Excerpt From A Cold Wind, a Grace deHaviland Novella by David DeLee

A Cold Wind. A Grace deHaviland Novella — Bounty hunter Grace deHaviland’s latest case involves a young Hispanic man named Rico Sanchez who’s jumped bail after a simple DWI and minor weapons possession arrest. It should have been a simple case, but as Grace digs deeper, she discovers there is greater interest in this young man than the charges warrant.

Drawn into a complex, joint federal and state investigation involving organized gun-runners, the U.S. Marshals Service, the ATF, and multiple murders, Grace soon finds she and her best friend, sheriff’s deputy Suzie Jensen, must do what the feds and her friend BCI agent Eugene Booker can’t, if they are to find Sanchez before time runs out…for him and for them.

Excerpt:

BROAD STREET BILLIARDS. I pulled open the pool hall’s heavy oak door and stepped inside. I’d been to this particular dive before. In my line of work as a bounty hunter I often visited the seediest a city has to offer, and Broad Street Billiards ranked right up there at the top of the list.

I stood in the doorway for a minute to give my eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. A blue haze of cigarette and cigar smoke hung in the air like a low lying fog. The place reeked of pot, stale booze, and sweat, laced with the sour stench of yesterday’s vomit. I tried not to breath.

Inside, I counted six pool tables, each under a low-hanging fixture encasing a single, bare light bulb. Booths with cracked, plastic seats and chipped, faux wood tables lined the far wall and ran under the windows that would have given the place a view of the street outside, if they hadn’t been painted matte black and covered with thick, maroon curtains and dark, wooden shutters. A mahogany and black lacquer bar ran the length of the place, alongside plastic padded barstools and with a TV hung up in the corner.

The crowd was a mix of Hispanics and blacks, men mostly, men with hard eyes, large muscles, and a whole lot of elaborate, blue-ink tattoos. For sure, the testosterone ran high in a joint like this. All of the pool tables were being used, several of the booths were filled, and most of the stools at the bar were occupied. It was there that the heavy drinkers sat watching the OSU and Michigan State game on the TV wedged at a precarious angle above the mirrored wall and rows of whiskey bottles.

I ignored the stares, the wolf-whistles, and the rude propositions I received as I made my way over to the bar. The bartender, an ex-con named Herman Boone, was big and black, and kept a sawed-off baseball bat and a handgun under the cash register, both within easy reach.

“Hey, Herman, how ya doing?” I asked, slipping on to one of the few empty stools.

“Fuck,” he said, with a disgusted shake of his big, bald head.

Needless to say, he wasn’t very happy to see me in here—since Boone knew I was a bounty hunter. The last time I’d stopped by, I left with two low-level drug addicts who’d been arrested for boosting a car and thought not showing up for court would make their problems go away. I made sure it didn’t.

“I don’t want no trouble, Grace.”

“Herman, I’m hurt.” I said. “I just stopped in for a drink.”

“Yeah, right.” He eyed me suspiciously. His bald head was beaded with sweat and gleamed in the harsh backlight of the bar. He wanted to throw me out, but I hadn’t given him a reason to…yet. He asked, “What’ll ya have then?”

“Beer. In a bottle.”

He popped the top to a Budweiser and put it on a soggy coaster in front of me.

I pulled the bottle toward me, and said, “And information.”

“We don’t sell that here, Grace. You know that.” He eyed me downing half my beer in one long gulp. It tasted good.

“That’ll be seven-fifty.”

I dropped a twenty on the bar, and he scooped it up fast, like he was afraid I’d change my mind about paying him. “There’s more where that came from.” I gave him my you know what I’m talking about look.

Boone sneered. I could read the anger in his eyes. He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “I ain’t no snitch. Don’t you never dis me like that again. Now, as foxy as your ass is to look at, Grace, you ain’t welcome in here. Now, drink your drink, then get the fuck out.”

Persistence be my middle name. Ignoring him, I pulled a five-by-nine mug shot from my fleece-lined suede coat and put it on the bar, facing him. “His name’s Rico Sanchez. I know he hangs out here. Have you seen him around lately?”

“You hard of hearing, girl?” Boone didn’t even look at the picture. “I don’t seen nobody anywhere ever. You got that?”

“Come on, Herman. This was the last place he was before he got arrested.”

Actually, Sanchez was busted just a few blocks from the bar, for DWI and weapons possessions. He’d told the arresting officers he’d been shooting pool and drinking here at Broad Street Billiards. Apparently drinking to excess.

