Chapter One: Unorganized Crime by Judy Serrano

Title: Unorganized Crime

Author: Judy Serrano

Publisher: 6K Publishing

Publication Date: June 21, 2020

Pages: 283

Genre: Mafia Romance

As Jazz finds herself falling from a helicopter, Gage St. Claire comes to her rescue. Organized crime is once again the culprit of her parents’ situation, and as usual, she is caught in the crossfire. Gage pulls her out of the water and helps her escape to safety. The love between them is undiscovered as he tries to leave her behind in an attempt to keep her safe and move forward with his black ops pursuit. Jazz becomes an undercover cop with wiping out organized crime forever as her goal. After Jazz exposes one of the largest crime families in the country, quite by accident, she is hired to expose crime syndicate leader Michael Giambetti Jr., otherwise known as Achilles. Achilles earned his nickname because he has no weaknesses. He has no weaknesses, that is until he meets Jazz. Achilles has been untouchable, and if she were to break this case, she could finally prove herself as a serious undercover officer. Her job is not an easy one, and people around her are not who they appear to be. Will Gage come back for Jazz, or will he be lost to her forever? Will she crack the case on her own? Read as this courageous upstart stumbles through another adventure.

Unorganized Crime is available at Amazon.

 First Chapter:

The doors flew open, and the room filled quietly with black shirts marked  “FBI” looking almost like smoke blackening my vision. Some were wearing black ski masks to conceal their identity. Those would be the undercover agents. Somehow it  made the whole situation a bit more disconcerting. “Hands up!” the voices shouted,  as more FBI officers appeared, shoving several bystanders up against the walls.  “Everyone down on the floor!” was shouted to those who had not yet surrendered.  People were running for cover, jumping out windows, screams of desperation were  heard all over the building, as FBI climbed the stairs and handcuffed anyone and  everyone who crossed their paths. One of the masked agents approached me and  grabbed my hands, handcuffing them behind my back, hard.  

“Ouch!” I shouted as he pulled the cuffs around my wrists. “You know who I  am, right?” I asked. 

“Yes, Miss Burns, painfully aware.” He squeezed the cuffs tighter. “And I am painfully aware that you are cuffing me. Lay off, will you?” “Right now, you’re just a whore, Miss Burns, just like the rest of them.” 

I turned around to sneer at him. I was pissed. It took me almost a year to bust this  establishment wide open. He had to pretend to arrest me so that my cover wouldn’t  be exposed, but he didn’t have to be so rough. He was tall and muscular. As a matter  of fact, he was so well-built that I could see the muscles in his arms through his shirt.  Because my hands were restrained behind my back, I was unable to wipe the drool from my mouth. Okay, not really, but he was looking pretty good from where I was  standing, even if my point of view may have been obstructed by the activity in the  room. He pulled off his mask so that I could see who he was. Now, it all made sense.  He had dark brown eyes, black hair, and a small mustache just around his nose and  mouth.  Even though he towered over me, the temptation to kick him in the shin was  overwhelming. So, I succumbed.  

“Ouch!” he shouted, letting go of me and grabbing the shin I just injured. “Just trying to keep it real, Special Agent, sir.” He grabbed me by my cuffs and  dragged me out the door, backward. I knew he was ticked. He wanted in on this case  for months, but I was so close that I didn’t want him messing it up for me. I was  about half the way in when they discovered the madam of this fine establishment  was connected to organized crime. I was personally responsible for bringing down  one of the largest crime families in Las Vegas. It was totally accidental. The only  thing they ever let me do was bust whorehouses and puppy mills. This was the first  time I’d seen the FBI get involved. It was exciting and intrusive all at the same time. He turned me around so that I was facing the squad car, put his hand on the  top of my head, and pushed me inside. Needless to say, the ride to the station was a  tense one. We said nothing to each other the whole way there. When we finally  arrived, he opened my door and dragged me out, pulling me by my elbow into the  captain’s office. “Cut it out!” I shouted moving to kick him again, but he managed to  avoid me this time. “Un-cuff me, Special Agent … what’s your name?”  “It’s Alex, and I’m getting to it.” 

“Come on, Alex, don’t be a sore loser,” the captain offered. Alex finally  removed my cuffs. I rubbed my wrists and showed the marks left by the cuffs to my  captain. “Was that really necessary?” he asked him. 

“She kicked me,” he answered.  

Luke laughed. That was my captain’s name. “I’m sure it wasn’t unwarranted.” “Look,” I said, “I’m sick and tired of these low budget cases. I want something  bigger. I want to break something open that makes it worth dressing like this.” I  pulled off one of my red, high-heeled shoes and showed it to him. “Please, Burns, sit,” Luke suggested, motioning to the chair. I put my shoe  back on and gave him my best wounded-expression before complying with his  request. Just then, Hector walked in with another man. Ah, Hector Montiago. He was  quite the firecracker in his day. Even now, he could melt an ice cream cone with just  his smile, leaving you glad that your hands were warm and sticky. He had blond  hair, blue eyes, was tall and well built, but that’s not the best thing about Hector.  Hector was Mexican with a thick Spanish accent with surprisingly light skin. If he  didn’t have that accent, you would never know that his family was connected to the  Mexican Mafia. That’s right, I said it. He was well connected. Oh, and one more minor  detail. He was a highly respected FBI operative. I know, crazy, right? “Jazz,” he said, smiling. I stood up and hugged him. “Gosh, Jazz, I’m so proud  of you. You busted the Russo family business wide open. Good job.” Then he touched  my hair, which was an auburn color for this particular job. My natural hair color was  blond. I was also wearing brown contacts to cover my blue eyes. I could tell he wasn’t impressed. “We’re going back to blond tomorrow, yes?” He smiled again, and  the butterflies in my stomach became less than dormant. 

“Yes, Hector, going back to normal tomorrow. And thanks, by the way. I’m  kind of proud of myself.” 

“You should be. Your parents would be proud.” I sneered, not as subtly as I  had hoped.  

“What are you doing here?” Alex asked him. Clearly, Hector made him a little  uncomfortable. That was only to be expected. Hector had an interesting background  story. Not only was he ridiculously yummy, but Hector was unique in his situation.  As I mentioned before, Hector was well connected. He belonged to one of the biggest  crime families in the United States and Mexico. The Montiagos were untouchable.  Hector and his brother, Max, were FBI planted in their brother’s organization to try  to take him down many years ago. To make a long story short, his brother, Max, is  dead, and the family business is still up and running. That’s right- untouchable.  Diego Montiago Jr., otherwise known as simply Junior, runs the organization now. It  appears that the only person who can keep him in line is his uncle Hector. Hector  does a rather dangerous balancing act on the delicate line between right and wrong  and we sort of, “look the other way,” in return for Hector’s very unique skills and  insight.  

Hector looked over at me and patted Alex on the back. “I understand you’ve  already met Alex.”  

“Yes, I’ve had the pleasure.” Alex winked at Hector, which I did not  appreciate.

“Would you mind excusing us, Burns? We have business to discuss,” Hector  said. 

“I want in,” I told him. “If you’re here, it must be big. Let me in.” 

“Jazz, this is out of your league. I’m not sure you’re … well … that you’re right  for this.” No matter how old I got, no matter what successes have headed my way, to  Hector I was still a little girl. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get past that  image of me that he must have had in his mind. 

“I can do it, Hector. What is it?” 

He laughed a little, smirking at me. “You’ve probably never even had to pull  your gun.”  

I pulled it out of the back of my waistband and pointed it at him. “How’s  this?” 

