The verdict is in; a famed athlete is
headed for prison. The jurors have done their job and are free to go
back to their lives. But after being sequestered for four months, life
as some knew it no longer exists.
HAROLD ASHMAN’s house is almost
destroyed by a careless driver. Exotic dancer, CEECEE LAINE, discovers
that her boyfriend is two-timing her, and she no longer has a job. Actor
ALEX MANNING learns his career is down the tubes, and 72-year-old,
HELEN RYDER, discovers her family is plotting to put her in an old folks
home.
Then things take a turn for the worse.
When former jurors start dropping like flies, CeeCee, Helen, Harold and
Alex are convinced there’s a killer on the loose. Now the feuding
foursome must find him before he kills them—or before they save him the
trouble by killing each other.
They surged en masse through the double glass doors and down the steps of the courthouse. Expressions grim, the jurors stopped to face the dozens of TV cameras and reporters camped in front. To the casual spectator, they presented a united front. The battles that raged behind closed doors and threatened a mistrial appeared to be forgotten. Only the most discerning eye would suspect otherwise.
The prosecutor made an obligatory statement, followed by one of the lawyers for the defense. Cameras whirred dutifully, but the half-hearted questions the reporters asked didn’t fool anyone. They were simply biding time until the real star of the media circus—juror #5—took her place behind the podium. No one else—not the high-priced lawyers, not the other jurors, not even the tearful family members—existed as far as the media were concerned.
Wearing her trade-mark pink “barely there” leather outfit and high-heeled pink boots, juror #5 stood out like a bright beacon in the sea of black suits and dull dresses favored by the other jurors. Dubbed Cotton Candy by the press—CeeCee for short—she strutted red-carpet style to the podium. Her hair circled her head in a pink cloud, falling to her shoulders in springy curls. Eye-popping boobs rose and fell like gentle waves threatening to spill over her low neckline.
Taking her place behind the microphone, she posed for cameras and demurely answered—and in some cases, refused to answer—questions in a throaty voice. Only a handful of jurors agreed to talk to the media following the verdict.
The reporters hammered away at her—rat-a-tat-tat. What was going through her mind during deliberations? What took so long for the jury to settle on a verdict? Which juror was the hold-out?
The jurors had been advised not to give out too many details. The verdict was a result of the evidence—nothing more. CeeCee stuck to the script, albeit in a throaty purr that was better suited to a bedroom than outside a courtroom.
The oldest juror—the bitchy one the other jurors called Schoolmarm—glared at CeeCee with obvious disapproval. Next to her, juror #7—an egocentric actor—tried in vain to push his way in front of the TV cameras and claim his fifteen minutes of fame. The juror known as Shoe tried to pull a Houdini, but no escape route could be found.
But they weren’t the only ones who objected to CeeCee running the show. A few feet away, the man known as Dipstick shuffled his feet, and shot visual arrows at the clamoring crowd.
The way they carried on—the media—you’d think that little Miss “Barely There” came up with the verdict all by her lonesome.
But he knew better.
Growing visibly weary of the questions, CeeCee flicked a strand of hair away from her face and looked straight into a Channel 9 camera. “I’m so glad it’s over,” she purred.
Over. The word was like a bullet exploding in Dipstick’s head. He clenched his fists tight, driving his nails deep into his sweaty flesh.
He watched as she moved away, the crowd following in her wake.
He lifted his hands and stared at the blood slowly pooling in his palms.
I’ve got news for you, little Miss Barely There. It’s not over. Not by a long shot.
About the Author:
When Kate Damon is not writing, she
and her husband enjoy RVing, spending time with family and friends,
raising Monarch butterflies, and playing a wicked game of bridge.
Writing as Margaret Brownley, she has
published more than 40 novels and is a New York Times bestselling
author. Known for her memorable characters and humor, she is a two-time
Romance Writers of America Rita finalist.
Not counting the book she wrote in sixth grade, and the puzzle of the missing socks, this is her first mystery.