“Can’t help you, Grace.” Boone put the glass he was drying face down on a rubber-matted shelf, picked up another one, and started drying it. “Even if I wanted to, and I don’t want to.”

Boone wandered down the bar to serve other customers, leaving me alone to ponder just how hard I could push. The sound was turned low on the TV, but I still heard the announcers’ voices over the din of the bar, the occasional break of billiard balls, and the bray of laughter or a shouted curse over a shot that didn’t bank quite right.

From down the bar, Boone eyed me carefully, but left me alone until a skinny, Hispanic kid in his late teens bounded up next to me. The kid was wearing cargo pants two sizes too big for his narrow hips and a flannel shirt, open, over a sleeveless, wife-beater T-shirt. He had gangbanger wannabe written all over him. Hyped up on something of a pharmaceutical nature by the way his eyes looked, and half in the bag from too many José Cuervos, I guessed, he bounced on the balls of his feet beside me, jazzed.

After eyeing me awhile, he picked up Rico Sanchez’s picture off the wet bar. “Whoa, what’s with the pischer, sista?”

“Do you know that man?” I asked without much enthusiasm.

“Looks familiar.”

Boone returned, looming from his side of the bar like a massive brick wall. “You don’t know him, Luis.”

Luis looked up from the picture. “Sure I do. It’s Rico Sanchez.”

“Shut you mouth!” the bartender snapped.

“Do you know where I can find him?” I asked Luis, trying to draw his attention away from Boone and getting excited.

Luis continued to hold the mug shot, first closer then further away, as if he was trying to bring it into focus. “What’ve you got Rico’s pischer for? It is Rico, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I said. “Do you know where he is?”

“That’s it, Grace.” Herman slapped his towel down on the bar where it made a wet, plopping sound. “You’re outta here.” He started to head for the end of the bar where the top flipped open.

He seriously was about to throw me out of the place, physically.

By now the rest of the pool hall patrons had their eyes on me, and not because they were admiring my shapely legs and awesome derriere. This time, they were eagerly waiting to see me get my shapely ass kicked.

But I wasn’t in the mood to throw down with Boone. First off, it would do me no good to do so, and secondly, he outweighed me by over a hundred pounds, most of it steroid inflated muscle, meaning a better-than-fair chance I’d have to draw my gun to get out of there.

Since that was not the way I wanted it to go down, I snatched the mug shot back from Luis.

“Hey!”

“Gotta go,” I said. Already I planned to wait outside until Luis left. I’d get him alone and find out what he knew then, avoiding any more hassle with the formidable Herman Boone. That was the plan anyway.

“Give me that pischer back!” Luis made a grab for the mug shot but missed the photo by about a mile. He lunged forward, and, unsteady on his feet being an understatement, he stumbled into a guy sitting at the bar behind me. The guy looked like a WWF wrestler in an Army green field jacket. Shouldering into him, Luis knocked over the big guy’s beer.

Army jacket roared to his feet and shoved Luis backward into two other guys hunched over their drinks and a bowl of pretzels watching the football game, upsetting them all. They jumped to their feet and all hell broke loose.

“God-fucking-damn-it!” Boone bellowed, running back behind the bar to grab his sawed-off bat before weighing into the mass of shouting bodies and suddenly flying fists. “This is your fault, Grace,” he screamed over the sound of breaking bottles.

I guessed it was, not that the resulting brawl bothered me a bit. Made me laugh, actually.

But, I figured I’d better get out of there. As I backed away, one of the men Luis fell into took a swing at the skinny Hispanic kid, decking him. Luis then spun and stumbled onto a pool table. He sprawled across the felt, sending billiard balls scattering in all directions. That indiscretion was met with even more shouts and more men rushing around the tables to join in the melee.

Someone yelled, “Fight!” and around the room, the booths cleared. It seemed everyone in the place had jumped into the fracas. No doubt, just another night on the town, I guessed.

I ducked and twisted and turned, making my way to the front surprisingly unscathed and for the most part forgotten. I hit the heavy oak door, pulling it inward, and ducked, just as a beer mug crashed into the doorframe over my head.

“You’ll pay for this, deHaviland!” Boone shouted while I slipped through the exit out into the cold December night. I shivered at the sudden drop in temperature after the sweltering, overheated atmosphere inside the pool hall. Then I sucked in a cleansing breath of biting fresh air, and giddy, I smiled, not too worked up over the debt I’d just racked up with Herman Boone.