“Oh, little girl, if I had a dime for every woman who pulled a gun on me. Put it  away, and play nice.” He put his hand on the barrel of my gun and pushed it so that it  was facing the floor. He and all the other men in the room let out some quiet  laughter at my expense. I could feel my face flush, much to my own disgust. He was  quite the bad boy in his day. Never slept alone. Never had to. “You wouldn’t be  working with me,” he continued. “I’m just here to let go of the information I have  acquired personally from my own experience. You’d be working with them.” He  motioned to the man he came in with and Alex. “This is Jacob.” Jacob walked closer  to me and shook my hand. “He is the Lieutenant in charge of the case. I’m too close  to this,” he continued. “I need to plant a woman. I was going to use McCall. She’s  been around the block a few times and…”

“Hector, I can do this. Who’s the mark? Give me a chance.” 

He sighed. “It’s the Giambetti family. Michael Giambetti Jr., to be specific.” My heart started pounding. It was crashing against my chest so hard that I was  afraid they would hear it if I didn’t get ahold of myself. I could feel my face flush  again, as I began to understand why he was afraid to put me inside. Michael  Giambetti Jr. was the biggest competition for the Montiago family. He also had a  reputation for being quite the playboy. They called him Achilles. Just like Junior  Montiago was famous for having no remorse, Michael Giambetti Jr. was famous for  having no weaknesses. Trying to find his so-called “heel” has been a fruitless  venture. No one has found anything or anyone that has meant enough to him to  control his behavior. So consequently, that’s what he was known as by his peers.  Achilles.  

“Michael Giambetti?” 

“The father’s deceased. Michael Giambetti Sr. used to be involved with…”  Hector paused and looked like he might be a little embarrassed. “There was a  woman. Never mind, it’s not important. Let’s just say we have too much history.  That’s why Jacob will be your contact. I will bow out after this conversation.” Hector  smiled for a second as though he was thinking about something naughty. “Besides,  the whole Achilles, Hector thing just weirds me out.” We all laughed, thinking about  the old myth where Achilles actually kills Hector. I guess that could be a prophecy  that one would not want to explore. “Alex has been Michael’s right-hand man for  two years, and we’re no closer to busting him now then we were back then.” “So, his incompetence is causing you to call in the big dogs,” I added.

I am pretty sure that was steam now coming out of Alex’s ears. “I’m not incompetent. He’s very clever. He owns a few nightclubs and restaurants and only  discusses his sleazy little business with his brother and sister. So, we are going to  have to plant a woman.” 

“You want me to sleep with him?”  

“God, no,” Hector answered. “You and your long blond hair and curvy body  will certainly catch his attention. You will be blond again, I’m assuming.” “Yes, yes, would you cut it out.” 

He looked at me like I was nothing more than a mild form of entertainment  for him as he continued, already set on leaving me out of this. “The plan is to set it  up so that the woman and Alex hook up at a bar. You would flash your baby-blues;  Alex pretends to take you home and BAM! You’re in.”  

“Ewe…” 

“The thought doesn’t do much for me either,” Alex added. “McCall is the  better choice.” 

“I dunno,” Luke interrupted. “Jazz possesses a sort of innocence that McCall  doesn’t have. This may intrigue Achilles, and he may decide to try to get close to her.  This might work.” 

“No,” Hector added. “I’m with Alex. McCall it is.” 

“Hector, I am not a little girl anymore. I am a grown woman. I can do this.” “Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Hector says, quoting Shakespeare  of all people, obviously still entertained by my persistence.  

“I just burned the Russo’s organization to the ground,” I reminded them.

“Quite accidentally,” Luke added. 

“Fine,” I said. “Ask McCall.” 

I got up and walked away. My pride was injured, and I was sick and tired of  all these weak assignments. So, I went home like a good little girl to lick my wounds.  *** 

When morning came, I was rudely awakened by my doorbell. I was only  wearing an undershirt and a pair of short-shorts and clearly, I wasn’t thinking  straight at the time, or I would’ve covered up. I grabbed my gun and walked to the  front door. I carefully peeked through the peephole. It was Hector, Jacob, and Alex.  This couldn’t be good. 

I pulled open the door, and Alex greeted me with a, “Good morning,  sunshine.” He pushed his way through the door and sat down presumptuously on  my easy chair. A little too comfortably if you asked me. “Thanks for the outfit,” he continued, looking me up and down like I was some kind of poster girl. “I think you  just cheered me up considerably.” 

“Shut up, Alex. It’s not like I invited you here.” I noticed the worry in Hector’s  face, which sobered me up a bit. “What’s going on? What are you all doing here?” “We need to talk,” Hector answered. He and Jacob walked in and made  themselves comfortable on my couch. “Jazz, please … sit.” 

Hector motioned for me to sit beside him. He took my hands when I did.  “You’re scaring me, Hector. What’s going on?” 

“McCall tried to get inside last night after we saw you.” 

“And…” My voice cracked. I was pretty sure what they were going to say.

“Her plan was for her to hook up with Achilles directly. She didn’t want to go  through Alex. She thought she was better than that.” 

“He killed her, Jazz,” Alex interrupted, “and if you don’t want to do this, we  understand completely.” 

I swallowed hard. “Tell me what happened.” 

“First of all,” Hector started, “she didn’t follow directions. She went to him,  climbed all over him, and went home with him. He was suspicious from the get-go. Maybe he was tipped off … we’re not sure. This is very risky. We know you’re  engaged. Why don’t you take some time to talk to Sean. See what he says. We’ll give  it a few days. Let things cool down a little. Then you decide.” I nodded, unable to  speak. “The plan is pretty simple. You will go home with Alex. When you get there,  just bounce around a little on the bed, make some noises and … you know … make it  sound believable.” I think I threw up a little inside my mouth. “You’ll have to tell  your fiancée that you can’t see him for a while. You will have to appear to be  exclusive with Alex. Do you think he can handle that?” 

“In public, you mean, right?” 

“Someone like Achilles will have you checked out and watched the moment  you step foot inside his house. So, no booty calls for a while. Fortunately, since you  are an undercover cop, he won’t be able to find any real details about you.” Hector  sat there, tapping his foot, staring at me, waiting for an answer.  

“I’ll talk to him,” I answered. “No problem.” I was lying of course. There was  no way Sean was going to go for this.

“Listen,” he continued, “under no circumstances are you to sleep with  Giambetti.” I looked at him, quite startled. “My brother, Max, sacrificed his integrity  all for the glory of the case.” 

“Hector, I…” 

“He’s very dead now. Understand?” 

“Yes, sir, I understand.” 

“Think it over. Give Luke your answer in the morning.” 

They all left except for Alex, who was still invasively sitting in my easy chair.  “Give us a minute, will you please?” Alex said, waiting for them to go. They nodded  as they vacated, and he stayed behind. He got up and stood next to me at the door  putting his hands on my shoulders. “I won’t think you’re weak if you don’t want to  do this. He made McCall right away. He may figure you out too. I’m willing to let this  one go. There will be another case.” 

“Where did she meet him?”  

“She didn’t wait for me. She went to one of his nightclubs and hit on him. You  would go to a place called Troy’s. It’s the downtown mob hangout. You’d wait for  me. I’ll hit on you. You come home with me. I live in the Giambetti estate.” “Troy’s? How … uncomfortably fitting.” 

“Don’t think the irony isn’t lost on me.” 

“I’ll do it, Alex.” 

“Think about it.” 

“I’ll do it. I’ll go see Luke in the morning for my instructions.” 

He looked at me and sighed realizing he was losing this battle. “There will be  other cases.” 

“Not for me,” I told him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lieutenant.” 

“That’s Special Agent Hawkins, to you, young lady.” I smiled. He put his finger  under my chin and looked me in the eyes like the sun losing its desire for fire. “God, I  hope I don’t regret this.” 