Title: Tales of the Ocean City: Battle in the Sky (Book 1)
Author: Christopher Kaufman
Publisher: Three Dashes Publications
Genre: Classic Epic Fantasy
A young civilization is turning the corner into the future, but first
they must face a terrible enemy from their deepest past – THE VORM.
The main characters are a young man named Harl’ut and his lifelong
companion Vispushin – who is a perIanth, a kind of telepathic pegasus.
Join them on this epic adventure as they lead a group of young warriors
into the heart of the Vorm Hive.
Book One: Battle In The Sky is the first of five books which comprise
the opening series of this epic tale. Here, Harl’ut and Vispushin and
The Princess Bryn’lynn, engage in desperate battle over the southern
plain with savage Vorm warriors. You will be uplifted by the passionate
and thrilling conclusion of the first installment of this fantasy
adventure.
In Book Two: Descent Into The Abyss, Harl’ut recovers from his
harrowing adventure from Book One: Battle In The Sky. He walks through
the streets of The Ocean City, visits the Sculpture Garden and his
friend, Elá, the bard, and engages in exciting training games with
warrior/mentor, Calanctus. Then the story takes you down the throat of
the vast volcano, Pla’than’taa, once worshipped as a god, where Harl’ut
enacts a deadly initiation ritual, confronts the barbaric past of his
people and battles a terrifying monster.
All went Dark. Zhii’gla’s back convulsed. Vispushin’s alarm rang through his mind and into Bryn’lynn’s. Light blinded her as her eyes flashed open. She lithely spun about, standing now upon the stallion’s haunches, facing her enemies. Zhii’gla, with a violent swipe of his wings, spiraled backwards through the air, heading away from the warned of danger. They were dazed by some kind of psionic blast! “What’s going on!?” she thought screamed. Zhii’gla’s mental voice sounded dim, as if passing through a dense pall of white static. “Not sure…Danger…We must…Escape.”
The glare cleared from her eyes. Bryn’lynn stared at what looked like dark fistfuls of bloody ink tossed against the sky, as if her half-imagined cloud shapes had mixed with nightmare and come to life. Three massive pegusi gashed the air where she and Zhii’gla had just been, savage metallic scythes curved from churning hooves. Monstrous warriors loomedon their backs as fiery light frothed about massive spikes and horns which sprouted from the warrior’s heads and bodies at riotous angles. They swerved and pursued Bryn’lynn and Zhii’gla like a violently cresting wave. “Get us out of here!” Bryn’lynn cried aloud. “I’m…trying…” Zhii’gla mentally gasped.
Zhii’gla leveled off close above the trees, flying swiftly. Bryn’lynn felt the mighty haunches rolling be- neath her. She took a breath. Warrior pride suddenly bloomed in the young Princess’s heart. Cold rage displaced fear.
She reached down and whisked from its scabbard the sword which hung at Zhii’gla’s shoulder. A hilt shaped like the curved wings of a flying perianth protected her slender hand.
Red veins in the blue-grey blade made brave arcs of colored light as she brandished the weapon aloft! She uttered her piercing battle cry… “Kay’yaaaaaa…….”
Even as the powerful sound echoed in the hills just below, the enemy arose as one in their saddles and three arms jerked suddenly forward. Bryn’lynn held the flat of her sword outward and braced it with her other hand as two heavy war clubs exploded against her guard. One glanced painfully against her shoulder. A third more massive and heavy weapon hit her sword and drove it flat against her forehead. She fell to one knee, panting for breath.
Christopher Kaufman is an author, composer, presenter, illustrative
artist and performer. He started imaginative fantasy books with
illustrative art at the age of nine. During high school years he found
music and attended The New Orleans Center for The Creative Arts and went
on to major in music composition in college. He finished his schooling –
earning his DMA in music composition at Cornell University where he
studied with Pulitzer Prize Winning composers who prize his abilities as
a composer.
