
After that introduction I assume you routinely had sex with prostitutes? Yes. Madame Jeanne first paired me with a woman who was nearly forty. Mary wasn’t terribly attractive and a little pudgy, but she was… a delight. Watching my face as she removed her clothes, she always laughed quietly to herself. She loved being desired. And I felt myself a man for the first time. She had a gift of connecting, listening, enjoying everything that came her way. I saw her on and off for ten years. Many of Jeanne’s employees married eventually as Mary did.
Were there others? Yes, two or three. Not many. Always older women. Older for prostitutes that is. Afterwards Madame would say she had someone new for me. I always enjoyed them and was grateful. One of the oldest women in her house was nearly sixty. She commanded and charged $1000 a night. I couldn’t afford her but one of the officers I saw leaving the house told me she was worth every penny. Once I started on as a Detective in Rosedale, I stopped seeing prostitutes.
Why was that? Concern for your position? Although prostitution is illegal in Tennessee, the world’s oldest profession usually operates under the radar of law enforcement.
It wasn’t concern for the social niceties. It was a girl named Nimmu. And then meeting Lucy.
What happened with Nimmu? About six years ago, one night at the end of a vicious case that had wrecked my head, I went to the house. Didn’t make an appointment, just showed up. Madame Jeanne was exasperated with me. She said she didn’t have anyone for me, except Nimmu. I said she would be fine.
But she wasn’t? She was only twenty, less than half my age. She had a halo of blonde curly hair, like a shaggy pony. It wasn’t her looks that put me off though, or her age really, it was that she had an air of listening for someone who wasn’t there. I wondered if she could be mildly schizophrenic or even deaf. I watched her take off her clothes. She removed them like a woman who was totally alone in a room. There was no sensuality, no acknowledgement I was even there. When she laid down on the bed and looked at me, I told her to get up. She started to cry, saying Madame Jeanne would be angry. I asked her what she charged and when she said twenty-five dollars, I was horrified she charged so little, valued herself so little. I went to see Madame. I was furious with her. ‘Nimmu does not belong here,’ I said. ‘Most clients like her quietness, her silent acquiescence,’ Jeanne said. ‘There are all kinds of men in the world you know, Detective.’
‘But then most men are idiots.’ I said.
She smiled at that. ‘Maybe not idiots, but you men are simple creatures.’
I asked her to find something else for Nimmu to do. ‘She could serve food or drink, do the shopping. Just find her something else. She’s wrong for this place, like a silent revolutionary waiting in her sleeper cell, listening for the call to arms. She’s not of our world.’
Jeanne agreed.
I went back once, five years later. Nimmu was working in the kitchen. Still listening. Still waiting.
Did she remember you? No, of course she wouldn’t have.
But she was somehow important for you, wasn’t she? I believe Nimmu opened the door for Lucy to come into your life. How did the two of you meet? I got called to bring a prisoner to the ER, he’d been shanked in the right upper arm. A piece of metal broke off on the nerve. He couldn’t raise his arm. The ER was a war zone that night, people screaming, gunshot victims. When Lucy walked in in her white coat she was smiling, her long brown hair curling on her shoulders. We could hear the siren of the ambulance arriving. ‘They’re playing my song,’ she said. She was fearless. I was taken with how she related to my prisoner. Many of the health workers showed their distaste for prisoners in their non-verbal behavior. Not Lucy. She held Johnny’s left hand while she got his story, took the broken metal piece out of his right arm with surgical tweezers and checked the nerve function. I thanked her and took the prisoner out to the prison transport vehicle. I hesitated, standing in the dark rain, but finally walked back in and asked for Dr. Ingram. She came in with a worried look. ‘Is Johnny okay? Is there a problem?’ She had even remembered his name, you see. ‘No problem,’ I said. We just looked at each other. ‘I wondered if I could buy you a drink later.’ She gave me long look and then a slow smile. ‘I get off at midnight. O’Sullivans, down the street from the hospital.’
Do you love this woman, Detective?’ Yes. I think she knows without me saying the words.
I’m going to assign you a bit of homework. You need to tell her you love her. Perhaps like Nimmu, Lucy too is waiting. But I think she’s waiting for your words, your commitment.
Client whispered under his breath. ‘It’s time to man up.’
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Lia Farrell was born in
January of 2009, the brain-child/pen-name of a mother/daughter writing
team. Lia’s first book, cozy mystery One Dog too Many, was released by
Camel Press on November 15, 2013. It was, of course, instigated by a
dog. Mom Lyn Farquhar and Daughter Lisa Fitzsimmons have been collaborating on the Mae December mystery series for four years.
Lyn Farquhar taught herself to read before starting school and honed her storytelling abilities by reading to her little sister. Ultimately, her mother ended the reading sessions because Lyn’s sister decided she preferred being read to over learning to read herself. She fell in love with library books at the age of six when a Bookmobile came to her one-room rural elementary school. The day the Bookmobile arrived, Lyn decided she would rather live in the bookmobile than at home and was only ousted following sustained efforts by her teacher and the bookmobile driver.
Lyn graduated from Okemos High School in Michigan and got her college and graduate degrees from Michigan State University. She has a master’s degree in English literature and a Ph.D. in Education, but has always maintained that she remained a student for such a long time only because it gave her an excuse to read. Lyn holds the rank of Professor of Medical Education at Michigan State University and has authored many journal articles, abstracts and research grants. Since her retirement from MSU to become a full-time writer, she has completed a Young Adult Fantasy trilogy called Tales of the Skygrass Kingdom. Volume I from the trilogy is entitled Journey to Maidenstone and is available at amazon.com. Lyn has two daughters and six stepchildren, nine granddaughters and three grandsons. She also has two extremely spoiled Welsh Corgi’s. Her hobby is interior design, and she claims she has the equivalent of a master’s degree from watching way too many decorating shows.
ABOUT LISA
Lisa Fitzsimmons grew up in Michigan and was always encouraged to read, write and express herself artistically. She was read aloud to frequently. Throughout her childhood and teenage years, she was seldom seen without a book in hand. After becoming a mom at a young age, she attended Michigan State University in a tri-emphasis program with concentrations in Fine Art, Art History an Interior Design.
Lisa, with her husband and their two children, moved to North Carolina for three exciting years and then on to Tennessee, which she now calls home. She has enjoyed an eighteen-year career as a Muralist and Interior Designer in middle Tennessee but has always been interested in writing. Almost five years ago, Lisa and her mom, Lyn, began working on a writing project inspired by local events. The Mae December Mystery series was born.
Lisa, her husband, and their three dogs currently divide their time between beautiful Northern Michigan in the summertime and middle Tennessee the rest of the year. She and her husband feel very blessed that their “empty nest” in Tennessee is just a short distance from their oldest, who has a beautiful family of her own. Their youngest child has settled in Northern Michigan, close to their cabin there. Life is good.