*** 

I didn’t talk to Sean. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even wait till the morning. I  ran down to the station and staked my claim on this job. I was pretty sure Luke  would still be there, blaming himself for all that had happened to McCall. It appeared  that he had been up all night. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked quite shaken.  Luke reluctantly handed me a piece of paper with my instructions, and after what  felt like several hours of him trying to talk me out of this assignment, I went home to  get ready. I was feeling a little shaken myself. Was I crazy to take this on?  

My first instructions were to find a beauty salon and get my hair color  changed. Apparently, Alex likes blonds, and it had to look authentic. Somehow that  little fact didn’t surprise me even a little.  

When morning arrived, I headed out to the hairdresser. She turned me back  into myself, so to speak, straightened my hair, and sent me on my way. I put on a  short red dress, high heels, and extra makeup. Sticking my double D’s into that tight  red dress was no easy feat, I might add, but certainly worth it once the task was  done. My eyes were bluer than blue with my black eyeliner making its statement. As  darkness began to cloak the city, I called a cab and headed for Troy’s. The cab driver asked me twice if I was sure I wanted to go there. I assured him that I knew what I  was doing. The truth was that I really had no idea. 

When I walked inside, all eyes were on me. Not that I could blame them. I was  stunning. I walked over to the bar and got the bartender’s immediate attention. “I  don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before,” he stared. “I’m sure I would remember  eyes as blue as yours.” As if he was looking at my eyes. I smiled, trying to stay in  character. He passed me a quick wink and then checked me out quite obviously. The  temptation to remind him where my eyes really were was overwhelming. “What can  I get you, pretty lady?” 

“Scotch on the rocks, please.” He raised an eyebrow at me, which made me  think I should have ordered something foofier like a white wine or a strawberry  daiquiri. He handed it to me, and I sipped it. Alex was supposed to show up with  Achilles at 9 and it was 8:55. A man sat down next to me and put his hand on my  bottom. To say I was surprised was an understatement.  

“How much, baby?” 

I put my drink down and looked at him. “How much what?”  

“How much for a little piece of this?” He squeezed my bottom. No, I’m not  kidding. Then it dawned on me. Oh my gosh … he thinks I’m a hooker. Of course, he  does … jeez. 

“I’m not for sale, so if you wouldn’t mind, you can remove your hand now.” “Come on, sweetheart, I’ve got lots of cash.” He showed me a roll of bills with  his other hand and began to work his hand under my skirt. 

“I told you, I am not a prostitute. Remove your hand.” I reached to move his  grip from my very inappropriate area, but he was too strong, and I began to realize  that I may have to blow my cover to get him off of me.  

He put his face in my neck and whispered something that a lady would never  repeat, so I won’t. At that point, I reached over to where I had sat my drink and  threw it in his face. I could see Alex and who must have been Achilles come through  the door. They made a beeline for me. The man jumped up and grabbed me, roughly  by the arm, unsteadying me as I fell off of the barstool, standing off balance on my  heels. “You bitch!” 

“Let her go, Jimmy,” a voice said from behind. I turned and looked. It was  Achilles. “She’s with me.” 

The man was visibly stunned and slightly traumatized. “I’m sorry, Mr.  Giambetti,” he stuttered. “I thought … I had no idea … I’m really sorry, man … I…” “Apologize to the lady, and go home to your wife. You understand me,  Jimmy?” 

I rolled my eyes. Of course, he was married. “I’m sorry, Miss, for mistakin’ you  for a whore. Real sorry.” He ran off like a cockroach under a flashlight. “Thank you,” I said to Achilles. Although that was the most ridiculous apology  I have ever heard. I tried to steady my hands, but it was tough. I sat back down at the  bar in a valiant effort to stop shaking. Alex attempted to come over to me by  stepping past Achilles, but Achilles put his hand up to Alex’s chest and pushed him  backward. “This one is mine.”

 

About the Author:

Judy Serrano graduated from Texas A&M University-Commerce with a master’s degree in English. She is the owner of Make Cents Editing Services and is an English teacher at a local high school. Judy writes romantic suspense, Mafia romance, and paranormal romance. She is the author of The Easter’s Lilly Series, The Linked Series, Ivy Vines, Visions and the Unorganized Crime series. Although originally from New York, Judy resides in Texas with her husband and six cats.

Website & Social Media:

Website www.judyserrano.com 

Twitter http://www.twitter.com/AuthorJSerrano 

Facebook  https://www.facebook.com/JudySerranoAuthor/

Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4792103.Judy_Serrano

 


Chapter One: A Hush at Midnight by Marlene M. Bell

 

Title: A Hush at Midnight

Author: Marlene M. Bell

Publisher: Ewephoric Publishing

Publication Date: October 1, 2024

Pages: 368

Genre: Mystery

Marlene M. Bell brings distant friends together in the rural South only to have one of them become the victim of a brutal crime of passion.

Once celebrated for her show-stopping pastries and irresistible desserts, former celebrity chef Laura Harris is now making headlines for a far darker reason.

Laura has been accused of murder.

How could this petite chef have brutally smothered the beloved small-town matriarch, World War II ferry pilot veteran, Hattie Stenburg? Hattie wasn’t just a pillar of the community; she was Laura’s confidant and mentor. The shocking twist? Hattie had made recent changes to her will, bypassing next-of kin and leaving her entire fortune and historic estate to Laura.

As Laura scrambles to clear her name, she uncovers sinister secrets lurking beneath the town’s idyllic surface. The real murderer is always one step ahead, leaving taunting clues and threatening Laura to leave Texas—or face deadly consequences. With time not a luxury, Laura must untangle the web of deceit before the killer makes her the next victim.

A Hush at Midnight is available at Amazon.

 First Chapter:

Stenburg, Texas – Friday evening

A killer sunset plunged toward the horizon, casting its tangerine glare on the Stenburg Estate’s green metal roof and aging bricks. Since her hasty arrival from the Los Angeles area last year, Laura Harris had sought out the renowned East Texas skyline for its towering thunderstorm clouds and the lemonade-pinks at twilight.

        The colors gave her a sense of calm before the inaugural trip to see her elderly mentor and dearest pen pal, Hattie Stenburg. Laura last visited with her in California—over a decade ago.

        As Laura skirted a large puddle in her Subaru and stopped along the shoulder of the roadway, she parked the car, turned off the engine, and exited the driver’s side. She breathed in air filled with pungent smells of wet pine needles and dampened leaves. Laura had passed through the April shower a few miles east of the Stenburg town limits sign. Leave it to the Stenburgs to live in a town named after themselves.

        Snaggled grapevines across the road on Hattie’s property sat stoic and graying in long horizontal rows from the oil and gravel highway road to the classic red brick two-story at the top of the hill. The vines showed no signs of new growth even though T-posts held the outstretched limbs twisted within wire and sagging driplines. Gnarled stumps had been left behind from a time when the Stenburgs had added varietal grapes to their company’s wine processing vats prior to Warren Stenburg’s death nearly eight years ago—before Laura’s dad took over as the Texas corporation’s chief executive officer.

        Neglected grapevines aside, the sight made her homesick for the old days with family. Laura leaned against the outer door and marveled at the vibrant wildflowers alive and welcoming between the lifeless vines covering at least twenty acres. Texas bluebonnet spikes in brilliant cobalt shades, fiery orange Indian paintbrush, and Drummond phlox in salmon and variegated pinks splashed the land, possibly in conjunction with the Highway Beautification Act of 1965, thanks to Lady Bird Johnson’s care of the state as First Lady, during LBJ’s term in office. Laura had heard that wildflower seeds were sown along Texas highways each spring to enhance the countryside.

        The white stucco house built on the slope looked like a newer addition next to the colonial belonging to Hattie. Acreage stretched between driveways, the vines dividing two homes from different eras. Hattie’s vineyard could’ve served as a makeshift property line if the 1970s ranch-style residence belonged to a neighbor.