Christopher is the type of person who needs imaginative fantasy
scenarios to get to sleep. Therefore, he emerged from Cornell, not only
with his degrees in music, but with the full event structure for his
classic epic fantasy series Tales Of The Ocean City in his mind.
He began writing the story down in the early 2000’s, but it did not
really come to life until he developed his home music ‘laboratory’ and
started creating the music and text at the same time. Thus books one and
two of TOC came about simultaneously as both graphically illustrated
pages and effulgent audio albums filled with cinematic epic symphonic
music.
They exist now as physical books and audio albums (that go together)
and the new Video Book version. He performs live tours with the music
pouring through speakers, live narration and the colorful pages
streaming on screen – a true immersive multi-media experience.
He also maintains his career as a composer for the concert stage with
a full body of work, from solo works thru orchestral. He specializes as
well in ‘environmental works’ which feature soundscapes crafted from
hundreds of natural sounds, live musicians (from soloists, chamber
groups and to full orchestra), videos filled with both natural and
artistic images and readings from the works of John Muir and others.
Title: Friends Are Forever (A Sgt. Windflower Mystery Book 16)
Author: Mike Martin
Publisher: Ottawa Press and Publishing
Publication Date: May 1, 2025
Pages: 318
Genre: Mystery
Format: Paperback, eBook & FREE on Kindle Unlimited
BOOK BLURB:
As
Winston Windflower, his police colleagues and their families gather in
Marystown, Newfoundland, to celebrate those being promoted up the RCMP
ranks, a sophisticated heist by international mobsters and local biker
gangs unfolds in multiple cities and towns throughout the province,
robbing banks and businesses of hundreds of thousands of dollars. The
Mounties soon realize more than money is being lost.
In this,
the sixteenth novel in the Sgt. Windflower Mystery series, author Mike
Martin continues to craft intrigue in the cultural and geographical
setting unique to Newfoundland and Labrador. Readers new to the
Windflower mysteries and those returning will experience the joys of a
close-knit community that thrives on the simpler things in life: por’
cakes, a lighthouse in serious need of a facelift, TV movie nights and
the warmth of get-togethers with family and friends.
Sergeant
Winston Windflower couldn’t be happier for his friend and colleague
Eddie Tizzard. On Windflower’s recommendation and with the approval of
the big boss, Superintendent Ron Quigley, Tizzard was being promoted to
sergeant in the Mounties, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. But in
terms of being proud, Windflower might have to stand in line because in
the crowd that was gathered at RCMP Headquarters in Marystown,
Newfoundland, were Tizzard’s partner, Carrie Evanchuk, and his dad,
Richard Tizzard. Both were beaming from ear to ear as they juggled Eddie
and Carrie’s two children in their arms.
Carrie
had the easier task as little Sophie had been fed and was now snoozing
in milk heaven. Hughie, on the other hand, would try and make a break
for it every now and then, so Richard had to hang on tightly. He finally
gave in and handed the little boy over to his Aunt Brenda, who was
sitting farther back in the audience with the rest of Tizzard’s extended
family.
Eddie
looked down over the assembled RCMP officers and his family and smiled
when he saw Hughie trying to get up closer towards him. He could also
hear Hughie yelling “Daddy, Daddy” whenever the little boy got pulled
back into the crowd. He smiled again as his superintendent called him to
the podium and asked him to take off his corporal’s uniform jacket. Ron
Quigley then handed him his new jacket with three chevrons pointing
down and a crown on top on the right sleeve of his dress uniform, the
RCMP’s famous red serge.
There
were no speeches. That wasn’t the RCMP’s style. So, the two men shook
hands, and Tizzard walked back to his place to thunderous applause from
his fellow officers and family. Next on the agenda was the promotion of
Windflower’s assistant in Grand Bank, Constable Samira Gupta, to
corporal. This time Windflower did the honours, and Gupta exchanged her
old uniform for one with two chevrons pointing down that indicated her
new rank. She didn’t have any family in the crowd but was very popular
with the troops, given the nice round of applause that she also
received.
