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With so many wonderful writers in various groups to which I belong, it’s only natural that we get into some fascinating conversations. The hot topic for over a year now has been The E-Book Phenomenon, of course. Everyone has such diverse opinions that I decided to pose the question of how e-books have changed their lives to eight of the finest writers I know. But before they share their reasons, I’ll relate mine.
I can honestly say that e-books have made my writing journey easier, quicker, more fun and much more economical. I now get more royalties for one small book than I got for a full-length novel from traditional print publishers. All that and there are no dead trees, no ink and no postage. The postage alone used to kill any joy I had in getting a meager ten percent royalty. Yay for e-books and double yay for the e-readers. Love my Kindle Fire too.
Author Wayne Zurl: A Dinosaur Rolls Over
I’m a dinosaur and proud of it. I worked long and hard to attain that status and wear a lapel pin to prove it.
Electronic publishing is advanced technology and I’m techno-phobic. I shy away from anything new. I still use a spinning reel purchased in 1964 and wish I had never bought a personal computer. (laughs)
What does this have to do with how e-books changed my life? I’m getting’ there…
When I finished my first full-length novel, A New Prospect, I began the epic chore of querying agents—a dozen or so at a clip. Agents spend hours a day writing blogs telling potential clients how busy they are. The process of getting their rejection letters took ages. After a hundred of those buggers sent me “not interested” notes, I attacked publishers willing to accept submissions directly from writers. That process was even slower.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I began writing shorter stories, novelettes, for practice. I needed a creative outlet in my retirement and manuscripts seemed a lot easier to store than model airplanes or oil paintings. Somewhere along the line, I ran across a publisher who wanted novelettes, stories between 8,000 and 11,000 words, to create one-hour audio books and e-books. I submitted something called A Labor Day Murder and a month or so later, I received something new and different—an acceptance letter. That began my career as a fiction writer.
So far I’ve seen twelve novelettes accepted, recorded by a professional actor and simultaneously turned into Kindle, Nook, Kobo, Sony and other e-book formats I never heard of. The things I’ve written can be listened to or read on eReaders, personal computers, iPads, iPods, iPhones, Blackberries, blueberries and gooseberries. (laughs)
Thanks to all the formats available and the low prices, ($1.99 or less) e-books outsell the audio versions. Thanks to e-books, the Sam Jenkins mystery series made it to the publishing map. Eventually, I found a small publisher who would take a chance on A New Prospect. It’s not only in print but in all variations of e-book, too.
This dinosaur rolled over and accepted a bit of technology that helped boost his ego and kept him interested in writing.
http://amazon.com/author/waynezurl
Ann Swann Never Dreamed Her First Book Would Be an E-book
Who knows what future opportunities lie in store for authors and readers? All I can say for sure is that we’ve arrived in the era of e-books ever after–lucky us!
I first discovered e-books three or four years ago when my handsome hubby, Dude, bought me a Sony reader for Christmas. I fell in love with it because I have so many books that I am always dusting, needing to dust, or sneezing my head off while complaining about the dust. (laughs)
Mind you, I do miss turning pages late at night when Dude’s working and I’m reading in bed with my dogs at my feet and my cat, Maggie May (yes, that Maggie May), curled up under my arm. It just isn’t the same when I doze off and the e-reader—I’ve graduated to Kindle now—falls over on my face and bonks me in the nose. Paper books don’t bonk, they just sort of slither. But enough bonking already, Betty asked how e-books have changed our lives as readers and authors.
As an author, I never dreamed my first book would be available just as an e-book. When I sent it in to Cool Well Press, I was so used to rejections that when the acceptance e-mail came, I could scarcely read what it said after the line “We like it! We want it!” (Okay, maybe it didn’t say that exactly , they are professionals, after all, but that’s how my brain interpreted it.)
So, was I disappointed when I learned that the novella-length Phantom Pilot qualified only for e-book status? Perhaps for a moment, but after we discussed the possibility of a series of Phantom books, I was satisfied. I’ve just signed the contract for Book Two: The Phantom Student. It will be novel length, thus qualifying it for both print and e-book status.
So, Betty, I guess the main way digital changed my life as an author and as a reader is this: it made me a little greedier. Now I want all my books, the ones I read and the ones I write, to be available in print and digital. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, do you? (laughs)
http://facebook.com/annswann.author
Author John Zunski: Invigorated by Writing E-books, Loves the E-readers
Easy as A, B, C… You know, another blog concerning d’em e-books. (laughs)
“ ‘ey hair farmer,” he cried stomping snow from his boots. “Put down that library machine and get me a beer, huh ennit.”
Translation from Montanan: Mr. Bartender, when you finish with that portal into worlds infinitely more interesting than drunken prattle, would you find it in your heart to pour me a fine, mass-produced libation, please?
Somewhere I’ve heard that the customer is always right, and in this case, he is! It’s wonderful carrying a library in the palm of my hand. E-readers have reinvigorated my reading experience, or more accurately, have provided literary crack-cocaine to a once on-the-wagon book junkie.
On-the-wagon not only because I was running out of shelf space, but the words on the page were harder to read. So, why don’t I build another shelf and get reading glasses?
The short answer – I’d rather live with my wife than bunk with the librarian and my ego had a difficult time admitting needing glasses. E-readers, you have given me the best of both worlds: I can resume collecting books and never have to worry about losing my glasses. Font control is a wonderful thing.
Plus I will never get back strain from lugging around the equivalent of the New York Public Library. Yes, how great is life that with a push of a button one can go from shivering on the soaked streets of London to baking in the Egyptian desert, or go from experiencing the world of an innocent child to understanding the motives of a mafia don?
E-readers are better than any TV remote control I know; not only do I control the picture, but there’s no flippin’ commercials. But, what is really cool, in someone’s portal, a reader is slipping into a world I’ve created and is experiencing it through the eyes of my characters. That has truly rocked my world.
Author Barbara Watkins Changes Mind about E-books
I have to admit when I first heard of e-books I thought to myself, this concept will never fly. Boy was I wrong!
My publisher insisted that it was the wave of the future. Boy was she right!
My first full-length novel Hollowing Screams was released in e-book format October 31, 2011 and sales fared quite nicely. The print version was released a few weeks later with disappointing sales. Not much has changed…
When a reader can purchase an e-book copy of their favorite author at a fraction of the cost of the print version, more times than not they will choose the less expensive path. For me, as an author, having these options of selling in e-book format, as well as print, improves my odds tremendously when it comes to sales.
What does this all mean for the readers? A reader can place a book in print in their hands, turn the pages, and when finished, strategically place it on the shelf. However, a reader that purchases an e-book can download that same book onto their kindle, iphone, nook tablet, computer, ipad, and other electronic devices…again for the fraction of the cost.
There will always be a place for paperback and hardback versions of your favorite authors. Imagine for a moment that you could no longer purchase the best-selling book in the world in physical print: the Bible. However, having the choice to purchase literary works in physical form or as an e-book download to your electronic device… Well, it’s a win, win situation for both reader and author.
http://www.barbarawatkins.net/
https://www.facebook.com/barbienell.watkins
Husband-and-Wife Writing Team Matt and Danielle Drake
Founded Kourageous Kids for Ill Children to Star in Own Books
Danielle: When Matthew and I first started writing we finished our first manuscript, then set out to find an agent. We were excited, until the dreaded query letter came along.
Matthew: We were part of several writing groups, forums and critique clubs. It seemed everyone had the “right” way to do a query letter. However, none of the “right” ways agreed. Felt like religion or politics…
Danielle: (laughs) Don’t encourage him. It was rather painful. We wrote and re-wrote the query what… ten times…?
Matthew: Closer to thirty, I think!
Danielle: We only got form rejections, so we trunked the novel. Gave up…until we discovered e-publishing… That first novel still rests in the back of the hard drive, but we are now learning everything we can about editing, writing and being our best.
Matthew: Most days I would be happy to never admit that first manuscript even exists. The grind really made me hate that book. (laughs)
Danielle: After so many changes…yeah… It’s toast. Honestly, I prefer the freedom to write the stories I want to, not the ones that agents think they can sell.
Matthew: I do think that e-books will revolutionize writing in much the same way that Youtube revolutionized indie film-making. I have really enjoyed the exposure to artists I would have never had an opportunity to discover on my own.
Danielle: It isn’t about selling; it’s about reaching readers. We have amazing stories to tell. I don’t want an agent to tell me they “love the idea, but don’t think they can sell it.”
Matthew: Also I wanted to say it seems fitting that our “coming out” interview is on Betty Dravis’s blog.
Danielle: She inspired us to be our best. She put us in our place, but did so in a kind manner and helped us get better.
Matthew: When she told us how horrid our writing was, she took the time to explain why and get us the writing guides to fix it.
Danielle: Matthew! No, you are right… (laughs) It was horrid, but those are your words, not Betty’s.
Matthew and Danielle: Couldn’t have done it without you, Betty!
Special Note from Betty Dravis: Since Matt and Danielle wrote the above, they have shelved their former books until they can have them properly edited, but something magnificent came out of this delay: They had been reading about terminally ill children and came up with the idea to write books for each individual child, making them the heroes of their very own picture book. They named their group Kourageous Kids and have already written several books that they’ve presented to some of the kids whose parents contacted them…or vice versa.
Needless to say, Matt and Danielle’s project has already blessed a number of children and their families. I’m so proud of them and encourage all our readers to check their websites and perhaps join their efforts. And please send them the names of ill children you think would like their very own book. Following is the Kourageous Kids Storybooks Mission statement:
Our goal is to bring hope, joy and laughter to children fighting cancer and other terminal illnesses. We write picture books for children and their siblings depicting them as the heroes and heroines they really are. Whether they are braving the pouring rain, or being part of a heroic Search and Rescue team, or learning sign language to befriend a lonely girl, our stories carry messages of strength, love, compassion and courage. To personalize the messages, the main characters’ names are those of the children who are living with and fighting their diseases. Included in the short stories are these brave youngsters’ favorite foods, their dreams and their aspirations. We want to give the children an opportunity to live through the stories we create for them.
Matt and Danielle are also gifted book-cover designers, graphic artists and illustrators. Check out both their websites.
http://www.wix.com/kourageouskids/storybooks
http://www.covercreations.blogspot.com
Tess Thompson Hardwick’s ‘Riversong’ No. One at Barnes & Noble
As a writer, the rising popularity of e-books has helped me tremendously. Last October my debut novel, Riversong, rose to the #1 spot on the Nook Book bestseller list. As an unknown author, without the popularity of e-books, I would never have had the opportunity to have such success.
As a reader, ironically, although I own a Kindle and love it, I still find many books at the library. As a mother of two on a strict budget, I love the library; I still feel like an awestruck child when I enter a library and realize I can take any book home I want. When I was young and single and making more money, I used to buy a lot of books, feeling that it was important to support writers however I could. Now, similarly, I love my Kindle because I can find all my favorite indie authors and read their novels, which are almost always less expensive than a latte.
Bio: Tess Hardwick is a novelist and mother. She lives in western Washington with her husband, two young daughters and their puppy, Patches. She writes a blog called, Inspiration For Ordinary Life at and is currently working on her second novel.