I was still smiling by the time I reached my beat-up van parked at the corner and leaned against the front grill, digging into the pocket of my skinny jeans for my keys. I figured to move the van to a closer spot where I could watch the entrance of the pool hall and wait for Luis to stumble out—or if I was really lucky, Boone would throw his skinny Hispanic butt out sooner for starting the fight inside—then I’d find out what he knew about Rico Sanchez.

With keys in hand, I stepped around to the driver side door, thinking about the laugh I’d have telling my best friend, Suzie Jensen, about the night’s wild events. But I stopped short, my smile gone.

A man stood waiting for me, barely visible in the darkness of the spot I’d chosen to park in, equal distance between two broken streetlamps. He wore a black jacket, black tee shirt, and black jeans and had on his head a dark wool cap pulled down low. His skin was black and shiny as polished coal. He kept his hands in the side pockets of his jacket.

I wondered: to keep them warm or was he concealing a weapon inside?

“That was some play back there,” he said with a smile. His teeth were sparkling white, in deep contrast to his dark face.

He’d been in the pool hall. Now I remembered seeing him sitting at one of the booths along the back wall. I dredged the mental image up in my brain: He’d been talking with a young black man and a girl. A mug of beer for him. A mixed drink and a shot for the young man. The girl’d had tall glass with a plastic stir straw. Pop with rum or something else in it was my guess.

I looked around quickly. I saw no sign of the young man or the girl he’d been talking to.

My .45 automatic sat snug in its holster on my hip and I carried a back-up Beretta on my right ankle. They might as well have been in my lock box at home for all the good they’d do me if this man held a weapon in his coat pocket—and I had to assume he did.

“What do you want?”

I was tense. A shiver ran through me. It had less to do with the December cold then the adrenaline surge pumping through my body. I bounced on my feet, ready to spring into action. Or run.

“Easy,” he warned. “I’m not carrying. I’m going to take my hands out of my pockets.”

“Slowly,” I said, as if I were in a position to do something about it if he didn’t.

When his hands cleared his pockets and I saw they were empty, I took a step back and quickly drew my .45. With the gun in a two-handed grip, I sighted in on his forehead. “Okay, asshole. Hands up high. Who the hell are you? What do you want?”

He put his hands up. His breath fogged the cold air. “This isn’t necessary.”

“I’ll decide that.” My entire body trembled from the adrenaline. And yeah, okay, honestly, a little bit from fear. “Turn around. Up against the van.”

Again, he complied.

I pulled his legs out and apart, away from the van. With him leaning heavily against the side panel I could easily kick his feet out from under him if he made a wrong move while I patted him down. Part of me wanted to face-plant him onto the sidewalk, if for no other reason than he’d scared the shit out of me.

Then I found the gun.

That really pissed me off. I yanked the gun from the pancake holster affixed to his belt—a Smith & Wesson M&P .40 pistol with a 15-round clip. So much for him being unarmed. I finished frisking him. Convinced now he wasn’t carrying, I stepped back and told him to turn around. “Keep your back up against the van.”

I pocketed his .40 and kept my .45 trained on him. “You’ve got two seconds to explain yourself.”

“I only need one. I’m ATF.” Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms.

“Prove it,” I said.

“My credentials are in my inside jacket pocket.” He arched his eyebrows, seeking permission to lower his hands and retrieve his badge case.

When I patted him down I’d felt what I took to be a wallet in his pocket. It could have been a badge case. I nodded an okay. “Again, slowly.”

He pulled open his jacket, and his right hand disappeared under the material. I tensed. Then his hand came back out. Pinched between his thumb and middle finger was a leather billfold, or a badge case.

I took it and looked. Inside was a shiny gold ATF special agent badge and in the plastic window opposite it, an official looking ATF ID card.

“Fine. Agent Leon Anderson.” I handed him back his badge. “What do you want with me?”

He returned the case to his jacket pocket. “Can I have my service weapon back too?”

“When we’re done, and only if I don’t then still want to shoot you.”

“Damn, you are some kind of hardass, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea. Talk.”

“You and I, we’re here for the same reason.”

“Oh, really. What might that be?”