Some of
those were special cheers from Windflower’s wife, Sheila Hillier, and
his daughters, Stella and Amelia Louise, who had come over from Grand
Bank for the occasion. All three loved Sam Gupta. They loved Eddie
Tizzard, too. But they all had also made a strong connection with
Windflower’s new sidekick and now brand new corporal.
There
was a small reception afterwards with coffee and a large cake with the
RCMP insignia on it. Both girls had a large piece of cake while
Windflower and Sheila visited with Richard Tizzard and Carrie. It was a
great celebration day for the Force, as the members called it, and there
was plenty of good cheer all around.
But
while the Mounties and their families were celebrating, something far
more sinister was happening a short distance from the hotel where they
were eating their cake.
A group
of men had ambushed an armoured truck, and two of them had managed to
somehow get inside and now had both armed guards hostage. They ordered
the guards to undress, took them to another vehicle, a large panel van,
and shoved them inside. As someone else drove them off, the first two
men stripped and put on the security guards’ uniforms.
As the
reception continued at the hotel, the fake security guards resumed the
route that the real guards had been on and made stops at a number of
local businesses before making one last visit to the bank in the
shopping mall. They looked like the real deal as they walked into the
branch. But instead of making their usual stop at one of the tellers,
they asked to speak to the manager. A few minutes later the manager was
left tied and muffled in the safe, and the false security officers
walked out through the bank’s main doors with bags of loot from their
efforts.
By the
time the alarms were sounded and the bank manager released from the
safe, the robbers were long gone. Gone from the bank and gone from
Marystown. The real security guards were found out on the highway where
they had walked to after being dumped in a deserted area. The day after,
when the police started looking for suspects, they were not only off
the Burin Peninsula, but they were waiting for a flight at the airport
in Gander to take them completely out of the province. Of course, none
of that would be known for days as the investigation into the boldest
crime in Marystown history began.
After
the ceremony and reception, the parties went their separate ways. Eddie
Tizzard and his family went back to their house for a quick visit with
everybody before his father and sisters and their crew headed back to
Grand Bank. Windflower made the rounds, saying goodbye to everyone
before loading the girls into Sheila’s car and driving back home to
Grand Bank himself. It was springtime, or some facsimile of spring in
that part of the world.
April
meant not just showers but any combination of rain, snow and sleet.
Often you got all three on the same day. Today it was cool and clear.
Not quite sunny, but close enough, thought Windflower as he watched the
urban setting of Marystown melt into the barren wilderness of the
highway back home. He also thought about how lucky he was, lucky not
just because he’d seen two of his favourite people in the world get
recognized but because of his life in general.
He had
recently moved back into the RCMP after a period away for reflection
about what to do next in the world. He had been a Mountie all of his
adult life and was tired of the time away from his family and the
increasing dangers of the work. Plus, it was an organization that seemed
resistant to change, and that meant it was hard to grow. Windflower
tried a few other things but gradually and steadily came back to the
RCMP and police work. At the urging of another old friend and now
superintendent, Ron Quigley, he agreed to take over as inspector of the
whole southeast coast section of the RCMP.
There
were some conditions. First of all, he could continue to live in Grand
Bank and not have to transfer over to Marystown. That was a deal breaker
for Sheila and so for him, too. He could work out of the old Grand Bank
detachment that had been shuttered during the last round of funding
cutbacks. He would travel back and forth and be available to meet with
staff in Marystown on a regular basis. Eddie Tizzard, now a sergeant,
would be his second-in-command and oversee the operations over there on a
day-to-day basis.
Secondly,
he would need his main admin person, Betsy Molloy, back again. She had
been his right-hand person and eyes and ears in the community as long as
he had been in Grand Bank. And he would need an assistant to help him
in the police work. At one time that had been Carrie Evanchuk, but she
was quite busy with two small children at the moment. So, Corporal
Samira Gupta had been brought in to fill the breach. She had proven
quite capable as well as personable, and Windflower had added her to his
gratitude list.