Author Melanie Saxton: ‘It’s a Smorgasbord Out There’
What isn’t there to love about e-books and the wonderful tools we use to read them? After all, the advent of e-books has loosened the stranglehold of traditional publishers, allowing emerging authors across all genres to bloom and e-publish. The number of books available to readers has risen exponentially, almost all at prices we can afford. Without even owning a Kindle or Nook readers can still download books in PDF format right off Smashwords, while iPad owners can simply download free Kindle and Nook apps. Perhaps people are reading more than ever due to this phenomenon . . .and that’s always a good thing!
E-reading devices are near and dear to my heart, especially since they also work with many magazines. As a contributing editor for six publications, you can bet this delights me. We are still in the Wild-West days of e-books and e-publishing and the only downside is the minor risk involved in buying an e-book that hasn’t been properly edited. But then again, I’ve read hardbacks that could use some help in that department. The point is that works we’d never, ever otherwise read are now available without the blessing of the brick and mortar publishing houses. We can choose our books all by ourselves, and it’s a smorgasbord out there!
Link to Melanie’s interview of former First Lady Barbara Bush:
http://houstonlifestyles.com/?p=4302
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1700954844
Author Joe Perrone’s E-books Earning Big Bucks;
E-reader Saving His Eyesight
When I published my first novel, Escaping Innocence (A Story of Awakening) I’d never even heard of e-books. It wasn’t until my son-in-law, Brad, told me about them that I decided to investigate them, which I did—extensively!
Now, nearly four years later, I have published a total of five books, and all of them are available as e-books—in both Kindle versions and multiple other formats through Smashwords.com.
Thanks to e-books, my life will never be the same. I am earning in excess of $25,000 a year in royalties, more than 80% of that coming from—guess where?—yep, e-books! Just last weekend, I elected to offer Escaping Innocence and my latest Matt Davis Mystery, Twice Bitten, as free downloads through the Kindle Select Program. In two days, readers downloaded 2,132 free copies of the books.
As for reading, I am so grateful to have my Kindle. I have had two detached retinas, which left me with some minor double vision. Thanks to my Kindle, I am able to read for hours on end by utilizing the font size option.
So, my answer is that e-books and the associated reading devices have changed my life forever—and for the better!
Author Betty Dravis
Have you ever seen a Christmas angel? Well, I count myself blessed because I not only see them, I’m honored to work with them on a daily basis. You see, I believe authors are the real angels of the world because they know how to give the perfect gift: the gift of reading, a gift that not only educates people, but also enables them to travel outside their own surroundings and have the most exciting, inspiring adventures imaginable.
Where else can you travel to other worlds, both real and imaginary, without leaving the comfort of your home? Or you can read while traveling by car, bus, boat, train or any other modern conveyance. A new, fascinating adventure is only a book away…
Authors work hard to make these reading adventures possible for you, anywhere from eight months to several years. In fact, author C. Robert Lee worked over twenty years to perfect his Circles of Destiny trilogy, with Imajin Books releasing the first in the series, The Other Face of God, last month. And many other writers throughout the years have done the same. Writing takes a lot of discipline, hard work, dedication and perseverance.
With that in mind, I compiled an eclectic mix of Christmas stories to entertain you and your children during this delightful new Christmas Season of 2011. Books that will also make excellent Christmas gifts. To learn more about the authors and where to purchase their books, click the links beneath the photos.
Author Barbara Briggs Ward Offers Two Adult Christmas Books
http://www.thereindeerkeeper.com
http://www.thereindeerkeeper.blogspot.com
Coming Mid-December: Author Carolyn Arnold Presents Justified,
the Second in Her Madison Knight Series
https://www.facebook.com/carolynannarnold?sk=info
http://sassy3421.blogspot.com/
What Would Christmas be Without The Christmas Story
A Little Golden Book from 2000, by Jane Werner Watson & Eloise Wilkin
Dr. Niamh Clune’s Awesome Book Orange Petals in a Storm -
Grand Finale Occurs on Christmas Eve
http://facebook.com/niamh.clune
http://www.orangeberrybooks.com/#!
Edie Hand and Jeffrey Addison Offer a Heart-warming Christmas Tale:
A Christmas Ride: The Miracle of Lights
A Christmas Gift Changes Lives in Peggy Clement’s
Tale of Shifting Sand
http://www.peggyclement.com
http://www.amazon.com/Shifting-Sand-ebook/dp/B005UR7DC6/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2
Julia Taylor Ebel’s Mama’s Wreaths is Free Verse Strung
Together Like Cranberries on a Christmas Tree
http://www.amazon.com/Julia-Taylor-Ebel/e/B001JOXFAI/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1
In Karen Pokras Toczydlowski’s Middle-Grade Novel
Nate Rocks the World, Nate helps Santa and saves Christmas
My Latest Book is Not a Christmas Book, but Get it for Your Sweetie
and You Won’t Need Mistletoe to Get That Kiss
Everyone Likes to Read About Clint Eastwood & Hollywood Icons
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I’m happy to announce that my latest e-book, Star Struck: Interviews with Dirty Harry and Other Hollywood Icons, will be launched in a few days. This is my sixth book, and I can’t wait to share the inside stories of how I met and interviewed a number of famous legends, including Clint Eastwood, the late Senator Ted Kennedy and four others.
Since these stories were published before in Dream Reachers, an inspirational “print” book containing thirty-seven in-depth interviews by me and my co-author Chase Von, I decided to “e-incarnate” them, thus making them available to the growing number of e-book readers. That’s how Star Struck: Interviews with Dirty Harry and Other Hollywood Icons came to be. And since it’s a short book, I set the price at 99 cents so more people could delight in my treasured memories.
As for the book’s description, a celebrated author described it well in this excerpt from her Amazon review:
“Dravis’s own accounts of some of her more colorful interviews… They include Bad Hair Day, a charming story about the day she met Clint Eastwood; A Treasured Moment in Time, which is about meeting Senator Ted Kennedy; Lobster Anyone?, an interview with Jane Russell; and recollections of the days she met San Francisco Mayor Joe Alioto, actress Ann Sothern and country singer Tanya Tucker… I recommend this book to all aspiring journalists for tips on conducting successful interviews. Well done…” – Michele Van Ort Cozzens, Arizona, author of Irish Twins and other best-selling novels
Another descriptive review: “Betty Dravis has lived quite an amazing life. Here she shares some of her most exciting interviews with famous legends, including Clint Eastwood, Jane Russell, Ted Kennedy and Tanya Tucker. As always, Ms Dravis’s interviews have a warmth, charm and delightful quirkiness that draw you in, fill you with enjoyment, and leave you wanting more. Ms. Dravis always adds that special personal touch that leaves the reader with a true sense of who these icons really are as people, not just as idols.” – Karen McCord Zabalaoui, Texas, Amazon Top Reviewer
Now for the BIG SURPRISE: You will never guess who I snagged to write the Foreword!
I asked a good friend who is the role model for all e-book authors to write the Foreword for me and was stunned when he accepted. I was so happy I just had to share it with a few close friends, but held my breath in case the news leaked out. I so-ooo wanted to surprise you, dear readers, with the fact that the renowned John Locke wrote the Foreword for Star Struck!
In case there is anyone on the planet who doesn’t know John Locke, he’s the first self-published author to sell a million books on Kindle and at one point had four books in the Amazon Top Ten simultaneously. Here is what The Wall Street Journal had to say about him:
“John Locke, the 60-year-old Louisville businessman turned part-time thriller writer, has now sold more than 1 million Kindle e-books, joining the ranks of such best-selling authors as James Patterson, Michael Connelly and Stieg Larsson.” - Jeffrey A. Trachtenberg
Now isn’t that exciting? Did I surprise you?
New York Times Best-selling Author John Locke
Although, absolutely delighted that John agreed to write my Foreword, I had another surprise when I read what he wrote about me. I had no idea he knew so much about me and I feel so honored. He’s a clever man whose sense of humor and outspokenness, I learned, match my own. But after all, he lives in Kentucky, the birthplace of my parents and ancestors, so we do have a lot in common. With the large family of Bargers and Crawfords I still have in The Blue Grass State, it wouldn’t surprise me if we were kissing cousins. 
Here’s a snippet from what he wrote; a teaser to whet your appetite to read the entire Foreword:
“This collection is special for another reason. It offers you a glimpse into the mind and character of the author herself. Make no mistake, Betty’s a charmer! High-spirited and full of energy, she’s a treasure, far as I’m concerned, and her wit, charm, and self-deprecating humor is evident in these unique and personal stories.” – John Locke, author of Saving Rachel and other Donovan Creed novels
Well, I’ve spent my life bragging about my interview and meeting with Clint Eastwood (not to mention Ted Kennedy and others) and now I can spend the rest of it bragging about John Locke. Two handsome, talented, dedicated men who touched my life in vastly different ways: One at the sunrise of my writing career, the other at the sunset. I’m a lucky woman…
For more about me, check these links:
http://www.orangeberrybooks.com/#!__celeb-interview-inspirational
http://talentspotlightmagazine.com/?p=832
Endnote: My publisher, Wendy Dingwall of Canterbury House Publishing informs me that Star Struck: Interviews with Dirty Harry and Other Hollywood Icons will be posted on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other online sites in “twenty-four to forty-eight hours”…if SmashWords keeps on schedule. SmashWords has the irritating habit of posting it on their site before it’s available for purchase, but I’ll post an announcement the very day it goes on sale. You can count on that! While waiting, I will appreciate it if all who read this can go to this link and push the like button:
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/103588
Other Books by Betty Dravis
Author Betty Dravis
Being as publicity conscious as the next author, it always delights me when I see a stranger reading one of my books. The publishing industry has changed drastically since my first novel was published in 2000. I’ve been pleased to see how creative authors have gotten in finding unusual places to hold book-signings…or actually, the places have probably found us (since we are normally invited to give signings).
Since I asked a number of authors to share a story about an unusual book-signing location, it’s only fair that I start this session off. And by unusual, I mean any signing not held within the hallowed walls of a bookstore. Well, here goes…
I must say, I got a rush when I saw a man reading my first book, Millennium Babe: The Prophecy, on the Capitola beach. It was all my friends could do to restrain me from trudging through the hot, burning sand, offering to sign it. But I didn’t…
That would have been a bit unusual, but looking back, I think the most unusual place where I held a signing was at a Trinity Networks Team (TNT) Christian luncheon in Modesto, about a half-hour from my current residence. I was invited to be guest speaker at the luncheon by TNT founder J.P. Hurlbert whom I met through Stan Countz who is a promoter, poet, publisher, etc. Countz is another high achiever featured in our book Dream Reachers II.
I truly enjoyed the luncheon meeting/signing because J.P. led the guests in opening prayer and Stan Countz sang and played a little Gospel music. It was, indeed, an unusual venue for a book-signing, but it was tons of fun. My joy was made complete by David Sings who videotaped my presentation for a lengthy YouTube.
http://www.youtube.com/profile?user=bettydravis#p/f/4/HQ9eF0VR87w
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Dr. Niamh Clune Has ‘Hit & Run’ Signing in the Irish Dail
When Betty Dravis asked me if I had any amusing book-signing stories to share, one immediately sprang to mind. In my capacity as an environmental campaigner, I was meeting the Minister for the Environment in the Irish Dail (equivalent to the Houses of Parliament). I was in serious mood, fired up for the challenges of the day, poised and ready to fight my corner.