“We’re both looking for Rico Sanchez,” he said. “I overheard you talking to the bartender and that lowlife Luis. By the way, don’t waste your time on him. He’s a dead end. I spent an hour plying him with liquor before you came in. He doesn’t know a thing about Sanchez except that he hangs around the pool hall a lot. Not lately though.”

I knew why I was looking for Sanchez, he’d jumped bail. So, I asked, “What’s ATF’s interest in Sanchez?”

“I want to question Sanchez in connection with a gunrunning operation here in Columbus.”

The bail papers I’d received listed the charges against Sanchez as drunk driving and possession of a single illegal firearm: a cheap piece-of-shit Raven Arms .25 automatic. A gun commonly referred to as a Saturday Night Special, easily bought on any street corner in any decent-sized city in the country. I saw nothing there to justify a federal investigation, not unless there was more to this case than met the eye.

How often did that happen, I thought, bitterly. Like all the time.

“Rico Sanchez is involved in trafficking guns. As many as seventy-five weapons, many of them assault weapons, were seized recently from his home, incident to his DWI arrest.”

Leery, I said, “A judge granted bail to a major gunrunner? The bail ticket’s only ten grand.” Of which I stood to make ten percent when I brought the creep in. That would be fine for a couple of little misdemeanor charges, but, if I was chasing some major player…

Anderson shrugged. “Who can say what these judges will do. But, in this case, the search and seizure came up after the bail hearing. Already I hear noise that the weapons’ seizure gonna get thrown out. That’s why I want to put my hands on Sanchez, before he’s back in custody.”

“That’s all well and good. But why are you here, talking to me?”

“Well, I’m here because, like you…” He smiled. “I figured the best way to pick up Sanchez’s trail was to start right where he’d been arrested. Talk to his friends, people who knew him. Then, seeing you inside, I got an idea. Who better to catch this guy than a local bounty hunter? Can I put my hands down now?”

“Yes. But keep them where I can see them. Go on.”

“You might have noticed from my ID I’m not from around here.”

“I saw. New York.”

“The guns we’re after were stolen in a heist from a gun shop in Brooklyn.”

Something smelled fishy. “I thought you said some of the guns were assault weapons. No way a legitimate gun store’s selling assault weapons, especially not in New York City.”

“And, normally, you would be correct,” Anderson told me. “If, said gun store was not a front for a major pipeline of illegal weapons coming up the coast from Florida, the Carolinas, and Virginia, flowing into the Tri-State Area: New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut. Think about it. What better way to sell illegal weapons than through a gun shop.”

The audacity—and sometimes sheer stupidity—of these people never ceased o amaze me. “You’re saying this genius, Sanchez, ripped off guns from other criminals?”

“We’re not sure exactly,” Anderson admitted. “It’s complicated, but we know for certain he’s involved with the people who ended up with the guns. That he is, was, sitting on the weapons until they were seized last week. Sanchez may be our key to bringing down a whole network of illegal guns moving through the Midwest, and the people responsible.”

Suddenly, my simple bail jumping case had become something much more complicated. I don’t like complicated. I like simple.

“So what is it you want from me?” I asked, having a feeling I knew the answer. And not liking it.

“For us to work together,”

Yeah, that’s what I thought. “Sorry. I can’t do that.”

I stepped around Anderson and opened the van door. He spun around and slapped his palm into the door, slamming it shut.

The burst of temper startled me, which got my Irish temper up and my Latina blood boiling. “Excuse me.”

“I’m sorry.”

I ignored his apology, and laid down the law: Grace’s law. “I don’t have to do anything. I don’t work for you. I don’t work for the feds, or any other law-enforcement agency. You understand?” He nodded. “And, even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I can’t.”

What I was saying was true. As a bounty hunter, I had a tremendous amount of latitude when it came to how I conducted my business. I’m not bound by constitutional constraints the way police and federal law-enforcement are. I do not need a warrant to effect a search or seizure. I can chase bail jumpers across jurisdictions and into other states. I do not need to knock and announce when I pursue a runner into a private home or domicile. From me, a bail jumper has no safe havens.

If I teamed up with Anderson, I could be seen as an agent of the ATF—of the police—and as such, acting on their behalf. I would be legally bound by their restrictions. I wouldn’t do that.

I didn’t explain that to Anderson. He should have been bright enough to already know it. “You’re on your own. Now, get out of my way. I have a runner to catch.”

“Look. I’m sorry,” he said, moving to one side. “I overstepped, but listen here. I’m not from around this area. I’m operating completely in the dark. You can still help me.”