        Laura had no idea what arrangements the Stenburgs had with others on their hill overlooking the town. She hadn’t visited Hattie’s place before. Perhaps another Stenburg family member lived there. She’d ask about the house if they didn’t get sidetracked on other subjects. A face-to-face conversation spanning Laura’s eleven-year absence would take time. She’d been away far too long from someone who felt more like her grandmother than a casual friend.

        If memory served, the last time she’d met with Hattie was during the Decade of DeeDee, Laura’s younger sister. It was a tumultuous time for the Harris kids trying to keep their winery, tasting room, and restaurant afloat during a down economy. Laura was thirty-six back then, and tired of the heated sibling arguments by the time she left the Celestemore Vineyard Restaurant in Northern California to strengthen her chef’s career. The celebrity chef opportunity in Los Angeles had saved a pending disaster between two hot-tempered sisters and a brother who preferred to stay neutral. When Laura headed south, she felt that her move had preserved the family winery named for their mother, Celeste.

        Laura shoved aside bitter memories and sighed.

        She’d left a great job and moved to Texas to be with her parents, and she would do it all again.

        Laura scanned the neighbor’s rocky driveway as steam rose from the wet stones. The parcel of land in front of the mid-century-modern with dark brown trim had nothing planted on it. Instead, it featured numerous ruts made by rain pelting the sandy soil season after season. Where the vines ended, a wide driveway long enough for a semi-truck and trailer to pass led to the residence. Not one fence separated the properties nor lined the county road as a boundary, which seemed strange to Laura. She’d come from a community with manicured yards and well-marked concrete drives.

        She turned her focus on the long entrance leading to Hattie’s American Civil War-era home, not actually seeing what was there. Instead, Laura’s heart thumped with longing. She’d left a comfortable life to begin a new chapter with her parents in the woodlands of Texas, but now that her mother had lost her battle with cancer, Laura felt lost. She questioned the emotional decision to uproot herself with such finality when friends and colleagues had stayed behind. The wedge was as real as a stake driven deeply into Texas soil.

        Laura returned to her bucket seat and drove toward Hattie’s place, absently checking for the earring backing, which had a habit of falling off. She glanced at the time on her dashboard, hoping Hattie had finished her evening meal. She was anxious to taste the custard-filled profiteroles Laura made for her.

         Light struck the old two-story home at odd angles, projecting vertical shadows on the wraparound porch from four ornate pillars on either side of grand steps fit for royalty. She slowed to gaze at the sinking colors of a dying day as if she could absorb their final warmth and quell her many insecurities. Leather driving gloves did little to soothe her cold fingers wrapped around the Subaru’s steering wheel.

         On her right, halfway between the county road and Hattie’s estate house, the vineyards were gone. A weathered old barn about the size of a small cottage stood alone, tractor disks and other implements rusting outside. Missing exterior planks in eight-foot lengths exposed a dark loft space. There were no visible windows for light or air, from what Laura could see. A tin Texas star and an oxidized roof lifted at its peak, leftover damage from storms throughout the decades. Meandering pine and pecan trees, some dying with absent leaves, lined the driveway entrance on either side leading away from the barn. Long ago, someone had planted the mature magnolia for shade in addition to the flowers it produced. Snowy petals formed huge blooms the size of formal charger plates. The trees were as ancient as the barn, marked by their awesome height, broken branches aloft, and trunk circumference.

        As expected, the grounds were meticulously cared for, as Laura remembered Hattie liked. Everything about the Stenburgs’ preferences included order and symmetry. All had their proper place in the scheme of things. A white panel van from Stenburg Nursery had parked near the home, and a man in a logoed black polo came out of the back carrying a full flat of pansies in the fading daylight. A variety of baby blue forget-me-nots and multicolored snapdragons already lined the flower beds, and low-growing sweet white alyssum flanked the outer borders, giving Laura the feeling she’d entered a conservatory for Texans, and not a residence.

        Landscapers working at dusk for Hattie made Laura smile. The ninety-three-year-old wanted things just so and at a time of her choosing. Her World War military training had a way of bleeding through all situations and personal preferences. Laura admired her friend’s habits.

        Tall flagpoles flew the red and white with a single star on a blue field. The Lone Star flag of Texas. The Stars and Bars crisscross flag flew next to it, reminiscent of the American Civil War Confederacy. A fitting tribute to the property’s history—in modern-day 2010. Between the flagpoles, a gray chiseled rock displayed a faded metal plate too small to read from the car. Undoubtedly, a Texas historical marker because the builder of the Stenburg Estate had post–Civil War connections. Hattie had remarked on the history of the home, which was built between the 1860s and 1870s Reconstruction period.

        Laura swerved around the van and rolled to a complete stop several yards from the porch, taking in the magnificence of the house belonging to the elderly widow she assumed still lived alone. The home reminded her of a giant breadbox made of brick and mortar, with three visible fireplaces. White dormers shot through the rooftop, breaking up the flat surface.

        She spotted a pair of rocking chairs on the porch with a woman sitting in one of them. Hattie had been spry and mobile under her own power while in her eighties. When Laura had mentioned her upcoming visit with Hattie to her dad, he warned of new developments and to prepare herself for the decline. Of late, Hattie used a cane or a wheelchair to get around the house.

        Laura leaned closer to the windshield and squinted for a better look. The hair’s shorter and whiter, but I’d recognize her narrow face and inquisitive stare anywhere.

        Other than the landscaper, no person or corgi dogs wandered the grounds. The Stenburgs loved their short-legged corgis. The passing storm could’ve sent them indoors, but it didn’t seem likely Hattie would be left unaccompanied if that were the case.

        Laura waved through her open window and caught a glimpse of the gaunt face in the side mirror. Her own reflection. She should’ve used concealer to hide the dark smudges beneath her eyes, a result of middle-of-the-night bakery duties, but at least her shoulder-length, highlighted hair had kept its shape in the humidity and her lipstick was still intact. She’d take two out of three.

        When she removed her driving gloves and stepped out to close the car door, Hattie made no acknowledgment at first. Then, she donned a pair of glasses and gave a timid wave back.

        Hattie was also hard of hearing, which made her constant letter-writing much more enjoyable for her and Laura. The telephone only frustrated Hattie. That, and she thought cursive writing and good penmanship to be a dying art. She would never give up handwritten letters because it was a more personal way to communicate, and writing gave an aging woman so much pleasure. As long as she could hold a fountain pen, Hattie had sworn a solemn oath to write every day and never wear anything “as distasteful as a hearing aid or use a confounded cellular phone,” as she’d put it.

         As Laura mounted the concrete porch steps, her tongue tasted foul from the quick cup of coffee she’d downed prior to leaving Coldspell. And she’d forgotten Hattie’s desserts on the floorboard.

        She briefly turned to go back, changed her mind, and decided to retrieve them from the cooler box later.

        “Laura? Good gracious; have you gotten taller?” Hattie’s blue-veined hand clutched the cane, wobbling the handle as she lifted herself out of the chair with difficulty.

        “Let me help you.” Laura dropped her purse clumsily and jumped to Hattie’s side, snagging her lap blanket from the chair and saving her from a topple.

        The soft crocheted piece against Laura’s face and shoulder smelled of Hattie’s fragrance. Laura savored the warm, penetrating scent that combined hyacinth and jasmine flowers. Hattie’s husband, Warren, had sent her the Southern Kiss perfume when he found out she’d volunteered her aircraft ferrying services during World War II. He asked her to wear it and think of him marching in Europe. Laura’s heart welled with pride, knowing how their harrowing yet fascinating beginning helped win a world war years before Laura was born.

        “It’s so good to see you.” Laura’s eyes misted as she took Hattie’s frail hand in hers and squeezed. She feared a hug might break a bone or knock her off balance. “What you must think of me taking so long to visit.”