Prior to the meeting, I sat in the Private Member’s bar, drinking tea with some friends. A little wrinkled, toothless man shuffled up to me and said, “Are you the Niamh Clune…” and trailed off, leaving the question suspended between us, a paused moment of seemingly tremendous importance.
He doffed his cap. I couldn’t help but notice his appearance. His trousers were folded over his belt. The legs of them were too short and riding up his calves. He looked incongruent in such a lofty place as the hallowed ancient building that housed the Irish Parliament.
But I was used to such things in Ireland. And nobody else seemed to think his appearance strange, so I answered, “I am Niamh Clune, but depends on who is looking for me!”
He looked up, nodded his head and remarked how that had been a wise response. He shuffled from one foot to the other. He placed his cap on the table, and like an Irish version of Columbo, scratched the side of his forehead slowly, then pulled on his earlobe and asked gently, “Are you the Niamh Clune from Co. Clare?”
“I am,” I said.
“And do you write books?”
“I do,” I answered.
“Now I have ya,” he grinned, and produced a scrunched-up serviette from deep within his trouser pocket. “Put it there,” he said, handing me the napkin and a chewed pencil.
I must have looked clueless. He urged, “Go on, go on… Put your signature there! Sure I’ll keep it as a memento.”
I did as I was bidden whilst struggling with the thick-leaded pencil on the flimsy serviette. I gave it to him. He looked very pleased, picked up his hat and wandered off. I called after him, “Which book have you read?”
He paused, turned slowly and said, ”Now I didn’t say I had read any of them, now did I? But I did know your mother, and very fine she was too!”
http://niamhclunewrites.blogspot.com/
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Slushie, Hot-dog…and Shane Moore’s book, please…
One of my publishers was friends with the owners of the 7-11 chain in Saint Louis. They were testing the market, so they asked if they could schedule a signing of his best-selling writer at their stores.
He volunteered my services, so there I sat in a 7-11 store, signing books from 11am to 4pm. These books were sold with slushies and hot-dogs… (laughs) I was pleased, though, because I sold ninety-six books. That has proven to be a retail record; no bookstore in my career has ever topped that. http://www.abysswalker.com
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Auto Dealer ‘Parties Hardy’ for Collette Scott’s Books
Okay, my most unusual book-signing was at an automobile dealership, Camelback Toyota in my town of Phoenix, Arizona. They were kind enough to have me out there with a DJ and a local restaurant to serve their customers. It was a huge PR blast for the customers. I signed forty books, with donations taken for a local children’s safe-house charity. It was so much fun. There are pictures on my website and Facebook page.
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Author Chris Thrall Surprised by Success…
I’ve got my upcoming launch in a nightclub. I often go to this club, but I never thought for a minute I would be signing my book in it! As for signing, it’s just a weird experience full-stop– signing a book for anyone! Perhaps the strangest place so far is in my workplace for colleagues… Sorry I haven’t got a funnier story!
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Jodie Brownlee Finds Fan While Traveling
You asked where was the most unusual place I signed a book. It was on a train in my hometown on my way to visit a friend. I hadn’t lived there for over twenty years and was unknown in the area so it was a surprise to see a nearby passenger reading my book. For a few moments I just enjoyed the sensation that comes when you see someone reading your book. Then I plucked up the courage to tell her that I was the author. She couldn’t believe it. I told her I grew up in her town (a small semi-rural suburb of Australia) and I signed her book. Then we arrived at the station and went our separate ways, both beaming. It was a lovely encounter.
http://facebook.com/jodie.brownlee
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Children’s Pirate Books Author Signs in 1874 Lighthouse
The St. Augustine lighthouse is the most unusual location where I hold book-signings. It’s an active lighthouse on the north end of Anastasia Island, within the current city limits of St. Augustine, Florida and was built in 1874. I also wrote a fair amount of the first draft of my first book in the shadow of that lighthouse in a grove of live oaks on the grounds. Also two chapters of Bad Latitude take place in that lighthouse and my books sell like crazy in their gift shop.
Re: another blog you wrote, Mark LaFlamme’s answer to your question about what authors wear while writing was pretty much what I would have expected. He’s a nut… (For the record, I wear t-shirts, cargo shorts and flip-flops most of the times, especially when I write.)
Now there’s a picture of me on my blog with my grandson that you might get a kick out of. He thinks I’m a pirate and tells his classmates that I’m famous, so in anticipation of his visit, I let my beard grow long…for the sake of the picture. Naturally, my wife Deb was happy to see it trimmed hours after the photo was taken. (Endnote from Dravis: I decided to use the photo that Dave’s referring to in the following montage. He does make a convincing pirate, doesn’t he?)
http://jackrackhamadventures.blogspot.com/
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Chapter 1 Monday Afternoon, early June
Detective Tucker had always heard that if you were going to sin, figure out who to tell or join the Catholic Church, even here in the Bible belt. Past sins denied were to the psyche like a web woven in the night poised to smack you in the face on that narrow trail.
Tucker headed back to his partner in the idling county vehicle. Tiny warning hairs on the back of his neck quivered, signaling danger. Thunder roiled loud and long, echoing a gut feel that something criminal was about to happen.
He looked back over his shoulder. Lightning crackled overhead then focused full force on a tree not a hundred feet behind him. Tucker stuck his fingers in his ears when the resulting boom reverberated in the nearby Blue Ridge Parkway underpass.
Acrid smoke from a newly blacked streak down the length of a large poplar snag filled his nose but no fire broke out. He bolted down the highway berm as the lightning-struck dead tree, not a hundred feet away, crashed down as if directed straight at him. Close call, he thought, as the jolt of adrenalin passed through him.
At least the rain held off, a relief after twenty-eight straight days of downpours in these North Carolina mountains. The official three-year drought was over. The unusually hot eighty degrees made the place feel dank and damp as a rain forest. Graves, his partner, answered a call and motioned Tucker to the county SUV.
Tucker punched the voice mail button on his cell phone while jogging the last few yards to the county vehicle.
“I swear I’m not involved,” Jemma’s message said. Tucker buckled his seat belt as Detective Graves drove the patrol car. He put Jemma’s message on speaker phone. “Someone keeled over in the game room at Blue Falls Ranch. I called 911 to get the ambulance. Come quickly. A nurse attending our photography club meeting is doing compressions. I’ll get the defibrillator. Something’s not right.” Her voice relayed an undercurrent of excitement Tucker had learned meant her CSI wannabe tendencies had kicked in. “He’s my age, in his 30s, healthy, friendly. We think it’s poison. Gotta go. I’ve moved everyone but the nurse out into the dining room.”
Jemma Chase had called his cell phone and left that message while he’d nearly been zapped by lightning. He concentrated to stop the grin that his partner said came on his face every time he heard her voice. Graves confirmed that dispatch directed them to proceed to the scene. The investigation of vandals painting the underpass could wait. Wish they’d grow up and find a real life, he thought as Detective Graves drove the steep winding Elk Creek Road down the mountain to Triplett Valley. The road dropped a thousand feet in three miles to the lowest point in Watauga County, around seventeen hundred feet in elevation. Another murder, suspicious death, according to Jemma. She’d had enough experience in that area to know. Tucker gripped the overhead handle to stabilize himself while Graves took the last three curves a little too fast. Luckily, no other vehicles approached on the narrow sixteen foot wide asphalt road.
Still no rain but lots of thunder and lightning when they drove on to the Blue Falls Ranch property, under the rustic sign supported by hand-hewn posts imbedded on either side of the gravel road. A couple of horses dashed madly toward the barn, tails high, within the white rail fence in the pasture on the right. A pond with benches and trees glistened between the corral and circular drive. The ranch road followed a fast flowing creek for the first quarter mile then veered to the right. A wide circular drive led to the two-storied log lodge, reminiscent of the national park lodges out west. Five rustic duplex cabins sat back from the winding creek. Tucker glimpsed Jemma’s own cabin on the far side of the creek, off by itself.
Tucker and Graves split up and quickly photographed all the vehicles parked outside the lodge, including the jumble of cars, with portable red lights attached to the roofs, belonging to first responders. Never knew which evidence was key in a suspected homicide. If it proved to be a natural death, all that was lost was some time and effort.
Tucker photographed the dozen steps up to the main lodge then ran up them and into the lodge, heading to the game room. He nodded to Jemma’s parents, the ranch owners, standing outside the dining room. Tucker’s own heart thumped when the first responders applied the defibrillator shock to the man on the floor, someone he’d known for a long time. The upper body jumped inches off the floor with the jolt. He could have sworn he saw Scott’s haint hover above his body then float away. Too much coffee. Too many ghost stories told around the wood stove when he was a kid.
Tucker looked around the game room while the whine of the defib recharge filled the silence.
Photographs and papers littered three tables near the body. At Tucker’s glance, the first responder shook his head, confirming what Tucker already knew. The second jolt hadn’t restarted the heart. Too young to die. Scott Barker had gone to school with Tucker’s younger cousin. He’d have to call Scott’s parents once he was officially pronounced by the Medical Examiner at the hospital. The ex-wife should be told, too, he thought as he photographed the body. Years of experience had made the task familiar but not easier. He could hand off that job to someone else but he’d been friends with Scott. The photos might reveal information about who and why someone wanted Scott dead.
Then he joined Graves in the dining room. Smart of Jemma to clear the scene of unnecessary people. Jemma stood apart from the two quiet groups clustered over by the coffee pot. A nod in her direction was all he allowed himself. Couldn’t think about their last night together, had to focus. He’d sort out the “conflict of interest” argument with the Chief later. Jemma did have a knack for being around the only unnatural deaths in Watauga County lately. At least this time she’d called 911 immediately and then called him. She’d better leave the investigating to him. He was in charge. Tucker walked over to his partner, Graves. “You take the six in the group to the left. And Jemma. I’ll take the other group.”
A rotund man with a military stance offered his hand. “How Is Scott? I’m Harold, president of this photography club.”
“We would like to talk to each of you separately.” Tucker shook the hand then diverted everyone’s attention. “Please have a seat and refrain from talking.”
“Why? What’s happened? Is he dead?” Harold persisted.
“He’s not responding. This is routine. We’ll get to you as soon as we can. You, too.” He nodded at Jemma. The ambulance arrived, the paramedics consulted with the first responders then loaded the body onto the stretcher and carried it down the steps to the ambulance.
Tucker pulled aside the lead paramedic. “Be sure to have the M. E. take both cut and pulled hair samples and nail clippings. He’ll have to send his poison testing results to Chapel Hill.” Tucker frowned. “I’ll leave the choice of which poisons to request since I’m not sure.” The paramedic wrote in a notebook and left.
Graves wrote down the names of those who responded to the call. The first responders left at the same time since they had not been on site at the time of the possible crime. Jemma’s parents returned to work for the same reason.