The Tail Waggin’ Winterfest is the highlight of the season in the famously pet-friendly Pocono Mountains town of Sylvan Creek. But despite attractions like an ice sculpture display, a dogsled race, and gourmet hot chocolate, Daphne Templeton finds herself annoyed by TV producer Lauren Savidge, who’s filming the festivities. She’s critical, controlling, and as chilly as the January air. Daphne would like to tell her to go jump in a lake—and as a matter of fact, that’s exactly what they’re both going to do . . .
It’s the first-ever polar bear plunge in Lake Wallapawakee, and Daphne and Lauren are among the eighty or so people who charge into the frigid water to raise funds for animals in need. Daphne makes it back to shore—with the help of a mysterious St. Bernard—but Lauren is dragged out stone cold dead. Now, with her trusty basset hound Socrates at her side, Daphne intends to assist Detective Jonathan Black in his investigation—whether he wants her to or not .
Book Details:
Title: Pawprints & Predicaments
Author’s name: Bethany Blake Genre: Cozy mystery, 3rd in series
Daphne Templeton is a pet sitter with a Ph.D. in philosophy. She’s a klutz with a soft spot for every stray soul she meets and loves world travel, rescuing pets and baking for dogs and cats. She also has a habit of stumbling upon murders, which she solves with the help of her thoughtful basset hound sidekick, Socrates—and against the wishes of handsome, enigmatic Detective Jonathan Black.
CHARACTER INTERVIEW WITH BETHANY BLAKE’S DAPHNE TEMPLETON
Daphne, how did you first meet Bethany?
She was having a glass of wine with a fellow writer friend, and they challenged each other to write a cozy mystery. I met Bethany the next day, when she sat down at her computer, determined to win by finishing first. (She did!) Why do you think that your life has ended up being in a book?
I suspect that it has something to do with the fact that my author also has a doctorate that she never uses, and once owned a small pet sitting business. But I am much more free spirited than Bethany. She’s a worrier. I’m not. Tell us about your favorite scene in the book.
Although I don’t come across as very “cool,” it’s probably the scene in which my best friend, Moxie Bloom, and I decide to cross-country ski to a remote house in search of a suspect. Let’s just say that klutzy people probably shouldn’t ski—especially with a Saint Bernard in tow. It was pretty comical.
If you had a free day with no responsibilities and your only mission was to enjoy yourself, what would you do?
Umm… I have a lot of days like that. Probably too many days, according to my sister, Piper, who is a regimented veterinarian, and my landlord. Although, I have to say, since opening a bakery for pets, I’m much busier—and more responsible—than ever before.
What impression do you make on people when they first meet you? How about after they've known you for a while?
When people first meet me, they think I’m a ditz, because I don’t prize organization. That drove Jonathan Black crazy at first. But, once people know me, they realize that I am a loyal friend who will do anything to protect the people and animals I love. What's the worst thing that's happened in your life? What did you learn from it?
My father left our family when I was a young girl. It was a rough time, but I learned forgiveness, and how to be independent. I also watched my mother fight hard to become the family breadwinner—although, honestly, she might’ve carried things a little too far. She’s obsessed with real estate. Tell us about your best friend.
My best friend is Moxie Bloom, owner of Sylvan Creek’s unique salon for people and pets, Spa & Paw. She lives in an amazing garret apartment and loves vintage clothes and furnishings and classic movies. She’s the funniest person I know—often unintentionally so. What are you most afraid of?
Lately it seems as if I’m constantly worried about the people I love being arrested for murder! Beyond that, I suffer from claustrophobia—which becomes quite problematic in my latest story!
What’s the best trait your author has given you?
My best trait is compassion. I look for the best in people and animals, and I hate to see anyone or anything suffer. What’s the worst?
My worst trait is disorganization. But I am working hard to improve.
What do you like best about Jonathan Black.
Okay, anyone who reads about me knows that I have a very complicated relationship with Detective Jonathan Black. We got off to a horrible start when he tried to convict my sister of murder. He’s also a former Navy SEAL, while I’m a peacenik, and while I over share, he guards every detail of his past. But I respect his code of honor, his intelligence, his sense of humor, and—if I’m being completely honest—he’s pretty easy on the eyes.
Describe the town where you live.
Sylvan Creek is a quaint, pet-friendly town in the mountains of Pennsylvania. We’ve actually been described as a bit “pet crazy,” although I don’t see anything wrong with integrating pets into daily life. Sylvan Creek is full of cute shops, and I love to visit the many restaurants, including Wolf Hollow Mill, Franco’s and Zephyr, which is located in an old train station. There’s lots of atmosphere, not to mention characters, in Sylvan Creek.
What's an average day in your life like?
I wake up in my loft bedroom in my tiny house, Plum Cottage. I make breakfast for myself, Socrates, and my orphaned Persian cat, Tinkleston. Next, I’d usually stop by my pet bakery, Flour Power, and take care of any pet sitting clients I have. Then I’ll usually have dinner with Piper, Moxie, my mother—or the guy I sometimes date, Gabriel Graham, who owns the Sylvan Creek Weekly Gazette. Unless I’m solving a murder. Then I might find myself confronting an agitated cat shelter owner, running pell mell through a lonely orchard, sneaking into a “haunted mansion” . . . really, all bets are off, when I’m on a case. Will you encourage Bethany to write a sequel?
There are already three more books in the works—watch for lots of changes in my life and my relationships!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bethany Blake lives in a small, quaint town in Pennsylvania with her husband and three daughters. When she's not writing or riding horses, she's wrangling a menagerie of furry family members that includes a nervous pit bull, a fearsome feline, a blind goldfish, and an attack cardinal named Robert.
Lilling might seem like an idyllic English village, but it’s home to a dark history. In 1976, a teenage girl named Annalise Wood disappeared, and though her body was later discovered, the culprit was never found. Decades later, Annalise maintains a perverse kind of celebrity, and is still the focus of grief, speculation, and for one young woman, a disturbing, escalating jealousy.
When DNA linked to the Annalise murder unexpectedly surfaces, cold case detective Morris Keene and his former partner, Chloe Frohmann, hope to finally bring closure to this traumatized community. But the new evidence instead undoes the case's only certainty: the buried body that had long ago been confidently identified as Annalise may be someone else entirely, and instead of answers, the investigators face only new puzzles.
Whose body was unearthed all those years ago, and what happened to the real Annalise? Is someone interfering with the investigation? And is there a link to a present-day drowning with eerie connections? With piercing insight and shocking twists, Emily Winslow explores the dark side of sensationalized crime in this haunting psychological thriller.
Book Details:
Title: Look For Her
Author: Emily Winslow
Genre: Psychological Thriller, Keene and Frohmann series #4 |
Publisher: William Morrow (February 13th 2018)
Paperback: 304 pages
Touring with: Partners in Crime Book Tours
INTERVIEW WITH EMILY WINSLOW
Emily, tell us about your series. Is this book a standalone, or do readers need to read the series in order?