        Hattie stood a little hunched, resting on her four-toed cane. She appeared awe-struck by Laura’s presence. Perhaps she hadn’t imagined Laura would ever come to Texas and thought her fading vision had deceived her. Hattie’s light denim-blue eyes gazed into hers as if trying to decipher Laura’s thoughts. In her nineties, the fragile limbs looked hardly capable of carrying Hattie without the help of something more substantial like a walker or wheelchair.

        “Two visits from the Harris clan in the same week. Your father was here a few days ago.” Laura had missed Hattie’s infectious smile. “Come. Let’s be on our way before Moon Pie returns from her evening walk with Jordan. She’ll muddy up your jeans and those cute boots.”

        Moonie, the resident Welsh corgi, had been mentioned in many of Hattie’s letters but not a peep about a person named Jordan.

        The door to the estate house magically opened, and stale air followed the ponytailed brunette in a gray sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants standing there. She wore no makeup but had an enviable clear complexion and natural glow about her cheeks. Laura thought she looked about forty, maybe older. The harshly dyed hair seemed too strong a color next to her creamy light skin. Were they being watched by a care worker or a relative? It would make sense that Hattie needed an extra pair of eyes on her most of the time.

        The woman swooped in wearing a serious frown and rudely seized Hattie’s upper arm away from Laura. “Watch your step,” was scarcely audible.

        “Hey, be careful with her. Can’t you see she’s fragile?” Laura wanted nothing more than to push the newcomer aside and guide Hattie through the entrance cautiously. “Is she hurting you?” Turning toward Hattie, Laura waited for a reply.

        “I can get along myself, Nicole.” Hattie tugged free and shifted more weight onto the cane, raising the small suction cups toward the kitchen. “Please make us a fresh pot of coffee and bring my pastries.” She stopped and faced Laura standing behind her a few paces. “That downpour gave me a chill. How about a nice shot of whiskey to warm you up?”

        No matter how much Hattie had changed physically, thankfully some things stayed the same.

        “I’d better pass. It’s a long drive to Coldspell.” Laura grinned at the whiskey reference she knew all too well. Hattie had a custom of eating sinful desserts and following them with the unusual whiskey chaser. It was something she and the other fly girls had done between trainer and bomber ferry flights during the war. Hattie’s mission during the conflict had been ferrying planes in Texas after they were assembled at their aerospace facilities and needed at military bases.

        “Okay, I’ll make another pot, but I wouldn’t drink more than a cup. You know how coffee keeps you awake at night.” The woman referred to as Nicole was now standing next to a coffee maker perched on an oversized island in the middle of a blue-tiled kitchen. From there, she had an excellent view across the island into the large room where Laura and Hattie stood. She ignored all but her duties—including introductions. Her occasional glance toward Laura reminded her of an overprotective parent on guard around a stranger. The unfriendly vibe coming from Nicole was as thick in the room as a crème brulée. Laura doubted that she was a relative because of her unemotional coolness toward Hattie, or perhaps they’d recently had an unfinished disagreement before her arrival. And the barometric pressure change probably had everyone grouchy or preoccupied.

        Laura stroked the soft shawl on her shoulder as she stood in the huge great room, with its vaulted ceilings and a winding staircase leading to the second floor. From the comfortable living space with a recliner, rocker, and overstuffed couch situated at the window, to the overly blue kitchen, she suspected some renovations had been made to the interior since the home was built. Those changes would no doubt include the mahogany paneling, white painted surfaces, and bright tile in a remodeled kitchen with a center island. Hattie liked to cook and would’ve demanded updated counters and cabinets.

        Five generations of Stenburgs had raised their children in the estate house. The Stenburg women, all except Hattie, had large families to carry on their treasured lineage. In the thirty-nine years she and Hattie had been friends, Laura knew of no kids in the Warren Stenburg household, whether by choice or having sustained a personal loss during the marriage. Laura always thought they would’ve made magnificent parents.

        All ninety pounds of Hattie slowly ambled over to the vintage rocker and plunked down in it. Next to the rocker stood a large black leather recliner, made for a big man’s frame like Warren’s. The dark and dreary living area redeemed itself with a collection of porcelain statues and natural purple amethyst clusters. Every spare nook and crevice held painted, posed animals, and Victorian figurines wearing nineteenth century period dress—all of them watching over Hattie.

        Laura suspected they were mostly Staffordshire, collected during vacations to the UK and Europe. Hattie’s amethyst geodes were known to strengthen intuition and imagination, in addition to their healing properties. The glistening violet crystals must have been significant to the many Stenburg trips to South America.

        Laura spun in a circle, digesting the space she’d only read about in Hattie’s letters. “This is an amazing home. I came close to imagining what it looked like, and I love the personal mementos from trips abroad.”

        “I hoped you’d see it one day, Laura.” Hattie swiped at a tear. “God granted me one of my wishes.”

        Of note, the living area was void of devices such as a television, a turntable for records from their youth, or anything computerized. Instead, the end table next to Warren’s recliner held old classic books with gilded edge pages, from the few titles Laura could read.

        Hattie had told her that their evenings, spent next to the fireplace, were for quiet reading and discussions about Warren’s days at the office—a catching up of sorts on their activities.

        All picture windows had been draped shut, and the house smelled of wood paneling in need of a cleaning; sickly sweet tobacco still permeated the room from a lack of ventilation. Hattie’s late husband had smoked big cigars and favored a pipe in the afternoons, as she recalled. Laura abhorred smoking of any kind because tobacco smokers reeked of ashtray odor.

        Her dad had smoked cigarettes while he worked himself up the ranks of the Stenburg Corporation. She’d begged him to stop the habit, and when he finally did, she rejoiced. He had finally taken responsibility for his health, albeit too late to save her mother from suspected secondhand smoke lung cancer.

        The angora lap robe grazed Laura’s ear as she placed it over Hattie’s polyester pants. She received a weak thank you followed by a deep, syrupy cough.

Hattie patted her chest and coughed hard for some time to clear her lungs before she was able to breathe normally again, which scared Laura.

        “What can I get you?” Laura glanced at the side table for a glass or pitcher of water but only found a tray holding one orange prescription bottle, a box of valerian root sleep aid, dog treats, and a pack of tissues. Laura’s dad had commented on Hattie’s bouts with pneumonia earlier in the year. Her lungs were still heavily congested.

        Nicole reappeared next to the rocker with a bottle of cough syrup and a teaspoon. “She’ll be right as rain in a minute. Here ya go, hon.” She pushed a stray lock of hair behind one ear and set the syrup on the tray. She then forcefully pulled Hattie forward to fluff the flattened pillow at her back. “There. That’s better.” And just like that, the caregiver sped off to the kitchen to add more donuts to a plate.

        “There’s something special for you in the car,” Laura said, leaning close to Hattie’s ear. “I’ll just be a minute.” She crouched toward her at eye level. “Is it possible to talk in private?” She sent a glance over her shoulder to Nicole, who continued working steadily at her task.

        Hattie patted Laura’s hand, indicating that she understood. “I’ve missed you, dearie,” she said in a stage whisper.

        The super short bangs and brittle white hair were long enough to reach Hattie’s jawbones. Her flat hairstyle and translucent complexion made her look less sophisticated and so much older than the last time they’d visited in person. How long had it been since someone had taken Hattie for a manicure to clip her long nails, or sit for her hairdresser?

        Hattie had a standing hair appointment with her beautician each week—a decade ago. Her hair was so long and laid at odd angles, as if Nicole or someone else had taken a set of pinking shears to it. Worse yet, the defeated look of surrender written in sorrowful eyes came from a woman unrecognizable as the vivacious person she used to be.