Tucker called to update the Chief, request forensic and patrol assistance and have an officer meet the ambulance at the hospital to establish a chain of custody and collect the clothes and personal effects for possible trace evidence. The county force was small and underfunded for the area they had to cover, but they’d learned to work with what was available. Sending evidence to the state lab would take weeks, maybe months for results. Scott’s family shouldn’t have to wait that long. If the autopsy showed poison, or failed to show an obvious natural cause of death, Tucker’s investigative skills would be tested.
In the dining room members of the photography group grumbled but shuffled to separate tables. Tucker pulled out a sheet of paper from his pad and handed it to the closest person. “We appreciate your help and will get you out of here as soon as possible. Where was everyone sitting?” He drew the three tables and the chairs as they were currently arranged in the game room. The drawing was passed to a few people who filled in the blanks, others crossed off some of those and filled in different names, then the diagram was returned to Tucker.
Tucker returned to the game room. An incomplete jigsaw puzzle covered a table in one corner. Hundreds of books filled bookcases; DVDs littered shelves. An old fooseball game, a pool table and a ping pong table dominated the far end of the room. A large TV was behind the sheet used as a make-shift screen for the PowerPoint presentation. How many ranch guests had used this room over the years? He took numerous photographs, knowing they wouldn’t get much forensic evidence from the well-used room. He concentrated on the three tables used by the group then sealed the room behind him to preserve it for their forensic guy.
Jemma gave Tucker permission to use the ranch office to talk with witnesses. Graves used the front porch. Jemma must have alerted her aunt Alma because no one entered the dining hall from the kitchen. Alma was probably worried about delaying supper for the guests. He’d do his best to clear everything except the game room before the six o’clock supper time.
“Roger, would you like to go first?” At his nod, the two went into the small office next to the dining room.
Tucker shook the judge’s hand. He was Tucker’s height, a little over six feet, mid-fifties, sixty pounds overweight, and had gray hair at the roots indicating he was overdue for a dye job. Under that good ole boy exterior ran a man whose job had become too routine.
“How are plans for the re-election going?” Tucker asked as he and the judge settled into two chairs set at an angle to each other near a well-used wooden desk. Tucker dropped a writing pad on the corner of the desk.
“Fair. It’s a little early yet. The wife’s more excited about it than I am. She loves the dressing up and parties part of the election year. We’ll have to invite you to the next one.” The judge leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head.
Tucker catalogued the body language as puffing himself up, faking comfort and nothing to hide. “I went to one of your pig pickins last election. You had Elvis sing for us.”
“We’ll probably book Clinton again this year. He’s right fine entertainment.” The judge’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He probably evaluated Tucker as closely as Tucker did him.
“Tell me something about this photography club.”
The judge dropped his hands to his stomach and interlocked his fingers. “It’s been around for about five years. I’ve been a member for two. We usually meet at the Watauga County Library but some other group had signed up for the meeting room in this time slot.”
“How did it end up being held here?”
“Jemma Chase volunteered the place. She joined a few months ago.”
Tucker nodded slowly. To another investigator, such a scenario could have her setting up for a kill by taking advantage of a setting she knew well. Tucker knew she’d never do anything to harm her family’s guest ranch. “You never know about people’s hobbies. How’d you get interested in taking pictures?”
“The wife and I took a vacation to the Caymen Islands. When we got back, I realized I’d photographed every sunrise and sunset. Love those brilliant colors. I saw an announcement about the meeting in the paper and decided to keep taking pictures.”
Tucker jotted down a few notes, Caymen Islands, bright colors. “How well did you know Scott?”
The judge sat up in the chair, pulled in his legs and rested an arm on the desk. “I wondered how long it would take you to get around to that. He must be dead, and not from natural causes.”
Tucker looked down at his notepad then looked back at the judge. Silence many times worked well to get someone to talk. The Chief would want to know every word spoken here.
“I been knowing him for years. His daddy and I were friends at Appalachian State. We’ve been to a lot of the same events since he’s the newspaper reporter-photographer.”
“Tell me what happened in there.”
“We generally have a business meeting, take a short break, then have a presentation by one of us or a guest speaker. A half hour into the presentation, Scott threw up and started convulsing. Almost hit me with his spewing and I was two chairs down from him.”
“Was there anything else different about this meeting?” Sometimes he got more from casual conversation than hard questioning. People saw things without realizing it.
“Not that I noticed. At the break, some of us gathered around Scott to see his Best in Show trophy from a Grandfather Mountain photography contest.”
“Some?”
The judge nodded. “Those of us sitting near him. Jemma went to the kitchen earlier to bring out the coffee urn right before the break. I remember because I almost dozed off during the business part of the meeting. The smell of coffee tugged me awake.”
“Did you enter the contest?”
“Not this year.” A flicker of disgust crossed the judge’s face. “My wife forgot to put the application in the mail. By the time I checked on it, the deadline had passed. She’s a great woman but sometimes gets too busy with her volunteer work. I’ll send in the application myself next year.” The judge put his hands on his knees and sat up straight.
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Like a lot of people in the mountains, Jemma Chase has a second job — she’s a carpenter. That leads to trouble brewin’ in the Property Owners Association.
Our State Magazine, here’s the review by Elizabeth Langfahl:
Boone author Maggie Bishop brings back carpenter, photographer, and unabashed “SCI” wannabe Jemma Chase in the second of her Appalachian Adventure Mystery series. In “Perfect for Framing,” Jemma finds herself entangled in a web of neighborhood intrigue after she accepts a custom cabinet-making job in an up-and-coming mountain development, Hickory Hills. At the same time, energetic Jemma is in pursuit of a job with the sheriff’s department, where the man she is “keeping company” with, Detective Tucker, is employed.
While installing cabinetry in the home of a local resident, Jemma learns that power-hungry, rich, and attractive Property Owners Association President Petula Windsor has made many enemies in Hickory Hills and beyond. Petula hires Jemma to build cabinetry for her guesthouse. Neighborhood intrigue escalates when Jemma discovers Petula’s body in the burning guesthouse.
Although Detective Tucker is understandably reluctant to include Jemma in the murder investigation, Jemma’s natural instincts and knowledge of Petula’s foes and friends prove to be invaluable, even as Tucker finds his own life threatened. Together, Tucker and Jemma begin to discern the true nature of Petula’s many relationships and discover the identity of her killer. In a surprising twist, Jemma also discovers what is really worth pursuing in her own life.
“Perfect for Framing” is a fun, fast-paced read with lots of local flavor. Although the mystery surrounding Petula’s demise will keep you quickly turning pages, what’s ultimately most satisfying is keeping company with the characters of Jemma and Tucker in this mountain adventure.
*********
Prologue
Petula rose from her lover’s bed, paraded naked to the vanity mirror, and finger combed her hair so it fell over one eye.
“Your bruises are almost gone,” the man said.
She smiled at him then studied herself in the mirror. “The lipo doctor did a thorough job. He took six pounds and three inches off my mid-section. I wish these numb spots would go away.”
“Give it time, Pet. Your face is almost healed.” He propped himself up with her pillow and reached for his cigarettes.
“I hope I’ll look better than this soon,” Pet said, still studying herself in the mirror. “I thought you gave up those things.”
“After this one. I’m down to a couple a day. Besides, you said the same thing after your face lift – no more plastic surgery.”
“A lady has a right to change her mind,” she called as she stepped into the shower.
By the time she was dressed and had put on makeup, he had his jeans back on. “I’m still mad you let someone buy that lot I wanted to build on,” he said as she emerged from the dressing area in her guest house. He pulled on a crumpled polo shirt.
“Don’t you worry. I’m in the perfect position to make their lives miserable. Didn’t I make it too tough for the last owners to build? I wasn’t President of the POA a couple of years ago when you wanted to put your modular on that lot. Now I have the other homeowners in my grip. If you can’t build there, no one can.”
He dropped the butt into the beer can and hugged her, resting his chin on her head. He said, “Revenge can be so sweet. Maybe you can bankrupt the POA with a lawsuit.” He let her go and sat down to tie his sneakers. then asked, “What are you doing with that situation with your husband? Any progress?”
“Don’t you worry about that either. I’ll end up with the house and a big alimony settlement. Then it’ll be just the two of us.”
Chapter 1, DECEMBER, THURSDAY
“That’s outrageous even for Madam President,” Karen said into the phone. “She’s going to get herself killed one of these days. Come to think of it, that might be a relief to a lot of us.”
At the mention of a murder, Jemma’s measuring tape clattered to the floor as she stared at her customer. Jemma Chase wasn’t eavesdropping, exactly.
“She must be getting a kick out of playing god again, lording over your land, teasing you with delays. The power-hungry little demon. Murder by hanging would be too easy for her.” Karen Harmon grinned into the telephone. After a moment she laughed, then said, “Maybe she could be in a horrible car accident, complete with head through the windshield, destroying the doctor’s latest work. Would serve her right for using a Florida plastic surgeon who gave her that uneven hair line.” Karen glanced at Jemma who quickly closed her mouth. Karen winked before continuing her phone conversation. “She deserves a spike through her heart, if she had one. She has the sculpted look of a cemetery angel and the attitude of a pit bull. There’s not enough Botox and filler in the world to plump up her shrunken heart.”
Karen snapped her gum as she hung up the phone. “Our illustrious POA President is at it again,” she said to Jemma. “Honey, give a petty person a little power and they’ll abuse it
every time.”
Jemma nodded and retrieved the tape measure, her dream of playing CSI faded. Her fantasy of being a Crime Scene Investigator wouldn’t bring in money, only trouble, as Detective Tucker was so fond of pointing out. This energetic little lady wanted more cabinets and a breakfast bar in her kitchen and Jemma was eager to use her carpentry skills on something besides decks and porches.
“You don’t live in Hickory Hills so this doesn’t matter to you,” Karen dropped her wrist and snapped her gum, “but Mrs. POA Windsor has started to make building a new home in our subdivision a nightmare. Just living near her sets my pulse racing like Junior Johnson with a load of moonshine, or like Ringo on steroids.” She laughed at her own joke.
“Ringo Starr?” Jemma re-measured the space to re-direct attention to the work at hand. She chomped at the bit to get on with the task at hand. Carpentry and photography had been occupying her time during the ranch’s off season, but she still managed to ride her horse Brandy most evenings.
“They were before your time. Come to think of it, they were before mine.”
“What’s a POA for anyway?”
“Property Owners Association. This one started at fifty dollars a year to plow the roads after snow storms and for re-graveling in the spring. We’d have a pot-luck lunch in the spring and a quick budget review in December. That was it.”
“What changed?”
“When the original president died and the treasurer moved away three years ago, nobody wanted to do the little work that was involved, including me. We had a house plan review board but the only things we enforced were minimum square footage and no trailers. Later that was expanded to keep out modular homes. Petula agreed to be president and we were happy thatsomeone cared enough to volunteer.”
“And now? How did she get elected more than once if she’s so hard to deal with?”
“Petula charms the men and talks of increasing home values. They love being on her board and don’t miss a meeting. She’s the only woman on the board, a mistake we women hope to remedy at the meeting coming up. She turned our friendly mountain into her own soap opera, starring herself. Maybe she was never in charge of anything before and this makes her feel powerful. Honey, even her husband stays out of her way in POA matters. He’s never even attended a meeting since she took over. My guess is that things are calmer at home if he lets her loose on us. Of course I don’t let my husband attend the meetings, either – our home is certainly calmer if he stays away. Anyway, lately she’s been pushing for a special assessment of seven thousand dollars per owner to pave the road. That’s a shopping trip to her but a lot of cash to most of us.”