My four crime novels are a series set in Cambridge, England. The same detectives are in all of them, and there's an overall story arc in their personal lives, but each mystery stands alone. Genuinely, you can start with any one of them. I usually tell people:The Whole World is about a missing graduate student, two American undergrads with a crush on him, and a blind professor obsessed with her mother. The Start of Everything is about big-bang scientists at the Institute of Astronomy, an unidentified body found in the fens, and an autistic young woman determined to deliver a misaddressed letter. The Red House is about music, memory, and an engaged couple who might actually be brother and sister. Look for Heris about a cold case investigation of a famous missing teenager, and a young woman in the present who is jealous of the famous victim. If you read them in that order, you follow the main detective's injury and subsequent struggles on the job. But you can also just start with whichever one draws you the most.
Where did you grow up?
I grew up in Maplewood, New Jersey, an idyllic New York City commuter town. We had the stimulation and culture of nearby New York, and the quietness, charm, and green spaces of a gentle suburb. I was very lucky to live there.
Where is your favorite library, and what do you love about it?
The children's room of my hometown library had a life-sized stuffed toy lion to climb on, a detailed doll house, and even a secret room behind a bookshelf-door for storytime! And we had the best children's librarian in the world (Pam Gosner), and really creative summer programs. That setting was a perfect introduction to the magic of books. What is the most daring thing you've done?
I was convinced I wanted to be an actress when I was young, to the point that I studied at a non-academic conservatory for college. After four years there doing nothing but acting, I wanted out, but I felt embarrassed to stop. The rest of my class were headed to New York and Los Angeles with excitement. Changing my career aspirations felt humiliating, even shameful, as if I were admitting I couldn't handle it (which may have also been true) instead of that I didn't want it anymore. I wanted to write and went to grad school instead. Looking back now, it was absolutely the right decision, but at the time it felt like an enormous leap of faith. How did you meet your spouse?
My best friend had a semester abroad at Cambridge. She met a great guy and spent the next five years trying to set us up (which took that long because we lived on different continents). Once she finally got us in the same room together, we hit it off and married eight months later. That was twenty years ago.
What do you love about where you live now?
Cambridge, England is exactly what dreamy Americans who have never actually been to England imagine it to be. The architecture is sublime. Art and music are everywhere, often free. It's a 50/50 chance that anyone you bump into will be a world-class expert in some arcane subject. This is where I live and where I set my books. The city is an inspiration.
Are any of your characters inspired by real people?
I try to be pretty careful about this. My novels are set in and around real Cambridge colleges. When the characters are just “students” or “fellows” I'm in the clear, but more specific roles (like “chaplain” or “Director of Music”) clearly indicate real people (which happened mostly in my book The Red House). I always get permission, even if I'm not using their names. Usually people are delighted to be part of a story.
Is your book based on real events?
This novel isn't, but the book I wrote immediately before it is. Jane Doe January is my memoir of involvement in a real-life court case. It was harrowing.
What makes you nervous?
I find it really stressful to cook for people. I'm just not confident in the kitchen. But my husband is a terrific cook and actually enjoys it, so when we throw dinner parties I do the inviting, the cleaning, the setting up. He makes something wonderful. We're a good team.
Do you have another job outside of writing?
My husband and I homeschool, so that takes a lot of our time and attention. We swap: I get to write in the mornings while he teaches our son, then he works in the afternoons. I've also started teaching creative writing at Cambridge's Institute of Continuing Education, which is wonderful. The classes are held in a gorgeous mansion just outside the city. The students are adults of all ages, and really want to be there. It's a pleasure.
Where and when do you prefer to do your writing?
My top priority for writing time is to be completely alone. Sometimes I write in a guest room, if it's empty, or I hide away in our bedroom if the house is full. I also prefer a stretch of several hours. So, whenever I know the kids are occupied or otherwise looked after is the right time!
What’s the best compliment you’ve ever received about your writing?
A recent reviewer called this new book “beguiling.” What a lovely adjective!
How did you find your publisher, and how long did your query process take?
I queried agents for a few months before I signed with my wonderful agent Cameron McClure at Donald Maass. This was through an ordinary query letter; no “who you know” or secret handshake involved. She got me my first book deal a few months later. It's been wonderful being with Random House, HarperCollins, and Allison & Busby. I love working with such talented editors, designers, marketers. Their support means a lot.
READ AN EXCERPT
From Chapter One
Annalise Williams (Wolfson College),
University Counselling Service,
recorded and transcribed by Dr. Laurie Ambrose
My mother picked the name Annalise for me because of a girl who was killed. Her name was Annalise Wood, and she went missing when she was sixteen. My mother was the same age when it happened. Annalise was lovely, much prettier than my sister and I ever became. She was the kind of girl you look at and think, "Of course someone would want to take her."
Don’t look at me like that. I know that what happened to her was awful. It just seems a very fine line between being the kind of person that others want to be with and be like and treat well, and being the kind of person that some others, just a few, sick others, want to take for themselves. That’s the same kind of person, isn’t it? The loved and lovely. Isn’t that from a poem somewhere? That’s what she was like. That’s the risk when you’re the kind of person who’s wanted. Good people want to be close to you, but the bad people want you too.
There were two photos of her that the media used most: her most recent school portrait, and a snapshot of her laughing, with the friends on either side cropped out. Taken together, they presented the two sides of a beautiful and perfect person: poised and thoughtful, and spontaneous and bubbly. The kind of person who deserves help and attention.
Realistically, if they wanted these pictures to help strangers identify her if they saw her out and about with the bad man, they should have used photos of her frowning or looking frightened. Either there weren’t any (which may well be the case; who would take a photo of that?), or they couldn’t bring themselves to advertise a version of her that was less than appealing. The narrative is important. If you want the “general public” to get worked up, you have to persuade. Attractiveness and innocence must be communicated, even if emphasising those traits makes the real person harder to recognise.
In the end, she was already dead, so it’s a good thing, I suppose, that they used the nice photos. They’re the images that everyone remembers. My mum was a teenager when those pictures were in the paper every day for weeks, then weekly for months. Annalise Wood was the most beautiful girl in the world. Everyone cared about her. It’s what any mother would wish for her child, to be the kind of person that everyone would care about and miss if she disappeared.
It wasn’t until Mum was over thirty that what really happened to Annalise Wood was discovered.
***
Emily Winslow is an American living in
Cambridge, England. She trained as an actor at Carnegie Mellon
University’s prestigious drama conservatory and earned a master’s degree
in museum studies from Seton Hall University. For six years she wrote
for Games magazine, creating increasingly elaborate and lavishly
illustrated logic puzzles. She lives with her husband and two sons. She
is the author of four novels and a memoir.