I climbed into the van and pulled the door shut. I started the engine and sat, grateful for the warm air spewing out of the dashboard vents. Leon Anderson rapped a knuckle on the glass and waved at me to roll down the window.

I did.

“I get it, Grace,” he said, suddenly contrite. “And you’re right. How about this then? When you catch Sanchez, just call me before you bring him in.”

I furrowed my forehead. “Why?”

“Because I want a crack at Sanchez before he gets processed. Once he’s in custody, he’ll lawyer up and I’ll get nothing out of him. When you have him, just call me. That’s all I ask.”

He handed me a business card. A white card with a blue border, it had a raised image of the ATF badge and a Department of Justice seal along with Anderson’s name, Special Agent, and the New York City address and phone number of his office. Handwritten on the back was a phone number.

“My cell,” he said.

“I’ll call. That’s all I promise.” I twisted the key in the ignition. The van roared to life.

“I’ll take it. Oh, and …um, Grace?”

“Yes?”

He held out his hand. “Can I have my gun back, please?”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” I took the S&W .40 out of my coat pocket and handed it to him before I drove off. By the time I reached the far corner and looked back, Agent Anderson had disappeared into the dark.

***

David DeLee is a native New Yorker. He holds a Master’s Degree in Criminal Justice, and is a former licensed Private Investigator. He is the author of the Grace deHaviland, bounty hunter series. His previous short stories have appeared in Daw’s Cosmic Cocktails, in three consecutive volumes of Pocket Books, Strange New Worlds, and the Mystery Writers of America anthology, The Rich and the Dead, released in 2011.

David is an active member of the Mystery Writers of America and the International Thriller Writers Association. He currently lives in New Hampshire with his family where he’s hard at work on a novel featuring Columbus, Ohio-based bounty hunter, Grace deHaviland.

A Cold Wind is available at Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/Cold-Wind-Grace-deHaviland-ebook/dp/B006RGFK4W/ref=la_B004FS1RTG_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1337118124&sr=1-11

Click here for an interview with David DeLee, Author of  A Cold Wind and “Fatal Destiny”

And BN.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-cold-wind-david-delee/1108107867?ean=2940013796898

Excerpt from “Hurricane House” by Sandy Semerad

Still grieving the death of her fiancé, Maeva Larson vacations on Paradise Isle, Florida, the luckiest little fishing village in the world, where she finds the dead body of Miss Florida, Tara Baxter, floating in the Gulf. The cause of death is uncertain, and when a hurricane blows ashore, another woman is found dead and two other women are reported missing. As a catastrophe insurance investigator, Maeva knows the storm has destroyed precious clues, but she thinks her CAT credentials will allow her to find out what happened to these women.

Sean Redmond, acclaimed mystery writer and Paradise Isle resident, pursues Maeva from the first moment they meet. She tries to resist him, but then succumbs to his charm, until she reads a section of his latest manuscript, which is too close to the truth to be fiction. Uncertain of Sean, yet hoping he is not a murderer, she follows the clues from a crystal necklace, a hitchhiker, who may have seen the killer, and a black dog named Onyx. No doubt this dog possesses special powers and Maeva decides to trust Onyx s instincts while risking her own life.

Excerpt:

My heart hammered a warning when I opened the door to leave the beach house. It felt like an anxiety attack, cause uncertain. I realize now the warning was a premonition of death, but you know what they say about hindsight.

I took deep breaths of the warm, salty air and tried to relax, then slammed the door. And checked to make sure it was locked. The face on the full moon reminded me of the last time Adam and I watched the fireworks here. In our ten years together, we never missed the fireworks on Paradise Isle. We’d drive down from Gerry, Alabama. Turn off our cell phones and enjoy a few precious days without interruptions.

After Adam was killed in the line of duty, my body ached with grief, and I didn’t have the stamina to confront my memories in the most romantic place on earth. To escape, I buried myself in work. Luckily, my assignments as a catastrophe investigator sent me far away from Paradise Isle, Florida.

This year I took the advice of my sister, who happens to be a psychiatrist. “Make peace with the past,” Kari Ann advised. “Focus on the good stuff and try to be positive, like when you were little Miss Sunshine, singing ‘open up your heart and let the sunshine in.’”

“Oh, please, I was a kid when I sang that.” I told her.