About twice that of her own savings account, Jemma thought. “The road is fine to me even with the couple inches of snow we got yesterday.”
“Right, honey. She claims safety issues, as if the fire department or the sheriff couldn’t travel almost as fast on the gravel we have. We have snow plowers on contract. Her latest focus is for houses in here to befit her image as mistress of the mountain.” Karen emptied an ash tray with a single butt into the trash can. “My husband still has one after we cuddle, if you know what I mean.”
Jemma nodded and tapped the paper with her pencil as a signal she wanted to get back to work. As she looked down at the tiny woman, she wondered if Karen knew her hair had a flat spot right on top.
“She’s turned down Ann’s plans again claiming they don’t meet the square footage – but they do. The plans are for twenty-six hundred square feet and the POA minimum is for twenty-two hundred. She can’t change the requirements until they are voted on at the meeting in two weeks.” Karen opened the refrigerator and pulled out a diet soda. “Want one?”
Jemma shook her head. “The romance of living in these mountains includes live and let live, rugged individualism and all that. How does she get away with playing with people?” Jemma tugged on the flannel shirt she’d found in the men’s section of the thrift shop. Blouse sleeves were always too short, same with pant legs.
“You’ve never met Petula Windsor, have you?” Karen poured the soda in a glass and took a big swallow.
“No, the name’s not familiar.” A development had to have a strong grapevine. Doing a good job for Karen could boost her reputation for carpentry work.
“Her husband is Ward Windsor, the Executive VP at Allgoode Bank. They moved to town fifteen or sixteen years ago. This’ll be her third year as POA President. She’s an agitator, likes to keep things stirred up. She treats us like we’re her hive and she’s queen bee. Honey, she’ll get stung one of these days.” Karen’s eyes widened at her own pun, then she tittered. “Anyway, she complained about people dumping grass clippings and leaves in the woods behind their own houses, oh, and a man walking his dog on a leash before eight in the morning. Now she’s bugging an owner wanting to build on the lot across the street. That’s my friend, Ann. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Jemma gave up on rushing her customer. Karen led Jemma to a picture window in the living room, which had a view of the neighboring snow covered ridge through the leafless trees. That view could disappear if a house were built directly across the road. If the house were set to the left, though, where there was already a clearing, Karen would still see for miles.
“See where they’ve cleared the trees? Madam President even complained about that. She ran off the contractor and slapped a law suit on the owner. That law suit could cost the POA tens of thousands of dollars if it goes to court.”
“Can’t the other property owners do anything about her?”
“Short of murder?” Karen again snapped her gum. “I’ve been making good use of talking while shopping with some of the wives. Surprises may be coming Petula’s way at the meeting.”
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"An established must-read romance author, Maggie Bishop has crossed into the mystery genre with finesse. Her latest novel is packed with suspense around a tightly-woven plot which begins with the poisoning of dogs and escalates to the murder of a local man. Throughout, she deliciously teases the reader with the bristly attraction between the investigating detective and the woman who found the dead man's body and who just might be a suspect. Set against the beautiful backdrop of Boone, North Carolina, with engaging characters, red herrings at every turn, and a galvanizing story line, this is a must-have, must-read. Highly recommended." Christy Tillery French, Midwest Book Reviews
Chapter 1
Who poisoned the dogs? The words repeated in Jemma Chase’s head as wrangler Bo dropped her off at the Watauga County Sheriff’s office, located at the jail on Queen Street in Boone, North Carolina. On this October Monday, errand day, high clouds scuttled across an otherwise clear sky. Cool breezes blew in from the northwest to this Appalachian mountain town. Why would someone do that to an animal? It’s one thing to poison a person – but a dog?
Jemma trudged up the cracked cement steps and into the grey concrete building. The small waiting room floor was covered with peel and stick vinyl tiles. One vending machine, one pay phone, a tiny table with two plastic chairs, and a small bulletin board with three bail bondsmen’s business cards thumb tacked – all illuminated by a fluorescent ceiling fixture that blinked dim every few seconds. She swallowed hard and spoke through a metal-grated window to the two armed guards.
One of them emerged to lead her down a barren hallway, past four jail cells – one with a man sleeping on a bunk– and into a back office crammed with two desks and two chairs. One desk held papers stacked in distinct piles, pens at attention in a coffee mug. Citations and certificates of achievement were propped three deep on top of a bookcase mounted on the wall above the desk. A boxy CTR monitor displayed a screen saver of intricate puzzles being filled in; the keyboard was free of the grime on the other desk’s keyboard. In contrast, the other work space’s paper stacks defied the laws of gravity. The guard brought in a folding chair and indicated as he left that she sit on one of the desk chairs. She sat with her back to the disheveled pile. Her senses were on alert; her heart beat loudly in her ears.
Two men walked in carrying cups of coffee.
“Would you like some coffee, Miss Chase?” The younger one sat at the next desk and swiveled his chair to face her. He looked to be in good shape, tailored shirt, tie, pistol in a holster at his hip. He had dark hair, cut short, and a quick, ready smile.
“No. Nothing, thanks.” Jemma sat up straighter with both feet firmly on the floor.
“I’m Detective Tucker, and this is Detective Graves.”
Graves settled into the folding chair and crossed his leg, ankle on the opposite knee.
Detective Tucker leaned forward. “We appreciate you coming in here and talking to us. I know there’s a ton of things you’d sooner be doing –”
Mucking out the stables seemed more appealing at the moment, Jemma thought. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
“So I’ll get to it. You’ve heard about the dog poisonings out your way. We wondered if you could shed any light on what’s happening.”
“Nothing more than what my parents told you.” Jemma sat tall to keep from shaking.
“I see.” Detective Tucker sipped his coffee. Detective Graves doodled on a legal pad propped on his leg. “Let me back up a bit. Is the Blue Falls Ranch your official address?”
“Yes.” Jemma clasped her hands together on her lap.
Detective Graves wrote on the legal pad.
“Where did you move from?”
“How is that relevant?” She glanced at the other detective, at the progressive puzzle on the computer screen, then focused on Detective Tucker.
“Now, now, Miss Chase,” Graves interjected, “no need to be jumpy. We’re fillin’ in a report.”
His obvious attempt at sounding fatherly irritated Jemma. She opted to let the irritation go. “Colorado Springs, five years ago. My parents moved here fifteen years ago. Dad wanted horses; Mom wanted a bed and breakfast–and me, I just want peace.” She looked at her hands and resisted the impulse to pick at a ragged cuticle.
Detective Tucker asked her a few other simple questions for his report. He seemed to be studying her every move, so she willed herself to be calm. Police interrogation wasn’t new to her.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I work at the ranch, lead trial rides, help in the kitchen. I also do carpentry.”
Detective Tucker’s eyes widened. “Bet that comes in handy. You’ll have lots of work around here with all the new construction going on.”
She nodded. “I mainly fix things at the ranch. I’m rebuilding the old house I stay in.” She unclinched her fingers.
“I understand you had a run-in with your neighbor.”
Jemma licked her lips. “Not really. I asked Rhonda Lea to stop her son from driving his four-wheeler on our property. He was tearing up our horse trails.”
“You want to tell me about it?” Detective Tucker put his cup on his desk. Detective Graves stopped doodling.
“There’s not much to tell. When she started to deny it, I asked her to meet me at the trail that runs near her property so I could show her. They own a couple of acres next door. She works for DOT, Department of Transportation. She and her twelve year old son came. I don’t know where her daughter was. I showed them where he had worn a trail from her property to meet up with our trail. Twenty or so yards of the trail was rutted so deep that water stood in the tire tracks. Our horses now have to avoid those areas. We don’t want their legs to be injured walking in that muck. The son had spooked a group of riders a few days before and I had trouble calming down our guests as well as the horses. You have no idea how hard it is to reassure twenty-six horses.”
“I understand he’d been on those trails before, and no one had said anything.”
“That was because he used to walk the trails, not spin wheelies on them. I wanted to put a stop to it then, but Dad didn’t want to annoy the neighbors. You know how folks around here can hold a grudge.”
“You got that right,” Detective Graves said. “Part of the old mountain ways.”
“Her family’s been here since the 1800s so she takes every slight as a major offense.”
Detective Tucker leaned back in his chair. “So, then what happened?” He nodded in encouragement.
“Rhonda Lea’s son grabbed her hand and tried to get her to leave. Rhonda Lea’s almost as tall as I am but wiry, thin as barbed wire. Her face got red and she started screaming like a wild cat – accused me of hating her.” Jemma paused to bring her voice back down to normal. “I have no idea where that came from. I barely know her. I went over once for coffee at her invitation but we didn’t hit it off. She’s got a family to take care of, and I don’t. We don’t have anything in common. I thought she was a nice enough lady, but I’m not looking for high-maintenance friends.”
“What do you mean by that?” Detective Tucker asked, his tone friendly.
“Rhonda Lea’s one of those people that recounts all the moments in her life, no matter how minor the event or small the detail. She’s a drama queen. She likes to know what all the neighbors are doing; she wants regular visits. I hear she’s on medication, but her temper is not under control.”
“Would you tell me about the morning you learned about the dogs?”
“In detail?”
“Tell us everything,” Detective Graves added.
Jemma looked from face to face. The detectives looked open and friendly, like the guests at morning breakfast at the ranch. Curious but not concerned. Jemma let her mind set the scene. She thought about coming in from greeting the dawn. Nothing stirred–no breeze, no bees–on that foggy morning. Brandy’s whinny floated in the mountain air. The valley fog was so thick it surrounded and concealed all living things. It was one of those mornings you had to roll down the window if you drove to an intersection and listen for oncoming vehicles. You couldn’t see ten feet. It had been an unseasonably warm week.
“Early morning the phone rang. It was Rhonda Lea. I said no, I hadn’t seen the dog, but that I’d take a walk around and look. I walked to the creek and headed toward the Thompson place. It made sense that an animal would head for water if it didn’t head home. Eventually I came to their driveway. Rhonda Lea was there, at the culvert.
“‘We found him,’ Rhonda Lea said, glaring at me. Rhonda Lea’s husband rushed the bundled up dog to his truck.
“‘Is he okay?’ I asked, even though she scowled at me.
“‘I don’t think so. We’re heading to the vet,’ Rhonda Lea said.
“Rhonda Lea called the next day. The dog’d been poisoned by an antifreeze-laced hamburger, or it could have been Christmas tree poisons, she managed to get out between sobs. The vet couldn’t be sure which it was without an autopsy. She said they found a half-chewed fast food wrapper on the border between her house and Blue Falls Ranch. Within days, the dead dog count in the valley was up to twenty-one. Both of our dogs were fine.
“Speculation abounded. Everyone had antifreeze. Was it a hunter prepping for deer season? A neighbor tired of driving through packs of dogs? That crazy kid who had an aneurism years ago?–he hasn’t been the same since.