        The drastic change was a sober reminder to Laura of losing her mother and how close Hattie was to the same ending. She stifled a cold shiver. No one was immune.

        “How long before coffee’s ready?” Hattie asked Nicole. “I need more cough medicine, and… take my grocery list to your mother. Go with her.” She pointed to the door. “You know what I like.”

        Nicole wordlessly walked to the rocker and removed the tray with the meds by its handles. She set it on the coffee table and replaced it with a pile of glazed and candied donuts, enough to feed a small family.

        “Is there anything else? It’s late. I’ll go shopping for you another day.” Nicole smiled sweetly at Laura, possibly to avert the heat from Hattie’s glare.

        “Tonight,” Hattie said authoritatively. “You know how I hate backtalk. Laura and I have lots to discuss. In private.”

        Laura motioned Nicole over to a corner away from Hattie. “I’ll stay until you get back. She’ll be fine.”

        Keys rattled in Nicole’s sweatpants pocket as she walked to the kitchen and removed a slip of paper from the refrigerator door. “I won’t be long.” She shot Laura a sideways glance and marched in an awkward gait out the front door.

        “Thought she’d never leave.” Hattie giggled. “That girl hovers over me and won’t take a hint. Now, tell me what’s new at the bakery and all about that pilot of yours. I want all the juicy details. Don’t leave anything out.” Hattie straightened the white blanket over her knees and clasped her hands together.

        “We have a nuisance brewing at the bakery but we’re busy.” Laura moved toward the hearth to hide her feelings about a workaholic guy. Hattie could read faces well. “Nothing earthshattering on the Lucas front. I’ll see him again on his next layover. He had to slide in for another pilot this weekend. An aviator’s life. Unpredictable. You know how it is.”

        A monumental sepia-toned picture hanging over the brick and stone fireplace caught Laura’s eye, and she moved closer to investigate. She flipped the wall light switch to brighten the print’s details. A youthful Hattie in an oversized shirt and pants stood next to a four-engine bomber with a pin-up style girl painted on the fuselage.

        “An iconic shot. Tell me about this one.” Laura pointed to the woman in the photo. “That’s you next to the bomber, isn’t it?” She’d remembered that particular aircraft from descriptions in long talks with Hattie. The girl standing in the photo resembled how Hattie would’ve looked in her twenties. Forties pageboy hairstyle and all.

        “Me at Avenger Field in Sweetwater. That was ol’ Sheila Mae, the big girl. One of the biggest birds I’ve ever had the privilege to ferry. Did you know that B-17s take ten people to fly them on a mission?”

        Laura scrutinized the giant silver aircraft and how small Hattie looked standing next to the wing.

        “If you’re wondering about my baggy clothes, the girls had to wear military-issued men’s gear because all the clothes were made for men. Women flying trainers and bombers were unheard of until the WASPs, which stands for Women Airforce Service Pilots. Flying in theater was a men-only job back then. The girls asked to fly in combat, but General Peterson turned us down. He wouldn’t be responsible for women drivers getting blown out of the sky or something like that.” Hattie sighed. “The only things that kept our pants from falling around our ankles were extra wide belts and lots of elastic.” Hattie slapped her thigh and grinned, followed by a cough.

        “How did you reach the pedals to fly something that huge?” Laura couldn’t imagine that petite women like herself had an easy time of it in the plane’s cockpit that Hattie had referred to as a Fortress.

        “We rigged the seats with pillows so we could see above the instrument panel. We had to work out other things, but a few of us put our heads together and got it done.” Hattie reached for a glazed donut and held it up. “Try these with your coffee; they’re delish.”

        “I have something you might like better. Will you be okay for a couple of minutes? I left the cooler in the car.”

        “If it’s something made by your hands, I can’t wait.” Hattie set the donut on the plate and licked sugar from her fingertips. “Go ahead.” She flipped her hand toward the door. “Surprise me.”

        Laura and Hattie ate the chocolate-glazed profiteroles and drank coffee for at least half an hour, catching up on so much lost time. Although writing letters was a nice pastime, it couldn’t replace a personal interaction where facial expressions said more than reading words on a page. Laura was glad she’d listened to her dad’s advice about driving a couple of hours to see her old friend. How Laura had longed for Hattie’s sense of humor and hearing the crazy recounts about her flying days.

        Their near-fatal accidents were terrifying and the tales about frying donuts in their rooms and getting thrown out of the men’s local bar made Laura temporarily forget her irritation with Lucas Olsen, her latest companion of six months.

        “Is Nicole a close friend of yours?” Laura asked. “You’re lucky to have someone staying with you.”

        “She has her own place with Edith next door.” Hattie took another sip from her third cup of coffee. “Nicole lives at home to help out her mother and comes here to fix my meals and straighten the house. All but Warren’s office beneath the staircase. I keep his door locked with a special key.” Eating the last of her pastry had left custard on her lip. “Nicki’s a good kid. I don’t know what I’d do without her and Jordan, my groundskeeper.”

        Two questions answered. Jordan cut the grass and did general maintenance on the property outside, while Nicole took care of Hattie’s indoor needs from the white house next door. Laura wondered what lay inside Warren’s office.

        “Is there something I can clean or move for you in his office while I’m here?”

        “All in good time.” Hattie held one eye in a wink longer than needed. “The Alamo’s behind that door.”

        A conflicting statement if there ever was one.

Laura laughed as she worked through the puzzle. “Don’t tell me; Warren collected Texas battle memorabilia and you, the Staffordshire pieces?”

        Hattie nodded. “Right-e-o. I’ve gathered almost every piece of Staffordshire made, large and small. The bigger specimens are upstairs.” Her eyes swept the staircase as she gripped the rocker armrest, then turned her pinpoint gaze on Laura. “I’m glad you stopped by, Laura.” She held up one bony finger. “You do look taller, though.”

        A smile stretched across Laura’s face. “I wish. Still four-foot-eleven inches in bare feet.”

        Hattie whisked crumbs from her lap blanket. “I adore French pastry, and your profiteroles were crackerjack. Time for a potty break.” She rocked forward with the help of her cane, tossing the throw blanket aside.

        Neighbor Nicole banged through the front door with bags of groceries on a trolley cart, traipsing to the kitchen. She pulled along her heavy burden on squeaky wheels. 

        “I’ll help you to the bathroom. Point me in the right direction.” Laura set her coffee cup down, taking Hattie’s arm.

        Hattie chuckled. “Did I ever tell you how I found Jordan trespassing in my barn?”

        “What?”

        “A few years ago, when I could still check the outbuildings in the mornings, I caught him sleeping in there and helping himself to the drinks in the little fridge. He was stranded on the road between towns. Poor fellow. He needed a job, so I put him to work.”

        Laura was surprised at how easily Hattie had offered the stranger a job.

        “I had the vacant guesthouse in back and needed the help. Mutually beneficial, as Warren would say. The guest’s quarters are over there around the corner.” Hattie pointed to her left and began coughing. “Sometimes, he takes Moonie.” Another deep-seated cough. “It keeps the little nubbin out of trouble.” Hattie’s coughing grew in intensity, and she had trouble taking breaths in between.

        “Hattie, catch your wind.” Laura planted her feet, catching her friend as she lost her balance and swayed on her cane. Her coughing could bring about an embarrassing accident, and Laura knew how prim and proper Hattie would hate that. “How far to the bathroom?” she asked Nicole.

        “Just go. I can handle her.” Nicole arrived on the cane side of Hattie with a fresh bottle of cough syrup. “Take a swig.”

        Laura’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding. Let her breathe normally first. She’ll choke.”

        Hattie patted her chest and cleared her throat as she brushed Nicole’s hand away. Between coughs and gasps, Hattie managed a goodbye wave for Laura.