Death is the closest thing to omnipotence we will experience in our brief time on this planet. It is an all-encompassing power, binding everything, and providing a cold certainty to an otherwise uncertain existence. The firm grip of this assurance reaches much further than the extinguishment of life; it greedily claims the hope and happiness of those who remain. It is a definite ending, but is it also a provable beginning?
Linda Granger did not see death coming.
Sleep shielded her from the unfolding horror. The looming headlights and the panicked screams of her husband were beyond her conscious state. When her head shattered the windshield, the dream about her son ended, sending her into what’s next. Linda was gone before the car rolled seven times and wrapped around a large oak tree. Her husband, Stephen, was not as fortunate. He died two minutes later. Linda had fallen asleep from emotional exhaustion. She died with regrets.
John, what’s the story behind the title of your book?
I used to be involved in paranormal research several years ago. The idea of “the death theory” has been out there, but I though what would happen if that theory were tested?
Tell us about your series. Is this book a standalone, or do readers need to read the series in order?
Standalone.
Where’s home for you?
Petit Jean Mountain in Arkansas.
What do you love about where you live?
Beautiful view and secluded .
Where did you grow up?
Conway, Arkansas.
If you had an extra $100 a week to spend on yourself, what would you buy?
Items for my train collection.
What’s the dumbest purchase you’ve ever made?
Buying a pool.
What’s the most valuable thing you’ve learned?
Put your life in God’s hands.
What dumb things did you do during your college years?
Skipped class.
What is the most daring thing you've done?
Scuba diving .
What’s one thing that you wish you knew as a teenager that you know now?
The value of study.
Do you have another job outside of writing?
Own an insurance agency.
If you could live anywhere in the world, where in the world would it be?
Besides Arkansas, I would live in Virginia.
What would you like people to say about you after you die?
He was a good man who loved people and put God first.
What would your main character say about you?
Dude … why?
Who are your favorite authors?
C.S. Lewis, JRR Tolkien, Charles Dickens, Dean Koontz, HG Wells.
What book are you currently reading and in what format? Life Expectancy by Dean Koontz in audio book.
What’s one pet peeve you have when you read?
Bad editing.
Where and when do you prefer to do your writing?
In my office at home in the evening.
What’s the best compliment you’ve ever received about your writing?
"It made me cry (in a good way)."
What's the worst thing someone has said about your writing? How did you deal with it?
"Amateurish." Ignored it.
BOOK TRAILER
READ AN EXCERPT
Death is the closest thing to omnipotence we will experience in our brief time on this planet. It is an all-encompassing power, binding everything, and providing a cold certainty to an otherwise uncertain existence. The firm grip of this assurance reaches much further than the extinguishment of life; it greedily claims the hope and happiness of those who remain. It is a definite ending, but is it also a provable beginning?
Prologue
Linda Granger did not see death coming.
Sleep shielded her from the unfolding horror. The looming headlights and the panicked screams of her husband were beyond her conscious state. When her head shattered the windshield, the dream about her son ended, sending her into what’s next. Linda was gone before the car rolled seven times and wrapped around a large oak tree. Her husband, Stephen, was not as fortunate. He died two minutes later. Linda had fallen asleep from emotional exhaustion. She died with regrets.
Chapter 1
Jeff’s sheets were drenched in sweat. He strained to hear because he wanted to continue the conversation he had been having. The bass drum of his pulse throbbed in his ears, making hearing impossible. He sat up and glanced about frantically. Where had she gone?
As sleep gave way to the waking world, dread filled him. He remembered the terrible truth. These muddled conversations with his mother had become nightly occurrences since his parents’ accident. The last words he shared with his mother were over the phone, and they were harsh. The next time he picked up the phone, mere hours later, it was the Missouri State Police asking him to come to the hospital. It has been over a year since the terrible night, yet the pain had not gone away. In some ways, it grew worse.
Jeff rolled on his side as tears streamed down his cheeks. In his dream, he told his mother he loved her. He wondered if she could hear him. Somehow, he believed it might be possible. His grieving heart longed for a way to communicate with his late parents.
Jeff rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. It was impossible. He eventually got up and opened the blinds. It rained last night and a steamy mist shielded the street from view. This was the perfect morning to stay in bed and he almost did if not for two things. His sheets were soaked and he was excited about today. Even though he needed extra sleep, since he would be staying up all night, he just couldn’t hold back the excitement of investigating with his fourth paranormal group in as many months. Missouri Spirit Seekers claim to do purely scientific investigations, but the three previous groups he joined did as well. He hoped this time would be different.
They would be investigating Pythian Castle tonight, the most ‘haunted’ location in Springfield, not too far from Jeff’s alma mater, Missouri State. The castle was a very cool historical site, but to Jeff, it was another opportunity to find answers for life’s greatest mystery -death.
Although the investigation was still twelve hours away, nervous anticipation consumed him. He hoped this was not another séance based, sage burning, ghost hunt like most of the others. His previous groups were as far away from science as one could get.
Jeff brewed a pot of coffee and microwaved a bowl of instant oatmeal, before sitting down to watch his recording of the show which started him on the path to paranormal investigation. He viewed it often, but it had become a ritual to watch on the day of an investigation. If Jeff were counting, this would be his eighty-third time to watch.
The show starred two men, who were electricians by trade, investigating haunted places using the scientific method. They gathered measurable scientific evidence in their investigations. In this particular episode, they were investigating the catacombs underneath an old church in Baltimore.
What peaked Jeff’s interest were the Electronic Voice Phenomenon the men captured on their digital recorders. He wondered if EVP’s are actually the voices of the dead. The guys on the show didn’t commit one way or the other, they just presented the recordings.
“You up above,” a disembodied voice said.
“The way through,” another one whispered.
The most eerie utterance of them all said, “Come down here among us.”
Jeff’s reaction was the same every time he watched; chills intermingled with hope and fear ran up his spine.
Jeff reached into a box under the coffee table and retrieved his digital recorder. He held it in his hands as if it were an object of holy veneration. Jeff recorded his own EVP one night several months earlier at the scene of his parent’s accident. Short, incredible, and heart-breaking; his mother seemed to call his name from beyond. The EVP was still on his recorder, even though he had backed it up to a dozen sources. He would never delete it from any device. Never.
A loud thud rattled the blinds on the front door. Jeff jumped, almost dropping the recorder. His alarm lasted only a moment when he recognized the sound of the newspaper carrier’s rattle-trap station wagon puttering up the street. He peeled back the blinds in time to see the tail lights disappear into the mist. Jeff was still in his underwear with a gaping fly, but he figured his rural setting, coupled with the fog, would spare him any indecent exposure charges.
Jeff scooped up the paper, almost losing his balance on the wet concrete, and then backed through the door. He plopped down on the sofa and began to unfold the massive log of news. He was heading straight for the sports section when an article caught his eye. The title read:
Springfield … the Most Haunted City in Missouri?