“Thank goodness horses are vegetarians, I remember thinking. And that the guest ranch horse barn is so far off the public road. A few hours later, my parents told me that detectives had stopped by and talked to them about the dog poisonings. They’d said it was a puzzler and asked if I’d mind dropping by the office next time I went to Boone. So here I am.” Jemma remained more relaxed than she expected. Detective Graves now reminded her of a kindly uncle she didn’t have.
Detective Graves cleared his throat. “That was a fine rendition, almost like you’d practiced it.”
Jemma sat up, alarmed at the potential behind his words. “I’ve been thinking about that morning. I’ve been haunted about the cruelty to the dogs. It was a mean thing to do.”
“It was that.” Detective Graves tapped his note pad. “Have you spoken to Mrs. Thompson since?”
“Rhonda Lea has problems I don’t need to get involved with.”
“I understand you’ve had some problems yourself.” Detective Tucker cocked an eyebrow.
“Don’t we all.” Jemma shifted in her seat. “I wasn’t guilty that time either.”
“Oh?” Detective Tucker’s eyes flickered with interest.
“Picked up for DUI. I only had two drinks. That skunk with me jerked the wheel.” Jemma’s heart sank. They hadn’t known. “That’s when I came East and moved in at my parents’ ranch.” Detective Tucker’s face froze. What had she said to cause that?
The detectives glanced at each other. Detective Tucker looked directly into Jemma’s eyes. “Did you poison those dogs?”
“No! Why would I do that? I love animals. I even move spiders from inside the house and not kill them … Did Rhonda Lea accuse me?” Blood drained from her face. “You think I poisoned her dogs and the others in the neighborhood as revenge for her son riding on our land?” Jemma willed herself calm and lowered her voice. They were trained to read body language, and she had nothing to hide. “Doesn’t that sound weak to you?”
“Why weren’t your ranch dogs poisoned?” Detective Tucker leaned forward.
“They stay away from the road, spend more time with the horses, I guess.” Jemma’s hands curled into fists on her lap.
“How come you knew where the dog was?”
“I live and work with horses and dogs. I know how they react. If I were hurt, I’d head for water.” Oh, no, it’s happening again. Stampeded into looking guilty.
Detective Tucker leaned back and let the silence drag out. “Would you take a polygraph test?”
“Yes.” Jemma met his stare. “You must be desperate if you think I harmed those dogs. Revenge is not my style. It just makes things worse.” Her mouth went dry. She should have asked for water.
Detective Graves said, “Miss Chase, we are not accusing you of anything. You came in here of your own free will. We appreciate your wanting to help. I gotta tell you, this is upsetting to all of us. Can you tell me something about the other neighbors?”
Jemma shook her head. “Not really. Look. I keep busy at the ranch. This is our high season. The fall leaf-lookers book early. I can keep an ear out. There aren’t any stores or regular restaurants in the valley, so our ranch has morphed into a place where locals come for breakfast.”
“I’ve stopped in for coffee and pie of an afternoon,” said Detective Graves.
“Alma will serve up whatever is available to eat to anyone at anytime. It makes us rumor central for Triplett. Rhonda Lea and Junior had a guy living with them for a while; it was rumored that he sold drugs. Maybe he was mad when he moved out. He lives further up the valley, comes in to the ranch for breakfast sometimes. I’m sure she mentioned him.” Jemma looked at Detective Graves, not trusting herself to look at Detective Tucker. He may not have it in for her personally, but his manner changed dramatically when she’d mentioned that stupid DUI. It’s not like she’d stolen something or killed anyone. Her crime was in a choice of friend. “Be careful of Rhonda Lea’s temper. She’s the type of clannish woman who brings out the worst in people. Picture yourself yelling at the top of your lungs and finding out she can yell louder.” Jemma shook her head at the memory. “There’s a rage burning in that woman. I feel sorry for her daughter and son.”
“If you think of anything, you’ll let us know?” Detective Graves asked.
“Sure. This has to be a hard one to investigate.” Jemma accepted his card.
“Thank you for talking with us.” Detective Tucker stood and held out his hand. Jemma stood and shook it. He was her height, six-feet. Firm handshake. That much registered as an officer escorted her back to the front door.
Tucker stared at the door after she left. “She’s guilty, has to be.”
“What makes you say that?” Graves rearranged the chairs so he could belly up to his desk. “The odds of solving this one are about as good as clearing all the copperheads out of the valley of Triplett.”
Tucker half-smiled and sat in his well-worn desk chair. “She handled the whole thing too well, as if she’d rehearsed it. Why, she barely reacted to my direct question about doin’ in the dogs. She didn’t even cry. Half the women we bring in here tear-up before we even get started.”
“You want to build a case because you didn’t shake her?” Graves shook his head. “I saw your eyes blaze when your old enemy DUI came up. Don’t deny it.”
Tucker stretched to work out a kink in his shoulders. “We’ve been working together too long.”
Graves shrugged. “When do you want to talk to her again? We need to cruise down that way, the petty thieves are back in business.”
“You don’t suppose she’s involved with that?”
“Dog killings, stealing in broad daylight – she could be a one woman crime wave.”
Tucker saw the smile Graves tried to hide. “Cut it out. You have to admit, it would be convenient.” Tucker tapped a pen on the desk. “She was hiding something even though she didn’t cross her arms or legs. Her eye movements didn’t indicate any answers she had to make up.
“Carpenter, huh? She’s used to working around men and has access to lots of homes and businesses. She’s already made an enemy out of her neighbor. She’s definitely not from around here. We need to check deeper into her record.”
Graves pulled out the incident report. “We’ve interviewed most everyone in the valley that are full time residents, including the Chases who own the dude ranch, the Bishops who work at Sugar Mountain, the Tates who are friendly neighbors, and now Jemma–hated neighbor, the Thompsons. Sheriff’s already grumbling that we’re spending too many man-hours on this.”
“We still have the Sheets brothers and Randy Kincaid to interview.”
Graves tapped his pen on his desk. “For all we know, Rhonda Lea Thompson or her husband did it themselves. Maybe their dog was too hard to handle.”
“That doesn’t fit. It’s such a vicious crime. Poor defenseless dogs. It’s heartbreaking to the dog owners.” Tucker had considered having a dog himself but figured it wouldn’t be fair to the dog. He’d fallen into the habit of working more hours than necessary. “Sheriff’s right, though, we’ll have to move on soon.” Tucker wrote his report but left out that Jemma was tall and lanky. She had to be strong from carpentry work and riding horses every day. When was the last time he had ridden a horse? Granddad told stories about building the Tweetsie Railroad in the late 1920s when horses and mules were the only power they had. He needed to visit the farm more often. Dad always had a horse or two around.
Walking tall on the outside, Jemma exhaled and drooped as soon as the door closed behind her and she was again in the free air.
The shakes set in. She glanced to her left toward the library, the meeting point with her ride, wrangler Bo. She reached the bottom of the chipped cement jail steps and her feet took her ahead one block to King Street where some of the college town bars were. She stopped in front of Murphy’s – not for their barbeque, even though it was good. She stared at the glass door, feet rooted on the sidewalk.
Characters who spent their days around old town Boone barely registered in her mind as they walked by her. Seventies college students who never left, never moved beyond their hippie days. A white boy with dreadlocks and bare feet said “excuse me” as he sauntered around her. Those earth biscuits had kids, and got food stamps and free medicine, courtesy of Jemma’s taxes. They were American gypsies without the charm. Jemma had worked on a rental house where the owner had to evict the original three people plus the other six they had invited to live with them. All in all, it was four kids, five adults, three big dogs and a rabbit that had the run of the house. Jemma’s job was to rebuild doorways, install new windows and replace counter tops. The house stank for days, even after the carpet was ripped out.
Jemma felt like one of those bronze statues set in public squares. The shaking had stopped but her mind had been elsewhere, nowhere. What was she doing here? How had she arrived? More important, why would someone want to kill all those dogs?
An elderly couple walked by and looked away. The bar wasn’t what she needed.
She turned east but jerked her head at the honk of a horn. Bo pulled over, and she stepped up into the pickup.
“You look sadder than that Coon Hound I was talking to down town.” Bo shifted a package on the seat between them.
“I needed to hear that.” Jemma fastened her seat belt.
“Man, I would have joined you in Murphy’s. I could use a beer about now. I hit three stores before I found all the stuff your dad needed. Sure miss Farmer’s Hardware.”
“It’s too early for me to drink. I’m down to drinking only a couple of nights a week.”
Bo glanced at her before turning into a break in traffic. “No skin off my nose. A little drinkin’ never hurt anybody.”
“I know why you drink. Broke every bone in your body in your rodeo days. Closin’ in on fifty, drink every night.”
“Hey, don’t take it out on me. I didn’t make you talk to the cops.”
Jemma reached over and tugged his seat belt. “Sorry ’bout that. Guess I didn’t fare as well as I’d hoped.”
“What do you mean?” Bo stopped at a red light.
“They act like I killed those dogs.”
“No way. They must be desperate. No wonder you headed for a bar.”
“But I didn’t go in the door.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ll drink one for you.” Bo grinned and crept along in the slow line of traffic. October town traffic was heavy with leaf-looking tourists and fall semester college students.
Jemma snorted. “Like that’ll help. What am I gonna do if the real bad guy isn’t caught?”
“You’ll have to figure out who did it.” He stopped and let an ASU student jay-walk across the street.
“Right. I’ll ask Rhonda Lea if she did it just to blame me for it. Then she’ll burn my cabin down for spite.” Jemma couldn’t believe she’d uttered those words.
“She’s not that bad. You two are like two bears with one trash can–each complaining about the other.” Bo stopped again to let a car with Florida tags pull out from a parallel parking space.
“That’s not true. I avoid any contact with her. She called me.”
“Correction–she called the ranch and you answered.” Bo had a self-satisfied smile when Jemma dropped her head. “I could ask around to see if anyone knows anything. Not much though. I don’t want them to haul me in.”
Jemma nodded. “Thanks.”
Murder at Blue Falls paperback book http://dld.bz/TvMx M Blue Falls Kindle http://dld.bz/TvM8 M Blue Falls Nook http://dld.bz/nookmurderatbluefalls
PROLOGUE
I-go-hi-da U-nv-da-tlv-i (Eternity Mountain)—Long ago
Mathias kept his eyes on the Shamans as they circled the fire in yet another of their ritualistic acts. While he wished this was over, he also dreaded the outcome. Dropping his gaze, he watched their shadows flicker in a gleeful dance over the snow-covered ground; a fitting mockery of the gravity of this event.
He heard the rustling as the six men behind him moved, the fear joining them in a collective nervous shift of their bodies. Hell, he couldn’t blame them; their lives could very well be over before this long night came to an end. His brothers, Marcus and Lucien, positioned on either side of him remained stoic and immobile. Jonathan, his youngest brother, stood a few steps in front as if he would shield them all from harm, straightened his shoulders then crossed his arms over his chest in a move meant to challenge. Mathias could almost hear his derisive thoughts, and hoped Jonathan had the good sense to keep them to himself.
The chanting of the Shamans rose abruptly then tapered off to a low drone. Their muted, melodious voices hovered on the air like the smoke from the fire. A sudden gust of wind sparked the embers, driving the thick haze in Matt’s direction. It drifted around him as if wrapping him in a cloak of condemnation.