        “I’ll stay with Hattie tonight,” Laura addressed Nicole. “Leave the groceries for now. Hattie needs her rest. I can sit with her.”

        Laura’s dear pen pal managed a smile and a short wink.

        Nicole folded her arms. “She doesn’t need you. I’ll even sleep on the couch if that makes you feel any better.”

        Laura was shocked by the neighbor’s wisecrack in front of Hattie.

        “You aren’t making me feel better.” Laura turned to Hattie. “Will you be all right if I leave now? I’ll stay if you want.” Laura hoped that Hattie would ask her to stay, but it was up to her.

        Hattie paused, looked sadly into Laura’s eyes, then nodded. “We’ll talk again soon, my girl. I’m fine.”

        Grabbing her leather bag from the floor, Laura’s tears welled, spilling down her cheeks. She hated to leave Hattie with someone as uncaring as Nicole. Laura made one last turn to watch the pair move along the hardwood floor and around the staircase.

        She exited into chilly blackness on the porch amid a chorus of croaking toads and nighttime crickets.

        Almost to Coldspell and full of misgivings, Laura couldn’t shake her feeling of dread for Hattie’s sake. Why did she allow Nicole to steer her away? She should’ve stayed with her mentor and not bowed to the will of a neighbor she knew nothing about.

        Laura had to drive back to Stenburg no matter how late it was.

        She glanced at the clock on her dash, beyond caring what anyone thought about an after-midnight visitation. Even if she had to nap in her car to make the trip back to Coldspell, she wouldn’t rest until she knew that Hattie was okay.

        An inky blanket hung over the property when she arrived. Not a single porch or barn light shone from the Stenburg Estate. Living this far out from town, Laura couldn’t imagine why a dusk-to-dawn light hadn’t been installed. She’d mention it to her dad. Her headlights beamed on the front door and bay window, bright enough to wake someone sleeping on the living room couch. Laura left her Subaru in park with the engine running and jogged up the steps. She knocked quietly on the huge glass pane. If she could rouse the neighbor without waking Hattie, better yet.

        A dog barked in the distance. The only sound for miles. Moon Pie should’ve been with Hattie, but Laura picked up no sound from inside the estate house. Surely, Hattie’s pet would notice visitors.

        The barking continued, perhaps from a nearby shelter for stray animals.

        Laura cupped her hands and peered through the window but was unable to see past the dark glass cloaked by heavy curtains. She knocked more firmly with her knuckles. Other than raising goosebumps on her arms, no one inside rose to open the front door.

        Nicole had lied about staying with Hattie and sleeping on the couch.

        Laura’s heartbeat quickened as she pounded on the massive door, calling for Nicole or Hattie to let her inside. No human or pet could sleep through the noise she was making. She tried the door and found it as it should’ve been. Locked.

        “Hattie! Is anyone in there?” Laura kicked her boot at the door in frustration.

        She checked the kitchen and bedroom windows that were too high for her to climb through even if she were lucky enough to find one unlocked. She ran along the wraparound porch, calling for Hattie—her car’s right headlight spotting the way from porch to grass.

        The further she went toward the back of the house, the louder the barking became.

        Hattie had mentioned that Moon Pie stayed with Jordan in the guesthouse.

        Wake Jordan. He’ll find Hattie.

        Laura ran to her car and drove behind the building to where the guesthouse connected to the estate via a concrete breezeway. There, she found a sharp-eared corgi with her nose pressed against the window, scratching with her claws and raising all kinds of ruckus.

        Where is Jordan, and why is Moon Pie alone in the guesthouse? Laura’s tingling senses told her the scene was all wrong.

        She slammed the Subaru into park and faced the dog from the other side of the narrow four-foot window near the guesthouse’s entrance. Laura tried to open the locked metal door by the knob, then gave a strong shove with her shoulder. All she received for her trouble was a sore arm. When she made eye contact with Moon Pie once more, the dog wriggled its rump, whining and whimpering. Crouching to Moon Pie’s level, she placed the flat of her hand on the outside screen, trying to soothe the irate dog with her words. A small gap below the sash showed her that Jordan had left the window slightly ajar for the dog.

        Laura caught a whiff of something she couldn’t describe.

        Moon Pie had her red nylon lead attached at the collar, as if she’d been dropped inside abruptly.

        “Sweetie, I’m coming in.” Laura removed a driving glove, pried the screen from its runners with her nails, and threw it aside.

        Moon Pie stuck her nose through the opening and sniffed.

        “Don’t bite my fingers.” She replaced the glove on her hand and with all her might, lifted the sash from the gap, sliding it up and open. Enough to squeeze her small frame through sideways.

        Moon Pie jumped out then came back to follow her inside, barking madly at her feet. Her boot caught the dog, throwing Laura headlong into the wall. “Honey, quiet. I can’t think.” Laura groped the painted surface with her palm until she found a light switch and flipped it on. 

        She stood in a bedroom.

        Someone lay still on the mattress. Deathly pale.

        A crawling sensation moved up her spine. Jordan. As she walked closer to the person, she realized the body was that of a female, partially obscured by a bed pillow. Laura took several labored breaths and sped around the footboard—watching for the rise and fall of the woman’s chest.

        A fleeting thought of Nicole went through her mind, quickly dashed by the person’s hair color. Bitterness filled Laura’s mouth and she swallowed hard. Her worst fears had come true.

About the Author:

Mystery at a killing pace.

Marlene M. Bell has never met a sheep she didn’t like. As a personal touch, her fans often find these wooly creatures visiting her international romantic suspense, thriller, and cozy mystery books as characters or subject matter. 

Marlene’s multi-award-winning Annalisse series boasts numerous Best Mystery honors for all installments including the newest IP Best Regional Australia/New Zealand, and Global Gold Award for the fourth cozy mystery from down under. 

Her children's picture book, Mia and Nattie: One Great Team! written for the younger crowd, is based on true events from the Bell’s Texas sheep ranch. Suitable reading for ages 3 - 7 years and beyond, a Mom's Choice Gold Award winner, and Eric Hoffer Award Grand Prize Short List winner. 

Website & Social Media:

Website ➜ https://www.marlenembell.com 

Twitter ➜ https://twitter.com/ewephoric 

Facebook ➜  https://www.facebook.com/marlenembell 

Goodreads ➜ https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17642396.Marlene_M_Bell




Chapter One: The Mirror by P.K. Eden

 

Title: The Mirror

Author: P.K. Eden

Publisher: The Wild Rose Press

Publication Date: October 14, 2024

Pages: 390

Genre: Urban Fantasy

What if you found out the artifacts from the fairy tales you loved as a child were real and one of them just predicted your death?

That’s the dilemma Scientist Ben Michaels faces when Siene Dower, descendant of the Brothers Grimm, tells him that Snow White’s Magic Mirror sent her to stop him from getting into the cab that crashed and burst into flame right before his eyes at the intersection at Penn Station, New York City. Does practical Dr. Michaels dismiss everything he knows about reality and science and follow the curious and beautiful woman who just saved his life?

The Mirror is available at Amazon.

 First Chapter:

Germany 1945

“Where is it?” 

The SS Commandant’s voice sounded like a snake hissing to the bloodied figure tied to a chair in front of him. “Where you and your kind will never find it,” the man said. He smiled through swollen lips, defiance in his tone.

The SS officer prepared to strike the bound man’s face again when a knock at the door stopped him. He lowered his arm. “Kommen.”

A young soldier entered. He raised his hand and simultaneously smacked his heels together as he had been trained to do. “Heil!”

“Report,” the officer ordered.

“The house was empty except for the old woman.”

“Did you search thoroughly?”

The soldier let out a frightened breath. “We did and found nothing.”

A sneer curled the senior officer’s lip. “Bring the woman here.”