The Kansas City Royals box scores could wait. Jeff dove right into the article. The ghosts of Phelps Grove Park, Bass Country Inn, Drury University, Landers Theater, Springfield National Cemetery, University Plaza Hotel, and Pythian Castle were all mentioned prominently by the author. Jeff had investigated Phelps Grove Park with one of his previous groups. One of the members claimed he saw the infamous spectral bride near the bridge, but Jeff had no such luck. He never had success when it came to firsthand experiences. Either everyone else is lying or perhaps Jeff is walking ghost repellent. He didn’t think they were lying, at least not everyone who made a paranormal claim. His recording of his mother was enough to keep faith in the paranormal.
He read the claims of Drury University with great interest. There were allegedly several ghosts, in a few buildings, which had taken residence there since the school’s founding in 1873. The saddest one was a little girl who died in a fire. Her phantom laughter could be heard from time to time in one of the women’s dorms.
Jeff enjoyed a good ghost story since he was a kid, but these were more than merely a spectral yarn. Each story offered a small glimmer of hope.
He didn’t read about Pythian Castle; there was no need. He had spent so much time researching it the last couple of weeks, he could recite the history word for word. The shadow spirits who allegedly resided in the basement intrigued him the most. They had been reported so often over the years, there was little doubt that something unusual was occurring in the depths of the castle.
Jeff finally checked the box scores, lamenting another loss by his favorite team. He scanned the comics before tossing the paper on the floor. He trudged to the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. Afterward, he put on a fresh pair of boxers and a T-shirt before stretching out on the couch. He fell asleep watching Netflix. If he dreamed of his parents again, he did not remember.
Jeff arrived at Pythian Castle an hour before dusk. The rainy morning had given way to a perfectly clear early evening. The ghostly apparition of the full moon glowed in the eastern sky as the sun began to dip. The large tower on front of the castle cast a long shadow over his truck as he pulled in and parked. He ascended the stone steps onto an expansive porch where a very large woman with a mystical fashion sense met him at the front door.
“Hello … Jack?” she said.
“Jeff,” he corrected. “You must be Swoosie.”
Swoosie half-nodded and half-bowed. She reminded him of a fortune teller he visited one time, just for kicks.
“Would you like a charm for protection tonight?” Swoosie asked, reaching into a velvet bag and retrieving what appeared to be a tiny silk pillow.
“No, thanks … I’m good,” Jeff said. He couldn’t help smirking a little.
Swoosie noticed.
“Suit yourself,” she huffed. “Spirits can pick up on those less experienced in this field. They tend to prey more on them.”
“Good,” Jeff said. “Maybe I will get some good evidence.”
Swoosie narrowed her pudgy eyelids and motioned for a man who was milling about awkwardly, studying old pictures on the wall. “Preston,” she called with a snap of her fingers.
He was a middle-aged man with a greasy ring of dark hair circling a large bald spot. His clothing was a mish mash of suit pants and a Molly Hatchett T-shirt. The shirt and pin stripe pants were riddled with stains.
“How are you?” Preston asked breathlessly. It seemed his pot belly was a strain for him to carry.
“Fine, Preston,” Jeff said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oh … I think Mr. Leach is preferable,” Preston said. “I could be your daddy.”
“Not likely,” Jeff thought.
“I’m putting the two of you together tonight since you are both new to this,” Swoosie said. “You know … strength in numbers.”
Both men’s puzzled expressions testified their bewilderment of Swoosie’s logic as if to point out that it would make more sense to put them with an experienced investigator.
“I’m a fairly experienced investigator,” Jeff said. “Tonight, makes my twentieth investigation.”
Swoosie’s condescending smile let him know she still considered him a novice. She turned and then waddled over to a sofa in the foyer where her daughter and a couple of other men waited. Their familiar banter showed them to be a clique.
“Okay, Mr. Leach,” Jeff said. “Where should we start?”
This group didn’t set up night vision cameras or environmental equipment as he hoped. Each member was only armed with a flashlight, digital recorder, and maybe a camera. Jeff was sure most of them carried a silk charm pillow in their pocket.
“I think they want us to go the basement,” Mr. Leach said impatiently. “Didn’t you hear what Swoosie said?”
Swoosie was much larger than Mr. Leach, yet she seemed a bit more agile as he watched his partner shuffle down the corridor.
“Okay,” Jeff mumbled before following him down the stone stairs to the basement.
They picked a far corner in the dark, dingy basement, and then set their digital recorders on a wooden table. The musty smell of old buildings had become synonymous with ghosts in Jeff’s mind. Even though he knew better, he sometimes entertained the idea of it being a ‘ghost odor’.
The sun was beginning to set through one of the basement windows, so they agreed to wait until full dark before beginning their session.
“Hey … you know this used to hold POWs during World War Two?” Jeff said, nodding at the old cells across the room. The iron doors had been removed many years ago on all but one.
“It was an orphanage at one time, built by the Knights of Pythias,” Mr. Leach countered.
“Really?” Jeff said, a little confused at why an orphanage would be more interesting than a POW prison.
“Yeah, can you imagine how many kids died here?” Mr. Leach mused.
Jeff’s stomach twisted. His partner seemed a little too gleeful about dead children.
“Yeah,” Jeff said distantly. He watched the last rays of the sun disappear behind the shrubbery outside. When it was completely dark, he said, “Well, shall we get started?”
Jeff jumped when a flashlight beam flared in his eyes.
“Can I ask you something, Jeff?” Mr. Leach asked, lowering his flashlight.
“Sure.”
“How did you get into paranormal stuff?” Mr. Leach asked.
“Curiosity,” Jeff began and then anger began to simmer. He didn’t know why the question upset him so, it was benign and practical. Perhaps it was his partner’s tone. “It’s really nobody’s business,” Jeff snapped.
“Fair enough,” Mr. Leach said. “What did your fiancée say about it?”
Jeff glared at Mr. Leach in the darkness. How did he know he had a fiancée?
“What makes you think I had a fiancée?” Jeff asked, pointedly.
“I know things,” Mr. Leach replied. His coy response echoing from the darkness sounded like the prelude to a horror movie.
Jeff was angry. Mr. Leach seemed to have no boundaries. Jeff’s fiancée was a sore spot. She had been a former fiancée for almost a year.
“Why don’t you tell me her name?” Jeff said, a little too loud. Shushes hissed from deep in the darkness as his voice echoed off the stone walls. It seemed the whole building heard his question.
There was a very long pause. Jeff almost thought he was alone until the answer startled him.
“I can’t see that,” Mr. Leach answered. “Only events and feelings.”
“What are you … some kinda Jedi Master?” Jeff asked.
“I’m psychic,” Mr. Leach wheezed. His last word echoed about the basement, bringing more shushes from around the building.
“Oh,” Jeff whispered. He had encountered these people before; every paranormal group seemed to have them. Out of the dozen or so self-proclaimed psychics Jeff had known in his life, there was only one he believed legitimate. An old shut-in, who he delivered prescriptions to while in college, told him some interesting things about his life that came to pass a short time later.