But his
true gratitude was for the joys of his life, Sheila and their two girls,
Stella and Amelia Louise. Sheila was his foundation and his rock in
life. He knew that no matter what happened during the day, he would come
home to her love at night. And the girls kept him young and youthful.
His late Uncle Frank had told him that we think we are here to teach the
little ones, but if we listen carefully, we will learn far more about
life from them. He was right, thought Windflower, peeking into the back
seat to see them playing together as he took the first exit into Grand
Bank that would take them to their house.
They had all just gotten inside when his cell phone rang. It was Gupta.
“You better come back over,” said Gupta. “There’s been a robbery. More than one, in fact.”
“What’s going on?” asked Windflower.
“Hard to
say right away,” said Gupta. “I’m at the bank where the bank manager
was trapped in their safe by two armed security officers. But we’re now
getting more reports from local businesses that they are involved as
well.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
“Problems?” asked Sheila.
“A robbery in Marystown,” said Windflower. “Sorry, I have to go back.”
He
kissed Sheila and gave both the girls a hug. He patted his collie, Lady,
on the head. She looked surprised and disappointed that he was leaving.
Without her. “Sorry, girl,” he said as he left to get into his cruiser
and drive back out of Grand Bank.
About the Author:
Mike
Martin was born in St. John’s, NL on the east coast of Canada and now
lives and works in Ottawa, Ontario. He is a long-time freelance writer
and his articles and essays have appeared in newspapers, magazines and
online across Canada as well as in the United States and New Zealand.
He is
the award-winning author of the best-selling Sgt. Windflower Mystery
series, set in beautiful Grand Bank. There are now 16 books in this
light mystery series with the publication of Friends are Forever.
A Tangled Web was shortlisted in 2017 for the best light mystery of the year, and Darkest Before the Dawn won the 2019 Bony Blithe Light Mystery Award. All That Glitters was shortlisted for the LOLA 2024 Must Read Book of the year award.
Some Sgt. Windflower Mysteries are now available as audiobooks and the latest Darkest Before the Dawn was released as an audiobook in 2024. All audiobooks are available from Audible in Canada and around the world.
Mike is
Past Chair of the Board of Crime Writers of Canada, a national
organization promoting Canadian crime and mystery writers and a member
of the Newfoundland Writers’ Guild and Capital Crime Writers.
Title: Friends Are Forever (A Sgt. Windflower Mystery Book 16)
Author: Mike Martin
Publisher: Ottawa Press and Publishing
Publication Date: May 1, 2025
Pages: 318
Genre: Mystery
Format: Paperback, eBook & FREE on Kindle Unlimited
BOOK BLURB:
As
Winston Windflower, his police colleagues and their families gather in
Marystown, Newfoundland, to celebrate those being promoted up the RCMP
ranks, a sophisticated heist by international mobsters and local biker
gangs unfolds in multiple cities and towns throughout the province,
robbing banks and businesses of hundreds of thousands of dollars. The
Mounties soon realize more than money is being lost.
In this,
the sixteenth novel in the Sgt. Windflower Mystery series, author Mike
Martin continues to craft intrigue in the cultural and geographical
setting unique to Newfoundland and Labrador. Readers new to the
Windflower mysteries and those returning will experience the joys of a
close-knit community that thrives on the simpler things in life: por’
cakes, a lighthouse in serious need of a facelift, TV movie nights and
the warmth of get-togethers with family and friends.
Sergeant
Winston Windflower couldn’t be happier for his friend and colleague
Eddie Tizzard. On Windflower’s recommendation and with the approval of
the big boss, Superintendent Ron Quigley, Tizzard was being promoted to
sergeant in the Mounties, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. But in
terms of being proud, Windflower might have to stand in line because in
the crowd that was gathered at RCMP Headquarters in Marystown,
Newfoundland, were Tizzard’s partner, Carrie Evanchuk, and his dad,
Richard Tizzard. Both were beaming from ear to ear as they juggled Eddie
and Carrie’s two children in their arms.