Following Jonathan, he squared his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height, refusing to let the men at his back—or the Shamans—see his worry. They said he didn’t know what it meant to be responsible, the importance of trustworthiness and dependability from every member of the tribe. But he knew. He might have forgotten it for a few weeks, but with the death of one of his friends, the weight of liability had fallen on him. He doubted he would ever be able to shake it off.
As the chanting faded away to silence, he glanced at Marc then Luke, received a nod from each. Reaching out, he touched Jon’s arm. Jon turned, shook his head in disgust then shrugged his shoulders and nodded once in resigned agreement. Whatever punishment the Shamans chose to exact, the four of them would step forward and take the brunt of it for the others. If he could, Matt would stand alone and let the Shamans do to him whatever they chose to do. But he knew his brothers almost as well as he knew himself. They may not be brothers in the true sense of the word, but they’d performed their own ritualistic ceremony years ago as boys, mixing the blood from their cut palms together. The bond, strong and unbreakable, still stood today. They would never allow him to take the punishment alone.
He met the eyes of each Shaman, trying to judge how far they would go in their retribution, but it was a futile undertaking that accomplished nothing. Shamans were, on the whole, unpredictable. Some would vote to overlook what he and the others had done, seeing it as an act requiring no more discipline than that of an unruly young boy. They would issue a strong admonition, perhaps back it up with a period of ostracism or even mockery by the tribe, but that would be as far as it would go. There would be no physical retribution since Cherokee rule prohibited striking out in any way at a boy.
His fear for his friends and brothers came from the fact that they had all reached the age of puberty and undergone the proper initiation ceremonies, making them all men. Hence, tribal law dictated they be treated as men. He recognized that and had no doubt the Shamans would too. There were two in the group circling the fire who caused more worry than the others; the ones mired in the belief that wrongdoings by any tribe member called for absolute and unmerciful justice. It wouldn’t surprise Matt if they called for the Blood Law, which required a man’s death in retaliation for another man’s death—whether intended or accidental.
Mathias disagreed with that kind of thinking, but he had no say in the matter of what the Shamans chose to do. The decision rested with them, and he and his brothers would live or die by what they decreed, but they would also do whatever they could to protect the lives of the other men.
The weight of blame rested on their shoulders. They had broken with the Cherokee ways, denied their responsibilities to the tribe, and led others astray with them. Turning away from the warning issued by the Shamans, they’d even gone so far as to encourage the others to do the same. Now, with the time for atonement upon them, he could only hope the Shamans would allow the four of them to pay the price and not subject the six young men behind him to the same punishment. And perhaps, accepting the blame would lessen the penalty.
Matt narrowed his eyes, laid one hand on Marc’s shoulder, and the other on Luke’s. Joined, they stepped forward to stand with Jonathan. Luke raised his hand to Jonathan’s shoulder, but Jonathan shook his head and crossed his arms in front of him. Luke followed suit, clasping Jonathan’s wrist in his right hand, reaching for Matt’s with his left. Matt followed suit, grasping Marc’s wrist and completing the chain.
United as one, standing tall and proud, they waited to hear their fate.
As time goes by from sun to moon
An endless ever-changing rune
We must defend our way of life,
Protect the tribe, prevent all strife.
Your destiny will come to pass
A penance spun with threads of glass
These many years you will endure
This lonely spell without a cure
For countless years on anguish feast
Your form a mindless, savage beast
Until a hostile, dreadful force
Brings duty as your only course
The death of many in our tribe
A growing menace, spreading wide
A journey you can not prevent
Heart-broken, tearful souls relent
Your function then comes to the fore;
Care for your clan forevermore
When time is right, you find your mate
And fight to free your truest fate
Then deepest love will call to you
Go forth and meet it with its due
These final words ring ever clear
Who finds it first must hold it dear
For each must find the value true
Alone, with no well-meaning clue
If ‘tis not so, the turn reverse
No hope of mercy from this curse.
Snow Shadows, Book One of Eternal Shadows is available in print at Amazon and B&N, in ebook for the Kindle and the Nook.
Chapter One
“I see dead people.”
The whispered, somewhat embarrassed words of a child from a popular movie several years back echoed dully in Emma’s mind. Squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deep breath, counted to ten before opening them again and…the dead man was still there. Shaking her head to clear it didn’t make him disappear, squinting only made him a tad blurry, and tilting her head to either side like a curious dog just made her dizzy. No matter what she did, he remained right where he was, leaning with studied nonchalance against the wall beside the newspaper rack in KC’s, arms and ankles crossed, smiling at her like she was the answer to all his prayers.
“I see dead people.” The child’s voice was insistent now with a slight plea as if begging her to believe him. A shiver ran up her spine. She believed, oh how she believed. It was a chillingly accurate statement as far as she was concerned.
“You and me both, kid,” she muttered then looked up at the clock on the wall above the dead man’s head. It was four minutes after two, Monday, December…she wracked her brain to remember the date, something that often slipped her mind during school vacations. Oh, yes, it was the twenty-third. School had been out for three days. She’d spent nearly every waking moment of each of those days trying to finish her latest labor of love—and failing miserably.
Three days blown to hell, unless she could get through this despicable bout of writer’s block, finish the young adult novel she’d been working on for nearly two years, and get up the nerve to actually submit it to a publisher. Then, well, then the possibilities were endless. Submitting the book would probably be enough to put a small dent in the depression that had taken over her life since her husband’s death. If—and it was a very big if—she could actually sell it, it just might be enough to chase away this persistent hopelessness and give her something to live for again.
Desperate to fight her way out of the depression without using drugs or, worse to her way of thinking, going to a psychiatrist, she’d decided the book had to be finished and submitted before the stroke ofmidnighton New Year’s Eve. If it wasn’t, she planned to erase the file from her computer and chalk the whole venture up to another lost opportunity in her miserable life. What she would do after that, only heaven knew. The only thing she knew was that the world would go on—with or without her.
The dead man uncrossed his ankles, drawing her attention back to him. She’d worry about her mutinous muse later, right now she needed to deal with this latest…hitch in her stride; the dead man standing over there smiling at her. She looked at the clock again, thinking it might be important in the future to know the exact moment when she’d rounded that final, fateful curve on the road to insanity. Heck, she might even write a story about it; Emma Trips the Light Fantastic or maybe Emma Goes Bonkers.
It was bound to happen sooner or later, she’d known that, had been waiting for it all her life—or at least from the time she was about ten years old and had been rudely awakened to the fact that she was different from the other children in her fifth grade class. Up until then, it hadn’t been a problem. Children were imaginative creatures, but when they reached the age where they were approaching puberty, their beliefs and creative outlooks on life were stymied. Her friends had stopped enjoying her so-called imagination and started pointing their fingers at her instead. Since then, she’d been expecting insanity to come calling at any minute.
“You’re just special, that’s all,” her mom had often assured her. A biased opinion, surely. Special she might be, but she’d learned fast that special meant different—and most people didn’t take well to others who were “different.” Emma herself didn’t like it much. She longed to be a normal, everyday, average Josephine, instead of someone who heard voices in her head, or someone who knew things were going to happen before they actually happened. Shuddering at another chill, she hunched her shoulders as if trying to hide from the next thought; she didn’t want to be someone who saw dead people, for crying out loud! Granted, that was a first for her, but with her luck, she figured it wouldn’t be a last.
She’d spent her life doing everything she could to be—or at least appear to be—just like everyone else. Doing her best to behave as the so-called normal people did, she’d learned to interact with them and taught herself to tolerate their idiosyncrasies. Through it all, she’d instinctively kept her personal quirks and unconventional traits hidden. Hers, after all, were much more frowned upon than theirs.
Over the years, she’d kept a list of the many terms the commoners—her secret name for them—might use to describe her. It was saved on her computer and she often edited it, adding new terms as she heard them and changing the rankings. At present her top three favorites were; raving mad—short, sweet, and to the point; loony-tunes—self-explanatory with a nice humorous bent; nutty as a fruitcake—descriptive in a festive sort of way. She’d even started writing a children’s book about the many ways of saying someone was insane; The ABCs of Insanity. Abnormal, bonkers, crackers, ditzy; the list went on and on. Right now, at this heart-stopping moment in her life, she felt as if she’d touched them all on the long, winding journey that was her life up to this point.
The dead man…ghost…whatever the heck he was…cleared his throat and drew her attention back to him.
Wrapping both hands around the steaming cup of coffee, she reveled in the heat as she studied the…apparition. I’m one up on you, kid. I not only see dead people, I hear them too.
He looked up and gifted her with a charming smile then went back to perusing the headlines on that day’s newspaper.
He doesn’t seem to know he’s dead. Should I tell him? If I do, will he disappear? Just Poof! Could it be that easy to get rid of him?
He lifted his eyes, frowned at her then shook his head as if he knew what she was thinking.
Jiminy Christmas, did he know what she was thinking?
Holding the cup of coffee beneath her nose, she inhaled the fragrant mist, and wished she could remove the lid and dive into the wonderful heat. She was always cold these days, had been ever since her husband died. It was as if Bill’s death had leached all the warmth from her body along with all the hope from her heart.
And now she was seeing dead people. What next?
Could this be some sort of weird dream? If it was, why could she feel the heat and weight of the cup in her hand, and smell the tantalizing aroma mixed with a hint of balsam from the small Christmas tree standing on a table at the end of one of the aisles? Why could she see the colorful lights blinking manically? Why could she hear Judy Garland’s lovely voice counseling her to have a merry little Christmas from the radio behind the counter?
She almost snorted. Not much chance of that, Judy. Especially if this isn’t a dream, and she was becoming more and more sure it wasn’t. It was way too real to be a dream.
Narrowing her eyes, she studied the dead man. Perhaps he wasn’t who she thought he was. Maybe he was one of those celebrity doppelgangers, those people who looked so much like famous movie stars or sports figures that they went around posing as them at parties, bar mitzvahs and such. Or, he could be a distant family member, a cousin, say, who just happened to share most of the same genes as his more famous relative, Ted McNabb.
Old Ted might be more famous, but he was also very dead. Dead, as in no way could he be standing here in KC’s checking out the local newspaper.
Good grief, she’d probably be seeing Elvis next. Or maybe Jim Morrison would swagger through the door, shake his curly locks and break into the chorus of “People are Strange.” Shoot, at this point she wouldn’t be surprised if a group of little green Martians appeared demanding to be taken to her leader.
She lowered her head, peeked at him from beneath her eyelashes. He looked good for a dead guy. Nothing like the last photograph she’d seen of him where he’d looked terribly old and washed out, like he was standing on his last leg—well, she guessed when the picture had been taken, he was, but now, he looked more like the earlier pictures, tall with a slim build and a slightly craggy, albeit handsome and appealing, face.
Incredibly sexy, outrageously alluring; the man of her dreams come to life.
She peeked at him again and saw he was smiling at her now.
Could he read her mind?
He winked, straightened away from the counter, and started walking in her direction. Yikes! Dead man walking! She heard him laugh then the air around him seemed to shimmer and shift as he passed through a rack of candy bars—directly through it as if he were made of nothing more than smoke—and the old Almond Joy/Mounds commercial ran through her mind, “Sometimes I feel like a nut, sometimes I don’t.”