“So, where is my fiancée?” Jeff asked.
There was a long silence before Mr. Leach replied flatly. “With another man, I’m afraid.”
Jeff didn’t say anything. He knew she was with another man now. Lurid images filled his head as to what they may be doing right now. Acid boiled in his guts and his heart began to pound. He didn’t expect this answer; he was looking for more of a geographical location. She had been with this schmuck for six months, two weeks, and three days, but he wasn’t counting.
“Does that shock you?” Mr. Leach whispered.
“You’re the psychic … you tell me,” Jeff barked. “Look, I just want to focus on the investigation, can we do that now?”
More shushes ensued followed by a booming female voice asking them to be quiet. Swoosie had some lungs.
They were so engrossed in their argument, neither man noticed the single cell door slowly swing open and a black shadow dart down the passageway. The air grew thick and uncomfortable, but both men thought it was from their awkward conversation.
Mr. Leach didn’t answer. A moment later, Jeff heard the beep of a digital recorder turning on. The small red recording light resembled a one-eyed demon in the complete darkness. Jeff knew he hurt the guy’s feelings, but he didn’t care. Mr. Leach had trodden on areas of Jeff’s life where he wasn’t welcome. In fact, no one was welcome. His fiancée had been the last living member of anything resembling family for Jeff. She had tried to get him to see a shrink to cope with his parent’s death, but he refused. Thus, the wedge between them was forged.
On the surface, Jeff seemed to recover. He tried to move on with his life. His preacher once told him that time is a river, washing away all pains and transgressions. Yet, for those who grieve, time is often an ocean. It ebbs and flows, sometimes exposing the pain lurking beneath the surface of our consciousness with each experience.
“Truth,” Jeff thought.
He finally turned on his digital recorder and began to alternate questions with Mr. Leach.
“Is anyone with us?”
“Are you angry?”
“What is your name?”
“How old are you?”
“Why are you here?”
“When did you die?”
They repeated this process several times in different areas of the building. They never heard anything. Hopefully, there would be some evidence on the recording.
Jeff found it difficult to focus. Of course, he was tired, yet it was much more than fatigue. Mr. Leach had upset him, there was no denying it. The thing bothering him the most was the image running through his head; His fiancée and some faceless man with a Chippendale’s body were in bed together. He tried to push it aside and focus on the reason he was here. When he turned his thoughts to his parents, it did not help. He kept seeing the make-shift white cross memorial at the site of his parents’ crash. The same cross where he had recorded his mother’s voice. It wasn’t only the mental image distracting him. His mother’s one-word response echoed in his head after every EVP question – “Jeff”. A few times he thought he heard her voice coming from the darkness – “Jeff”.
Jeff knew it was fatigue, it had to be. If not, Mr. Leach would have heard something.
Jeff left Sunday morning frustrated. He sat in his truck and watched the last act unfold in what had been an all-night circus. Swoosie, her daughter, Mr. Leach, and a few other men sat in folding chairs arranged in a circle on the front lawn. They had asked Jeff to join them, but he respectfully declined. They burned sage while performing a cleansing ritual.
“We can’t have any spirits following us home,” Swoosie’s daughter proclaimed. “This’ll keep ‘em put.”
The obese Swoosie sat with her back to him. Her butt dangled on either side of the stressed chair as the legs sank into the soft and dewy sod. She swung a burning leaf around her head, making her resemble an elephant trying to douse the flames of a burning tree.
Jeff realized the only way he would get anywhere is starting his own team. He turned the ignition, causing his lights to fall on the group. They turned and glowered as if he farted and belched in church. He smiled and waved as he shifted the truck into gear.
Missouri Spirit Seekers,” Jeff muttered as he left the gate, “seems more like shit seekers.”
John D. Mimms is a business owner, paranormal researcher and author. John served as the Technical Director for a TAPS (The Atlantic Paranormal Society) family paranormal research group in Central Arkansas. During his four-year tenure with the organization, he helped supervise over 100 investigations and wrote more than sixteen technical articles. Paul Bradford, of Ghost Hunters International fame, read one of John's articles titled "A Christmas Carol Debunked" live on the air of the Parazona Radio program on Christmas Day 2009. John also wrote a definitive technical/training manual, which is a comprehensive guide on equipment usage, investigation protocol and scientific theory for paranormal research.
In 2009, John decided to couple his knowledge of paranormal phenomena with his lifelong love of literary fiction. John's first published work, The Tesla Gate, is the first installment of a three-part, heart-wrenching, sci-fi/paranormal drama. Book 1 of this unique, ground-breaking story released July 2014 through Open Road Media. In January 2016, Open Road Media released The Tesla Gate Book 2: The Myriad Resistance. Book 3: The Eye of Madness released September 27, 2016. Though fictional, the trilogy is based on scientific, paranormal theory.
Publishers Weekly declared about The Tesla Gate in the March 3, 2014 issue "...touching sci-fi story that takes the reader on an unlikely road-trip adventure...a fast read with some entertaining ideas and a real emotional core in the relationship between father and son."
The Examiner proclaimed in June 2014 , "Entertaining as well as poignant, this book is extremely imaginative in its basic premise as well as the many colorful and emotionally compelling events that take place."
John resides and writes on a mountaintop in central Arkansas with his wife and two sons.
A Daisy's Tea Garden Mystery
by Karen Rose Smith
Genre: Cozy Mystery
In
an old Victorian in the heart of Pennsylvania's Amish country, Daisy
Swanson and her aunt Iris serve soups, scones, and soothing teas to
tourists and locals--but a murder in their garden has them in hot water .
. .
"... readers are immediately drawn to main character, Daisy Swanson, and her beloved Aunt Iris." - Suspense Magazine
Daisy,
a widowed mom of two teenagers, is used to feeling protective--so when
Iris started dating the wealthy and not-quite-divorced Harvey Fitz, she
worried . . . especially after his bitter ex stormed in and caused a
scene at the party Daisy's Tea Garden was catering. Then there was the
gossip she overheard about Harvey's grown children being cut out of his
will. Daisy didn't want her aunt to wind up with a broken heart--but she
never expected Iris to wind up a suspect in Harvey's murder. Now the
apple bread and orange pekoe is on the back burner while the cops treat
the shop like a crime scene--and Daisy hopes that Jonas Groft, a former
detective from Philadelphia, can help her clear her aunt's name and bag
the real killer before things boil over . . . Includes delicious
recipes for Iris's Lemon Tea Cakes and more!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After writing romances for twenty years, Karen Rose
Smith is excited to see her Caprice De Luca home-stager mystery series
published. Her sleuth reflects many of her interests: interior
decorating, cooking, retro fashion, gardening, and, most of all, taking
in stray animals. Married to her college sweetheart, Karen has convinced
her husband that felines can make purr-fect housemates. They share
their home in the Susquehanna Valley of Pennsylvania with their three
rescued cats. For more about Karen, please visit her website.