For a moment, the soldier’s exacting stance buckled, but he quickly pulled his shoulders back. “She killed herself before we had a chance to question her.”

“Fool!” The commandant spat out before opening a cut on the cheek of the young solder’s face with a punishing, black leather-gloved backhanded slap. “Get out!” 

The soldier covered his bleeding cheek with one hand and backed away. Once at the door, he saluted and quickly left. 

A low snicker filled the room elevating into a guttural, choking laugh. 

The Commandant turned slowly.

The captive lifted his battered face. “You see Herr Schmidt, we will do anything, give anything, even our lives. The search is over for you and your kind. You will never know the future before you live it.” He smiled through bloodied teeth. “That is, if you live.”

Schmidt felt his rage rise. He grasped the man by his chin so he could not look away. “By now your wife is dead and it is only a matter of time before we find your son. When we do, we will take the treasure from his dying hands.”

The prisoner locked his gaze on Schmidt. “You will never find the shard.   Never! It’s over for you.”

Schmidt shook his head. “I beg to differ.” 

In a movement almost faster than the eye could see, he pulled a black Lugar from its holster and shot the prisoner through his right eye. The man’s head lolled forward, and blood dripped onto the floor. As the sound of the gunshot faded, the phone jangled on the desk near the window. Schmidt strode across the room, his boots tapping a cadence on the wooden floor. He snatched the receiver from the cradle. 

Was ist das?” 

He felt his entire body go cold as he listened to the voice on the other end. Slowly he laid down the receiver and turned to the dead man slumped in the chair. He loaded another round into the chamber of his Lugar. 

“You were right, old friend. It is all over. The Americans are coming.” He shot one more round into the dead man and left.

In the streets, chaos reigned. People ran in all directions, some carrying suitcases or bundles, some fleeing with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Women held crying children and clutched the hands of toddlers. Older children and men who had not been conscripted into the German Army pushed wagons or carts loaded with personal possessions. The screaming of women and crying of frightened children sporadically overlaid the sound of bombs exploding in the distance. 

Anger and foreboding clutched at Schmidt’s heart. He had to get home. His breath came in short gasps as he wound his way through the panicked crowd. The irony of it all; he should be inheriting the world, not counting the minutes to his end.  

He and his family were Taltos. Once loyal members of the Primogens, a secret society possessing some of the most secret and mystical articles not known to man. Taltoians were a rogue sect bent on eliminating the Primogen protectors and using the objects for profit. For centuries, in the undercurrent of society, Taltoians fought the Primogens to regain the artifacts, but Primogen Sentinels, Council Loyalists, like the one he’d killed only a few minutes before, stood steadfast against them.

The old man wouldn’t tell him the whereabouts of the shard from Snow White’s Magic Mirror. The shard, a piece broken from the artifact to deactivate it, would lead him to the mirror. Once the mirror was whole, he would control the spirit inside. Depending on what he asked, he could either alter the future or use what he saw to fit into his plan. 

As part of the Fuhrer’s preoccupation with the mystical, Schmidt had been charged to find out if the stories about the Mirror were true and if so, to bring it to Berlin to help with the war effort. Schmidt had other plans for this magical object, but now the war and the approaching Americans changed everything.

The Sentinel was dead, and his son was surely on his way to Rome or some other Primogen sanctuary. The shard would be hidden once again to ensure it and the mirror was not united unless needed for some noble cause. Though he and Taltoians would not hesitate to use the mystical powers the mirror possessed for unrestricted gain, the Primogens exercised restraint and stayed away from altering the destiny of mankind except in dire circumstances. 

After opening the door to his home, Schmidt became acutely aware of the silence.  Normally, he would hear the strains of a concerto played on the grand piano by his daughter accompanied by the sweet humming of his wife. Today however, the quiet was deafening. He closed his eyes, his heartbeat returning to normal. They were gone. Before leaving to interrogate the Primogen Sentinel, he arranged for their safe passage out of the city and made his wife promise she and his daughter would pack and leave. For the first time in days his smile was genuine.

He walked to the bar on the far side of the living room and pulled out a bottle of Schnapps. After pouring a healthy portion, he lifted his head and saw his image in the mirror on the wall. The once confident man he saw now looked defeated. Slowly he smiled at the quirk of fate. He saluted and drank the shot in one long gulp. 

For the second time that day he pulled the Lugar from its holster and cocked the trigger. He parted the lace curtains on the window with his forefinger. A few people still rushed through the streets as the sound of the war grew closer. There was no way he would sit in an American prison camp until his fate was decided. 

His laugh came out like the hysterics of a madman. I can see the future after all, he thought, right before he put the Luger to his temple and pulled the trigger.

About the Authors:

P.K. Eden is the alter ego of multi-published and award winning authors Patt Milhailff and Kathye Quick whose debut novel FIREBRAND was lauded as comparable to the Harry Potter series, garnered 5-Star reviews, and won numerous  Reviewer’s Choice Awards.

Born long, long ago in a place not so far away, Shenandoah, Pennsylvania, Kathryn Quick has been writing since the Sisters in St. Casmir’s Grammar School gave her the ruled yellow paper and a number two pencil.  She writes contemporary and career romances, romantic comedies, historical romances as well as urban fantasy. 

Kathye has twenty fiction books in print with various publishing houses and one non-fiction compilation of her town’s history at the behest of the Manville Library Bord.  She was honored to have been named an Amazon top 100 Romance Author for Ineligible Bachelor published by Montlake Romance. Other works include a three book  Grandmother’s Rings Series – Amethyst, Sapphire and Citrine, a rom-com series that follows three siblings as they use their Grandmother’s Rings given to them by their mother to find their soulmates. 

Because she has been fascinated by King Arthur and his knights for almost forever, her series Beyond Camelot, Brother Knights, is her vision of how the majestic kingdom may have survived after Arthur. Two books are written in this series with the third and final still in concept.

She is a founding member of Liberty State Fiction Writers and has been a part of Romance Writers of America and New Jersey Romance Writers.

She is married to her real-life hero, Donald, and has three grown sons, each having romantic adventures of their own. Her two grandkids, Savannah and Dax, happily cut into her writing time but she still manages to get a few pages done each day.

Website & Social Media:

Website www.Kathrynquick.com

Twitter ➜ https://x.com/KQuickAuthor

Facebook ➜ https://www.facebook.com/KathrynQuickBooks/

Instagram ➜ https://www.instagram.com/kathrynquickauthor/

Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/217228581-the-mirror

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Thanks to novelist and editor, Dr. Nathasha Brooks-Harris who invited Patt Milhailff to write for several TRUE CONFESSION lines of magazines where she learned tight and entertaining writing and resulted in the publication of more than two hundred short stories and articles.

One of Patt’s most gratifying experiences was when she moderated a standing room only workshop at the African American Romance Slam Jam in 2004 and has since enjoyed speaking engagements at libraries, book clubs and other forums. 

She was awarded 2009 Author of the year and 2010 Mentor of the year by Romance writers of America, New York City Chapter, a terrific organization that helped her to obtain valuable lessons and insight while on her writing journey. 

Patt is also featured in A Dream Deferred, A Joy Achieved, a non-fiction novella by Charise Nesbit a co-producer at Tyler Perry Studios, about foster care, as well as being included in two of Times Bestselling Author Zane’s anthologies. 

Patt is one half of the writing duo P.K. Eden along with Kathye Quick, authors of Firebrand,  that received a five star Affaire de Couer Reviewer’s Choice Award. 

She is also a member of Liberty States Fiction Writers the home of a magnitude of talented writers and fellow authors and is the author of nine novels.  

Patt was raised, and educated in New York City, residing in  New Jersey, and has since relocated to Delaware.  

Social Networks for P.K. Eden:

Follow on Twitter: https://x.com/PKEdenAuthor 

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