“I know. I’m just saying you need to nurture the little girl inside, and with time, you’ll get through this grieving process, Maeva. But for now, try to live in the moment. Be thankful, not negative.”

I wanted to follow my sister’s advice. I really did, but while looking at that moon, bathing the beach in a silver halo, reality hit me. I was alone, drowning in the past, with too many raw memories like the first time Adam and I made love.

My family and I have vacationed on Paradise Isle in Dolphin, Florida since I was knee high. Mom used to say, “No need to lock the doors. Paradise Isle is the safest place on earth.”

In aerial photographs, Paradise Isle looks like a white thumb, surrounded by the Gulf of Mexico, Dolphin Harbor and the boat pass. “The luckiest fishing village in the world,” according to the Chamber of Commerce sign.

Yet, my heart hammered, as if cautioning me. I glanced all around. Unit Three next door had the lights on. The author Sean Redmond owns that townhouse. I’ve read one of his books, a scary murder mystery.

On the street in front of our townhouses, I saw two teenagers talking and laughing with a man and woman who were probably their parents. They headed up Blue Heron Way toward the boat pass.

For reinforcement, I repeated Kari Ann’s advice: “Live in the moment and be thankful.”

I felt thankful for the afternoon showers, cutting the ninety-degree heat, but not thankful for the swarm of tourists, setting off their own firecrackers. Crowds make me nervous, especially noisy crowds.

I’d never seen this many boats anchored along the shore, honking like mad geese, impatient for the first layers of electric dandelions and long-legged spiders on steroids to explode in the sky. The honking reached a crescendo when the fireworks began.

Rather than watch them, I took off running down the wet, slanted shoreline. The flashes of light and rat-a-tat-tat of the fireworks followed me, orchestrating my run. I hadn’t jogged in months. Soon my toes and calves started cramping. To endure, I gritted my teeth and panted, as if I were giving birth. Maybe the pain in my body will obliterate the pain in my heart.

When I reached my mile marker, I plopped down in one of the wooden loungers, owned by Bobby’s Beach Service and found myself staring at the old Dolphin Mansion, three hundred feet away. Sooty black mold covered the exterior. Beach erosion threatened to topple the seven-foot-tall wall encircling it. Why hasn’t someone restored this landmark? The artist who painted the dolphins, for which the town was named, had lived and died in there.

I saw a light flash from one of the porthole windows. I closed my eyes, then opened them to stare at the building again. The light I thought I’d seen had disappeared, but the eerie feeling stayed with me. To escape the weirdness, I jumped from the lounge chair and walked out on the cluster of boulders called jetties that protected Dolphin’s boat pass from the Gulf’s relentless attempt to clog it with sand.

During my walk, waves crashed against the jetties and my feet slipped a few times. Luckily, I caught myself before I fell.

When I reached the end, I sat on a chair-shaped boulder and dangled my feet in the water. I felt as though I could reach out and touch the fireworks, which were fired from the Dolphin Bridge directly in front of me. I could watch them in the air, see their reflection in the Gulf, and hear the syncopated beat of the music from several boats anchored in the canal. The waves slapped my back, drenching me, and for the first time in a long while, I began to relax. In fact, I relaxed so completely I let my guard down and didn’t anticipate the giant breaker that slammed dunked me into the gulf. A swift current carried me away.

I gulped a mouthful of salt water as the undertow pulled me down, sucking like a vacuum. At first, I battled the coursing water, making wide circles with my arms and kicking my legs fiercely. Then I remembered what I’d learned in a lifeguard class. Don’t fight the undertow. Let it take you to the bottom. So I commanded my body to relax.

When my toes touched the floor of the gulf, I began to swim parallel to where I thought the shoreline might be, and search for a weak spot in the undertow. My lungs burned and expanded like a balloon about to pop. My fingers touched something black and slimy. I froze, thinking shark.

In my panic, I collided with a sand bar and crawled crablike on top of it. I took several deep breaths and looked around for someone to help me. By then, my muscles trembled from exhaustion, and I didn’t think I had the strength to swim back to the jetties. The undertow had carried me to the gulf’s side. The boats and the crowd watching the fireworks were at least a football field away on the harbor side. The jetties separated the two and they were at least three hundred feet away.

I waved my hands above my head and yelled, “Help.” I could feel the shifting of the sand bar, soon to wash away.

When no one answered my cry for help, I jumped from the sand bar and swam back toward the jetties. Halfway there, my fatigued muscles demanded rest. So I floated on my back for a while until I bumped into an object in the water.