A B&B Spirits Mystery
by Pamela Kopfler
Genre: Cozy Mystery
As the owner of a charming Louisiana bed and breakfast, Holly Davis believes in Southern hospitality—but she draws the line at welcoming the ghost of her cheating husband . . . Burl Davis checked out of this life a little earlier than expected—before Holly could serve him with divorce papers over his extramarital flings. Unfortunately, it was not before he nearly bankrupted her beloved B&B, Holly Grove, a converted plantation that has been in her family for generations. Holly would never wish anyone dead, but three months later she's feeling a lot more relief than grief. Until Burl's ghost appears as an unwelcome guest. Before his spirit can move on, her not-so-dearly departed needs Holly’s human help to bust up the drug smuggling ring he was involved with. She has reservations, to say the least, but agrees to assist him if he’ll make a show of haunting the B&B to draw in visitors. But when Holly’s former love, Jack McCann, mysteriously resurfaces in town and checks in, she has to wonder if her B&B is big enough for the ghost of her husband and the very real physical presence of her old flame . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Pamela Kopfler is a novelist, Southern-fried and sassy. She writes award-winning humorous mysteries with a kick of Southern sass. Her debut novel, Better Dead, is the first in her B & B Spirits mystery series, to be followed by Downright Ded, and Hog Wild Dead (Kensington Books). She is a four-time Golden Heart® finalist and a Daphne du Maurier award winner. She can stir up a roux, mix a cocktail, and loves swapping stories. Putting words on the page keeps her alligator mouth from overloading her hummingbird heinie in real life. She marks her time on earth by the lives of the dogs she has loved–who often show up in her stories. Pamela lives in South Louisiana where the spirits are restless, the food is spicy, and the living is divine.
I inhaled the delicious smell of my favorite coffee. The man certainly knew how to come bearing gifts first thing in the morning. But then it dawned on me. We'd never had coffee together, so how did he know this was my favorite? Lucky guess?
Taking it from him, I asked, "How did you know how to get it?"
Alexander gave me a sly smile that somehow made him even more attractive. "I'm a detective. It's my job to know things like that."
Oh, he was entirely too confident.
I offered him a seat at my kitchen table and took a drink of the dark roast coffee made exactly as I liked it—two sugars, three creamers, and ice. In fact, the temperature told me he'd gotten the number of ice cubes right too. Three. But how?
"So Mr. I'm a Detective, how did you know to get it just the right temperature and exactly the way I take it? I'm a pretty particular coffee drinker."
Another smile, but this one was slow to spread across his face and so charming I almost looked away, worried I might blush at any moment. Almost. I didn't look away, though, because I wanted the answer to my question.
"I pay attention to what goes on around me. I was sitting in The Grounds one morning when you came in and ordered that very particular cup of coffee. It stayed with me from that day."
Still quite shocked at his even being there in my kitchen, I leveled my gaze on him and tried to determine if he was telling the truth or just trying to charm me. "So you're telling me that you remembered the exact way I take my coffee, even though you didn't know me from a can of paint…when did you hear this anyway?"
"A week or so ago."
"From a week ago, when I was a perfect stranger to you and simply some person ordering a coffee, you remembered that this morning and got me my coffee just like I like it?"
He chuckled. "Yes, and the girl behind the counter knew how you took your coffee when I told her it was for you. I'd forgotten how many ice cubes, if we're being honest."
I took another sip of coffee and couldn't help but smile. He probably charmed the pants off Jennie. And he probably didn't have to remember anything about how I took my coffee because he just told her it was for me.
Detective indeed.
"So what are you doing here, Alexander?"
The smile slowly faded, and after taking a drink from his cup, he lowered his head slightly and looked me directly in the eyes. "I came to apologize for what happened last night."
This guy had the most delicious brown eyes I'd ever seen. Brown like expensive milk chocolate, and at that moment, I felt myself getting lost in those eyes.
Snap out of it, Poppy! This isn't some high school date. If he's willing to make peace, maybe you can get his help on the case, so get your head out of the clouds and say something!
I turned away to break our shared gaze and then looked back at him. "I guess I should apologize too. I should have handled that differently. I'm sorry."
"I am too. I shouldn't have pulled my gun on you, and for that, I'm truly sorry. I have no excuse."
Something in those eyes of his told me he did have an excuse but he wasn't going to tell me. All the better because I sensed hurt lay behind how he acted.
Extending my hand, I offered my own olive branch. "No harm, no foul. Maybe if we pretend like we're meeting for the first time we can put those other times behind us. Hi, I'm Poppy. Nice to meet you."
That slow smile returned, and he took my hand in his to shake it. "Hi, Poppy. I'm Alexander, but my friends call me Alex."
"Hi, Alex."
And with those two words, everything between us changed. I didn't know why or how, but suddenly I had a feeling that he would become one of the most important people in my life. At the same time, I felt like I'd known him my entire life, even though I'd just met him days before and this was the first time we'd ever spoken more than a handful of civil words to each other.
Strangely, our conversation came to an abrupt halt after reintroducing ourselves to one another. He seemed content to sit there next to me and drink his coffee in silence, so I took the opportunity to study him as he seemed to have studied me already.
He was definitely a good looking man. I didn't need to spend much time studying him to see that. Dark, thick hair and those delicious brown eyes that told anyone who looked into them that there was a story in his past gave him an exotic feel. With the last name Montero, he was likely Italian or maybe Greek. Sunset Ridge didn't have many citizens with those ethnic backgrounds, which made him stand out even more.
I let my gaze drift over him as he sat there silently and couldn't help notice his hands. Strong looking, they were bigger than even my father's working class hands and had long fingers. I'd noted that he wasn't married the first time we'd met because of the lack of a wedding band, but now that I sat right next to him, I could see the lighter skin where it had sat on his ring finger until recently.
So where was Mrs. Montero? Was she the woman I'd read about in the obituary from nearly five years ago? Possibly, but if that was the case, why was the mark where the wedding band had been still so clear? Five years was a long time to wear a wedding band for a wife who'd died.
I wanted to ask about his wife, if only to say I was sorry because it seemed like I should and if that wedding band mark was any indication, he still hurt. But I didn't. Alex and I were practically strangers, and strangers didn't pry like that.
At least this stranger didn't.
If he was sitting with one of those committee ladies and they had any inkling of a wife in his past, the poor man would now be dodging questions left and right about her. Those Founders' Day ladies were nothing if not nosy.
The thought of Alex stuck in a room with those four made me smile, and I looked up from staring at his hands to see he had seen where I was looking. Quickly, I turned away to avoid his gaze, feeling oddly embarrassed.
"You have a nice house here. Very cozy."
I turned back to see him scanning my kitchen, as if he were studying it like I'd been studying him. "Thank you. I like it."
"It's a big house for just one person."