Ye gods, it was official. Emma Bradshaw, bored elementary school teacher, depressed widow, aspiring young-adult novelist, just tripped the light fantastic, took to the air and flew around the bend into La-la land.
* * * * *
I see dead people. As Emma Bradshaw’s thoughts rang clearly in his mind, Ted “Mac” McNabb grinned. He could read her mind. Cool. Finally, a plus to being an Apprentice Angel.
“Focus, Mr. McNabb.”
The deep voice of Gabriel, his heavenly nemesis, blasted into his head and wiped away the smug smile. Cautious, Mac braced his feet and prepared to dodge the lightning bolt Gabriel had a tendency to flash from his eyes when he was annoyed. After a few seconds, he relaxed. Maybe Gabe’s temper didn’t extend down to earth.
“Bite me, Gabe.”
“No, thanks. Do your job.”
When he got back to Heaven, he was going to go right over Gabe’s head straight to the Head Honcho. He had a couple of bones to pick with the Big Guy. Controlling a wince as Emma squirted way too much cream into her coffee—hadn’t the woman ever heard of too much of a good thing?—he catalogued his list of grievances.
First, there was this bit about being an Apprentice Angel. What a freaking joke that was. No way in Hell—or Heaven—was he going to put up with that. It was, in a nutshell, a kick in the ass. And that was putting it mildly.
Which brought him to his next complaint; why couldn’t he get out a single sentence without peppering it with clichés? It was annoying, not to mention mortifying. He was a best-selling author, for crying out loud. Any writer worth his salt knew to avoid clichés…well, like the plague.
Damn! This had to stop!
“Pay attention, Mr. McNabb. I didn’t send you down there to try to figure out your own problems, I sent you to help Ms. Bradshaw.”
Mac rolled his eyes before fixing them back on Emma. Archangels, with their holier-than-thou attitudes and their asinine rules, were a major pain in the butt. Gabriel, in particular, with his multitude of brightly colored wings, gleaming halo, and sparking angel eyes, pushed all of Mac’s buttons into overdrive. Old Gabe was prone to change at the drop of a hat. His appearance, his clothes, hell, his entire being sometimes seemed as if it was in a constant state of metamorphosis. He could be a cranky, leathered old man one minute, a drop-dead gorgeous, ditzy blonde the next, and a young, precocious child the minute after that. Then he could morph seamlessly into a snarling, rabid dog in the blink of an eye. It was a little disconcerting, even for someone who’d lived his life studying people and weaving the odd and often unbelievable personalities together to create interesting characters for his books.
A rolling rumble of thunder, followed by a bolt of lightning that pierced him right through the heart, made him jump. Shit! The fiery shaft didn’t burn as expected, but was mildly warm, passing through him with only a brief jolt of awareness. Still, it was enough to make him stand up and take notice.
“You have a job to do, Mr. McNabb. Pay attention, if you please or you will never make it to your Personal Heaven.”
Mac ducked to the side as another bolt of lightning flashed then looked up to see the woman watching him warily. Had she seen that? He sent a pithy “back off” to Gabriel and plastered a smile on his face.
“Keep your mind on what you’re there to do and I will. Ms. Bradshaw needs your help. Make the connection and get this done.”
Uh-oh, how was he supposed to make the connection again? Okay, right, he had to hold Emma’s hand for three seconds then he would be “tuned in” to her for the duration of this assignment. When he’d accomplished that, he could move on to helping her with her book and convincing her to go to that Christmas party where she would meet a man—supposedly her soul mate. His lips moved into an automatic sneer. Christ, he’d been sent to earth to play matchmaker for the Archangels. Somebody up there was going to pay.
“Don’t forget she’s psi.” Gabriel interrupted his thoughts, which was just one more thing to be pissed about. It might be cool to read someone else’s mind, but that didn’t mean he had to like his own being an open book to Gabe and his celestial buddies.
“What the hell’s psi?”
“Psychic, precognitive and telepathic; weren’t you listening when I was briefing you? I don’t do that stuff for my health, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah, psychic, okay, I get it. Don’t have a clue why it makes a lick of difference, but I’ve got it.”
“It’s important because you can use it. Get your mind in the game and watch for the right time”.
“Alright, already. Now get out of my face, will ya?”
“And think not you can direct the course of love,
for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.”
Kahlil Gibran
CHAPTER 1
Her mother always warned her, be careful what you wish for because you just might get it. She should have listened to her mother.
Natasha’s day at work began like any other, same-old rote duties she performed day in and day out as office manager for Investigative Services, Inc., never suspecting her career was about to end when her office door opened. A faint squeaking of hinges drew her attention, and she glanced up from her computer to send a distracted smile toward the person framed in the doorway. She watched Scott Thomas, the managing partner, turn to a nerdy looking guy standing behind him and grew curious at the unspoken signal that seemed to flash between the two men.
“Natasha Chamberlain, I’d like you to meet Roger Valentine,” Scott said, ushering Roger into the room.
Natasha held out her hand, wondering if Roger had just been hired for something or other. Roger stepped forward, gave her one quick, somewhat limp handshake, then retreated back behind Scott.
Scott gave Natasha a forced smile. “Roger’s hired us to, well, guard his body.”
“Okay,” Natasha said, unsure where this was going.
“And Roger here is asking us to provide him with a female protection specialist, as well.”
Natasha frowned. Female bodyguard? They didn’t have any female bodyguards. Then she got it. ”Oh, no.”
Scott turned to Roger. “I’d like to speak with Ms. Chamberlain in private, Roger, if you don’t mind. Why don’t you go back to my office and wait for me?”
After the door was closed, before Scott could even turn back to her, Natasha said, “You’re out of your ever-loving mind, you think I’m going to guard that guy.”
“Well, now, let me see. As I recall, aren’t you the employee who keeps bugging me to let you be more active in this firm?”
“Well, yeah, Scotty, but that’s for the investigative part. I don’t have any desire to place my body in front of someone else’s in order to, you know, stop a bullet or something.”
Scott sat down in the chair in front of her desk and gave her a bland stare.
“Come on, Scotty. You know I want to be an investigator. I’ve taken courses in criminal justice, plus all the self-defense classes you’ve recommended, gotten a gun permit and learned how to use one properly. I don’t know why you and Striker can’t just once give me the chance to show my skills.” Striker was the founding partner, the one who made Natasha’s knees weak and her mouth drool.
“You’re getting your chance. This is it; take it, show us what you can do.”
“As a bodyguard, and I don’t want to be a bodyguard.”
“Start off as bodyguard, we’ll move you up to investigator if you do this well.”
“If I don’t get killed is what you mean.”
“Whatever.”
Natasha gave him an exasperated look.
“Striker’s the one who wants you in on this,” Scott said, dangling the proverbial carrot.
Natasha brightened at this bit of news. “Striker does? Um, where is he, by the way? I haven’t seen him in a few days.”
Scott shrugged. “Down in Florida doing whatever Striker does down there.”
Natasha wondered, as she always did, why Striker was such a mystery man. Other than the fact that he was 
wealthier than all get-out, no one in the office knew much about his private life, including Scott. There was constant discussion about Striker and was he married or had he been married, and did he have any kids. And the favorite subject: what did he do in his other life?
As office manager, Natasha was privy to the personnel files, but there wasn’t one for Striker. She was curious about his first name, which seemed to be another well-kept secret, but as far as she could detect, there was no paperwork trail divulging that information. Not even the payroll roster since the income he withdrew from the firm was direct-deposited into a charitable trust. And if Scott knew what it was, he wasn’t telling.
Natasha had had a crush on Striker since she joined the firm three years before. His Cherokee lineage obvious by raven-black hair, coal-dark eyes, and pale-bronze skin tone, his tall, muscular frame seemed to ooze testosterone from every pore. Known for his expertise with firearms and the martial arts, there was gossip that Striker had been a mercenary at one point; others swore he was with the CIA. Every summer, he disappeared for a month, and it was rumored he would travel into the Smoky Mountains, strip naked, and live among the wild animals, fasting and waiting for a vision to appear. He scared the crap out of Natasha every time he looked at her.
Natasha tried to act like she wasn’t really interested. “So, is Striker going to be overseeing this or what?”
Scott gave her a knowing grin. “Yep. He’s coming back this afternoon, said he’ll handle this baby.”
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
“I knew you would.” Scott stood and headed for the door.
“Wait a minute.”
Scott paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned back to her.
“Why does this Roger want a woman bodyguard anyway?”
“He wants you to pose as his girlfriend.”
Natasha’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened, but Scott was gone by the time she could formulate any words of protest.
Natasha sat at her desk steaming, for a brief moment flirted with scheming, then began worrying. Wanted her to pose as his girlfriend. What exactly would that entail? Surely Striker and Scotty wouldn’t expect her to, eeeooouuu, go to bed with the guy. She shook her head. No way. That definitely would not be considered part of her job duties.
She stood and opened her door, intending to confront Scott about this, but he was busy talking to Roger. When Scott glanced her way, an amused look on his face, she resisted the urge to flip him the bird.
Natasha sat back down at her desk, chewing on her bottom lip, thinking about the offer. She was ready and waiting the next visit Scott paid her.
“Okay, here’s the deal. I don’t sleep with the guy. I’ll be his girlfriend but only in the surrogate sense. You got that?”
Scott took the time to settle into a chair.
“Well?”
“Okay, here’s the deal. You’re his girlfriend in the surrogate sense, that’s fine. I wouldn’t expect you to do anything else in that department.” He gave her a look. “That is, unless you want to.”
Natasha rolled her eyes.
“But you have to play the part of the girlfriend.” Scott raised his hands at her look. “Don’t worry. Pit and Bigun are going to be there, too.”
Natasha considered this while gazing at Scott, who was looking at everything but her. She could sense something was going on. “How long?”
Scott adjusted the crease in his trousers. “As long as it takes.”
“You mean as long as he needs bodyguards?”
“As long as your services are required.”
Something wasn’t quite right about that, but Natasha decided to drop it for now. She would worry about that later. “Who is this guy anyway?”
Scott was relieved she didn’t push him on the time span; they needed her tonight. “Don’t you recognize the name?” He waited for the appreciation to come into her eyes and nodded when it did.
“He’s not the Roger Valentine?”
“The one and only.”
“Omigosh. The billionaire computer guy, the one who designs software for those game thingies.”
“Among other things.”
“But why does he need a girlfriend? As rich as that guy is, women are probably crawling all over him.”
Scott gave her a look.
“What?”
“Did you happen to get a gander at this guy?”
Natasha shook her head. “I only glanced at him. Looked kind of nerdy to me, to tell you the truth.”
“Let’s just say he’s not very good in the social skills department.”
“Oh, well, who is?”
“You’ll see.” Scott rose and strode toward the door, then turned back. “Clear up what you need to here, then head on over to Roger’s.” He picked up one of Natasha’s business cards, wrote on the back of one, and handed it to her. “Here’s the address.”
“Wait,” Natasha said, delaying his exit.
Scott stuck his head back in her office.
“Why does he need a bodyguard anyway?”
Scott gave her his most engaging smile. “He says someone wants to kill him.”
“He what!”
Scott managed to get the door closed before Natasha’s planner collided with it.