When I flipped over to see what I’d collided with, I screamed. It was the unthinkable: a woman’s nude body. I gagged and swam doggie-style, backwards and forwards, studying the corpse. I noticed she’d lost one of her feet. Oh, my God. Did a shark do this?

A boat, fifty feet away with a boom box blasting I’m Proud to be an American, cruised nearby. I yelled, “Help, help,” as I pulled the body toward the jetties.

I watched the boat, hoping for a response, but it sped past, ignoring me, but sending a wave, tossing me backwards. I lost my grip on the body and imagined the remains of this poor woman getting caught up in the undertow, never to resurface again.

Though exhausted, I swam after the body. When I reached out to grab it, a cruel wave pushed it away. Eventually, the

tide changed and I was able to recapture the corpse. This time, I positioned my body on top of the dead woman as if she were a float. Thankfully and finally, the waves seemed to be working in our favor, pushing us toward the jetties.

The corpse and I soon collided with the rocks and I felt like kissing the boulders, though I didn’t think I had the energy to pull myself up and get out of the water. I gripped a gigantic rock, put my feet in between two of them and was finally able to jump up. Then I got on my stomach and tried to reach the corpse, but my arms weren’t long enough to gain leverage. Thankfully, the waves were pushing the body against the boulders, not taking her away.

I unzipped my waist pouch to withdraw my cell phone. The pouch was waterproof, but after my near drowning, I didn’t expect the cell to work.

I punched in 911. A woman answered, “What’s your emergency?”

“I’ve found a…dead body…in the …near the jetties,” I stuttered and shut my eyes, fighting my panic.

You’d think from the way I acted I’d never seen a dead body, but I’ve seen several as a catastrophe insurance investigator, or CAT, as we are called. I’ve dealt with victims of floods, tornadoes, hurricanes. “Calm down,” the 911 lady said. “What’s your name and location?”

My voice quivered, “My name is Maeva Larson. I’m in Dolphin on Paradise Isle at the end of the jetties, near where they’re exploding the fireworks. I’m wearing white shorts and a white top. I’m five-one, have short red hair, and I’m the only one out here on the jetties.”

“You said you found a body?”

“Yes, a woman.”

“And she’s dead?” the operator asked.

“Yes, dead,” I snapped, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I’ll stay on the phone with you,” the operator said, her voice low and soothing.

“No, no, don’t, I’m okay,” I said, though I felt anything but. “I just need someone out here now. Hurry, please.”

After I closed my cell phone, I studied the dead woman. Her gold necklace glinted in the moonlight. The necklace had a gold pendant in the shape of a crown and looked familiar. Too familiar, like the one Tara Baxter had worn the afternoon Geneva VanSant invited me over for wine and finger sandwiches.

Tara had won the Miss Florida contest, and Geneva had received an award for an article about a female hitchhiker. The party was to celebrate both events.

After the get-acquainted hellos, I noticed the crown necklace, “Lovely. Appropriate for your title as Miss Florida.” I remember lifting my glass of red wine to Tara in a toast. “Here’s hoping you become the next Miss America.”

“From your lips to God’s ear,” Tara had said and sipped her drink.

“Is that necklace something the winner gets?”

Tara chuckled and said. “No, Maeva, my mother had it designed for me.”

I didn’t want to believe this dead body was Tara, but I saw no other alternative. On her right hand was a heart-shaped pinky ring. I was certain Tara had worn a similar ring.

What was taking the responders so long? I wondered. The fireworks had ended. The crowd on the beach was moving on. The waves kept crashing the jetties, smacking Tara’s body into the rocks. As I watched her, I began to sob like a frightened child. Never had I felt so alone and powerless.

***

http://www.sandysemerad.com/

Excerpt From “Homesteader: Finding Sharon” by D.M. McGowan

 

Staking a homestead claim in the untamed Canadian frontier of the 1880s was a hard proposition. When the manager of a large cattle company, Portis Martin, runs roughshod over the settlers, Hank James takes a stand.

Martin had been using every trick he knew against the homesteaders, but then James and his partner arrive to take him on.

Fighting against the land-grabbing cattle company, James decides he wants it all, including the woman he loves. He finds Sharon calling herself Miss Sadie and running a bordello. The true grit of Western settlers is tested in this historic saga.