I wanted to ask how he was so sure I lived alone, but he didn't even have to be a half-way decent detective to know that. A few minutes with my father the other night at the bar and he likely had my entire life story.
"I guess," I mumbled, sort of hating how awkward things had gotten between us already.
He didn't continue the conversation, but that seemed to be the type of person he was. Talk about opposites. I was what my father had always called a Chatty Cathy, but Alex parsed out words like they cost him money every time one came out of his mouth.
Sitting quietly for a few more minutes, the question that had been on my mind earlier before I got lost in those eyes of his and the idea that his past was some kind of tragedy came back to me.
Why was he here?
Breaking the uncomfortable silence, I asked, "Alex, why did you come here today? I mean, you could have just apologized and then left or simply called me to say you were sorry. Instead you come here and say you're sorry and then say little else. What are you doing here?"
I cringed at how blunt that sounded. I never meant to phrase things so succinctly. They just came out that way. Before I could apologize, though, he nodded and began to speak again.
"I like how forthright you are, Poppy. That kind of frankness is refreshing, so I'll return the favor. I've heard a number of things about you, and all of them point to someone who's smart. You're different than everyone else I've met in this town. I also know this is the first time you're working with Derek on one of his cases. To be honest, I know why he likes to have you around, but I have to believe you want to work with him on this Geneva Woodward case because you're a detective in your heart and not because you have some secret love for the brother of our police chief."
A mixture of stunned disbelief at how much Alex knew about me and amusement at the thought of my having any romantic feelings for Derek washed over me. My brain felt like it short-circuited, and not knowing what to say, I let out a laugh as the thought of Derek and me settled into my mind.
"Did I say something funny?" Alex asked, his gaze intently focused on me now.
"No. I guess I just got sidetracked by the idea of Derek and me together since, to be honest, I felt a little exposed by the rest of what you said."
"So no secret romance between you and him?" he asked with a smile that told me he was trying to make things less uncomfortable.
I shook my head and screwed my face into an expression that was meant to show my distaste for anything like that with Derek Hampton. "No. He's nice, but he's not my type."
"I had a feeling. As for the other things I said, I didn't mean to make you feel like I've been prying into your personal life. Your father loves you a great deal and he likes to brag about you. I will admit I checked into what he said and found he wasn't exaggerating. Your job at The Bottom Line might be beneath you, but you're good at it. See? You are a detective in your heart."
The Eleventh Hour
Poppy McGuire Mysteries Book 1
196 pages
Poppy McGuire has always been a curious soul, but it's her life that's usually the topic of conversation in the small town of Sunset Ridge. But now one of the town's most important citizens has been found murdered, and everyone's life is suspect. What begins as a friendly wager with her old friend Officer Derek Hampton soon becomes far more for Poppy, and she turns to Alex Montero for help, but the enigmatic former Baltimore cop's quiet way hides as many secrets as each suspect they encounter. Everyone in Sunset Ridge has something to hide, but Poppy and Alex are determined to uncover the identity of the murderer. They just have to watch that they don't become the next victims.
While life in Sunset Ridge is quaint and charming during the day, what happens after the sun goes down might shock the citizens of this small town. Things are heating up in Poppy McGuire's home town, and it isn't just the July weather. Poppy and her new partner Alex have their eyes opened to the realities of Sunset Ridge after dark when a traveling salesman is murdered in his room at the Hotel Piermont, a common destination for cheating spouses on the outskirts of town. When they find out what he sells, the mystery gets even more interesting.
Controversy sells as much as sex, and nobody knows that better than the local radio morning DJ who loves to talk politics. His shows enrage people, but who hated Lee Reynolds enough to shoot him point blank and leave him for dead in the woods outside of town? Poppy and Alex have no shortage of suspects and for once aren't at odds on who they like for the crime. But all is not well between the partners. This time, murder has brought with it a new love interest for Poppy, but Alex isn't happy with this turn of events. Will he lose Poppy, the one person he trusts in Sunset Ridge?
Poppy and Alex come up against their toughest case yet, and they may never be the same again. When someone close to both Poppy and Alex is found brutally murdered, all the clues point to Alex as the killer. But Poppy knows in her heart that her partner could never commit such a heinous crime. As the evidence begins to mount against him, Poppy must race against the clock to prove that the man she trusts with her very life isn’t the murderer, even as everyone around her is convinced of his guilt. But if Alex isn’t the killer, who is? As the mystery unravels, the past and present finally meet in Sunset Ridge.
Poppy and Alex are back for another mystery in Happy Hour, the fifth book in the Poppy McGuire Mystery Series! Springtime brings warm weather and murder to Sunset Ridge, and for Poppy, this particular case strikes close to home. Antiques dealer Marcus Tyne is found dead in the front seat of his friend’s car outside of McGuire’s after a Cinco de Mayo celebration, but at first glance, there’s no reason why he’s dead. Until the coroner finds out he’s been poisoned. When a second man is poisoned, Poppy and Alex are thrust into a mystery that threatens to tear them apart. While they struggle to solve the case as their differences become more apparent, a murderer walks free in Sunset Ridge and may have another victim in their sights.
In the middle of a late summertime heatwave, a woman Poppy interviewed for an article on paganism is found with a dagger buried in her chest in the woods out near Alex's house. Initially, Stephen and Craig are given the case, but when Derek determines that this murder shouldn't be their first big case together, Alex and Poppy are brought in to help. But Stephen has never liked Poppy, and tensions quickly begin to run high between the two sets of partners. The Sunset Ridge police force can't afford to have infighting if they want to solve this case before a fear of witches takes hold in town. It doesn't take long before everyone reaches their breaking point and Alex wonders if he will be a Sunset Ridge police officer for much longer. Life is about to change for him and Poppy, but will that change mean the end of his time in town?
Join Poppy and Alex for the final Poppy McGuire mystery! For three years, Poppy and Alex have worked together solving cases in their small town of Sunset Ridge, first as just co-workers but later as partners in nearly every sense of the word. Now they're about to take the final step and become husband and wife, but in the midst of getting ready for what folks around town are calling the wedding of the year, the murder of someone involved in the preparations makes their plans go awry. Samuel Morrow, the kind man who has run Morrow's Jewelers for over twenty years, is found murdered in an apparent break-in, and there's no shortage of suspects who may have had a reason to kill him. Oddly enough, something very valuable to Poppy and Alex is missing from his store too. Is the theft connected to the murder? As they hunt for Samuel's killer, carefully eliminating suspect after suspect, they must juggle cake tastings and reception planning, as all the while someone's watching their favorite amateur sleuth. Will Poppy and Alex solve the case and reach the altar, or will the killer make their ever after far less than happy?
Anina Collins has always loved a good mystery. As a child, her favorite books were Nancy Drew books passed down from her grandmother, and as she grew up, she moved on to Agatha Christie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and their famous detectives. She currently lives in North Carolina and writes her Poppy McGuire Mystery series.