Carrie
had the easier task as little Sophie had been fed and was now snoozing
in milk heaven. Hughie, on the other hand, would try and make a break
for it every now and then, so Richard had to hang on tightly. He finally
gave in and handed the little boy over to his Aunt Brenda, who was
sitting farther back in the audience with the rest of Tizzard’s extended
family.
Eddie
looked down over the assembled RCMP officers and his family and smiled
when he saw Hughie trying to get up closer towards him. He could also
hear Hughie yelling “Daddy, Daddy” whenever the little boy got pulled
back into the crowd. He smiled again as his superintendent called him to
the podium and asked him to take off his corporal’s uniform jacket. Ron
Quigley then handed him his new jacket with three chevrons pointing
down and a crown on top on the right sleeve of his dress uniform, the
RCMP’s famous red serge.
There
were no speeches. That wasn’t the RCMP’s style. So, the two men shook
hands, and Tizzard walked back to his place to thunderous applause from
his fellow officers and family. Next on the agenda was the promotion of
Windflower’s assistant in Grand Bank, Constable Samira Gupta, to
corporal. This time Windflower did the honours, and Gupta exchanged her
old uniform for one with two chevrons pointing down that indicated her
new rank. She didn’t have any family in the crowd but was very popular
with the troops, given the nice round of applause that she also
received.
Some of
those were special cheers from Windflower’s wife, Sheila Hillier, and
his daughters, Stella and Amelia Louise, who had come over from Grand
Bank for the occasion. All three loved Sam Gupta. They loved Eddie
Tizzard, too. But they all had also made a strong connection with
Windflower’s new sidekick and now brand new corporal.
There
was a small reception afterwards with coffee and a large cake with the
RCMP insignia on it. Both girls had a large piece of cake while
Windflower and Sheila visited with Richard Tizzard and Carrie. It was a
great celebration day for the Force, as the members called it, and there
was plenty of good cheer all around.
But
while the Mounties and their families were celebrating, something far
more sinister was happening a short distance from the hotel where they
were eating their cake.
A group
of men had ambushed an armoured truck, and two of them had managed to
somehow get inside and now had both armed guards hostage. They ordered
the guards to undress, took them to another vehicle, a large panel van,
and shoved them inside. As someone else drove them off, the first two
men stripped and put on the security guards’ uniforms.
As the
reception continued at the hotel, the fake security guards resumed the
route that the real guards had been on and made stops at a number of
local businesses before making one last visit to the bank in the
shopping mall. They looked like the real deal as they walked into the
branch. But instead of making their usual stop at one of the tellers,
they asked to speak to the manager. A few minutes later the manager was
left tied and muffled in the safe, and the false security officers
walked out through the bank’s main doors with bags of loot from their
efforts.
By the
time the alarms were sounded and the bank manager released from the
safe, the robbers were long gone. Gone from the bank and gone from
Marystown. The real security guards were found out on the highway where
they had walked to after being dumped in a deserted area. The day after,
when the police started looking for suspects, they were not only off
the Burin Peninsula, but they were waiting for a flight at the airport
in Gander to take them completely out of the province. Of course, none
of that would be known for days as the investigation into the boldest
crime in Marystown history began.
After
the ceremony and reception, the parties went their separate ways. Eddie
Tizzard and his family went back to their house for a quick visit with
everybody before his father and sisters and their crew headed back to
Grand Bank. Windflower made the rounds, saying goodbye to everyone
before loading the girls into Sheila’s car and driving back home to
Grand Bank himself. It was springtime, or some facsimile of spring in
that part of the world.
April
meant not just showers but any combination of rain, snow and sleet.
Often you got all three on the same day. Today it was cool and clear.
Not quite sunny, but close enough, thought Windflower as he watched the
urban setting of Marystown melt into the barren wilderness of the
highway back home. He also thought about how lucky he was, lucky not
just because he’d seen two of his favourite people in the world get
recognized but because of his life in general.
He had
recently moved back into the RCMP after a period away for reflection
about what to do next in the world. He had been a Mountie all of his
adult life and was tired of the time away from his family and the
increasing dangers of the work. Plus, it was an organization that seemed
resistant to change, and that meant it was hard to grow. Windflower
tried a few other things but gradually and steadily came back to the
RCMP and police work. At the urging of another old friend and now
superintendent, Ron Quigley, he agreed to take over as inspector of the
whole southeast coast section of the RCMP.
There
were some conditions. First of all, he could continue to live in Grand
Bank and not have to transfer over to Marystown. That was a deal breaker
for Sheila and so for him, too. He could work out of the old Grand Bank
detachment that had been shuttered during the last round of funding
cutbacks. He would travel back and forth and be available to meet with
staff in Marystown on a regular basis. Eddie Tizzard, now a sergeant,
would be his second-in-command and oversee the operations over there on a
day-to-day basis.
Secondly,
he would need his main admin person, Betsy Molloy, back again. She had
been his right-hand person and eyes and ears in the community as long as
he had been in Grand Bank. And he would need an assistant to help him
in the police work. At one time that had been Carrie Evanchuk, but she
was quite busy with two small children at the moment. So, Corporal
Samira Gupta had been brought in to fill the breach. She had proven
quite capable as well as personable, and Windflower had added her to his
gratitude list.
But his
true gratitude was for the joys of his life, Sheila and their two girls,
Stella and Amelia Louise. Sheila was his foundation and his rock in
life. He knew that no matter what happened during the day, he would come
home to her love at night. And the girls kept him young and youthful.
His late Uncle Frank had told him that we think we are here to teach the
little ones, but if we listen carefully, we will learn far more about
life from them. He was right, thought Windflower, peeking into the back
seat to see them playing together as he took the first exit into Grand
Bank that would take them to their house.
They had all just gotten inside when his cell phone rang. It was Gupta.
“You better come back over,” said Gupta. “There’s been a robbery. More than one, in fact.”
“What’s going on?” asked Windflower.
“Hard to
say right away,” said Gupta. “I’m at the bank where the bank manager
was trapped in their safe by two armed security officers. But we’re now
getting more reports from local businesses that they are involved as
well.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
“Problems?” asked Sheila.
“A robbery in Marystown,” said Windflower. “Sorry, I have to go back.”
He
kissed Sheila and gave both the girls a hug. He patted his collie, Lady,
on the head. She looked surprised and disappointed that he was leaving.
Without her. “Sorry, girl,” he said as he left to get into his cruiser
and drive back out of Grand Bank.
About the Author:
Mike
Martin was born in St. John’s, NL on the east coast of Canada and now
lives and works in Ottawa, Ontario. He is a long-time freelance writer
and his articles and essays have appeared in newspapers, magazines and
online across Canada as well as in the United States and New Zealand.
He is
the award-winning author of the best-selling Sgt. Windflower Mystery
series, set in beautiful Grand Bank. There are now 16 books in this
light mystery series with the publication of Friends are Forever.
A Tangled Web was shortlisted in 2017 for the best light mystery of the year, and Darkest Before the Dawn won the 2019 Bony Blithe Light Mystery Award. All That Glitters was shortlisted for the LOLA 2024 Must Read Book of the year award.
Some Sgt. Windflower Mysteries are now available as audiobooks and the latest Darkest Before the Dawn was released as an audiobook in 2024. All audiobooks are available from Audible in Canada and around the world.
Mike is
Past Chair of the Board of Crime Writers of Canada, a national
organization promoting Canadian crime and mystery writers and a member
of the Newfoundland Writers’ Guild and Capital Crime Writers.
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.
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.
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 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.