Excerpt:

[Miss Sadie]

After we had turned our horses into one of the corrals, I said, “A lady we knew over in Farwell came down this way last fall. Name of Sharon Dalton. Wouldn’t mind talkin’ to her while we’re here.”

He screwed his brow into a frown, and then shook his head. “Don’t recollect nobody by that name. Come on the cars?”

I nodded. “First part o’ last September. Good lookin’ lady, maybe five foot six. Dresses pretty well.”

I saw a light in his eyes which quickly went out as he turned off all expression, and then turned away toward his shop. “You might want t’ go down t’ Miss Sadie’s place. Other side o’ the Victoria House, down by the tracks.”

“Much obliged,” I responded, puzzled by his change in attitude.

The Victoria House sat north of the tracks not far from the McLeod Trail. Next to it, and slightly further back from the street was a large, two-story house with a small sign on one of the porch pillars that proclaimed it as “Miss Sadie’s.” We sat our saddles at the hitching rail in front of the Victoria for several moments.

“Looks like a damn cat house,” I observed.

“Yep,” Harry responded.

“Why would he send us to a cat house?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t know,” Harry replied.

“Maybe we should go back an’ ask him.”

“Be easier to ask Miss Sadie.”

We sat there for a few moments while I chewed my mustache. Finally, Harry swung down and flipped his reins over the rail.

“Well?” he asked.

“Ain’t never been in no cat house,” I admitted. I could feel my face turning to a fiery red.

Harry’s usually bland face showed what passed for surprise. “At your age? It’s time to continue your education.” He ducked under the hitch rail and stepped up on the board walk. “Come on. Get down off that horse. It’s not like the place is full of demons.”

“That’s pretty much what my mama claimed,” I responded, then swung down and joined him.

The man who opened the door to our knock had not a hair on his head. It was impossible to guess his age, although I felt he was old. He was large, at least as tall as my own six feet, but weighed more than two hundred pounds and his skin was a light brown, what the southerners call a “high yallar”, and most everyone else calls a black man. He wore pin striped, gray pants, and a fancy brocade vest under a black swallow tail coat.

“May I help you?” he asked, his voice deep and full of British sounds.

I was pretty much speechless. Not only was I upset about entering a house of ill-repute, but I had never seen such a person as stood before us.

“We would like to speak to, uh, the management,” Harry announced.

The big man almost smiled before his face returned to an unreadable mask. “I am the manager.”

Harry did smile. “And quite capable, I’m sure, of dealing with those areas for which you are responsible. However, you are certainly not the person we were instructed to consult.”

The big man’s left eyebrow rose as he stood there blocking the doorway. Finally, he stepped back and to the side, his left hand held palm up toward the interior. “Come in, gentlemen.”

He led us to a well appointed parlor and gestured toward the settee. Gratefully I sat, hoping that I could disappear into the cushions. Harry stood beside me, his hat held before him. When I noticed this I whipped mine off and dropped it in my lap. The big man left through a curtained doorway.

“Very nice,” Harry noted, looking around the room. There was another matching settee and several large, overstuffed chairs. Back in one corner was an upright piano, and on the other side of the room a fireplace.

It was certainly not what I had expected. I thought I would come into a room full of curtained bunks and naked women, but this was a room that might grace some of the finest homes in the east. The lace over the windows made it a little too dark for my taste, but despite that it was probably the nicest room I had ever been in.

“Shoulda cleaned up a bit,” I said, more than a little conscious of my brush scarred chaps, the sweaty band where my gun belt had hung, and the dark stains under the arms of my flannel shirt.

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “Trail dust and sweat does little to improve you.”

The big man came back through the curtains and said, “Miss Sadie will be with you shortly. Would you care for tea?”

“That would be fine,” Harry responded.

“Please, be seated, sir. Make yourself comfortable,” the big man said, then turned and disappeared through the curtains. Harry took one of the overstuffed chairs across a low table from me.

Perhaps ten minutes later the big man returned, his swallow tail coat now replaced by a short, white jacket. He pushed a small cart on which rested a tea service. Harry said later that it wasn’t silver, but it sure looked like it to me. That was my first experience with the ritual that goes with serving tea in genteel society. Thankfully, I had Harry’s example to follow.

We had drained our cups when the lady of the house entered through the curtained doorway. “Dreadfully sorry to keep you waiting, but we don’t usually have guests this early.” she said, stepping forward and extending her hand. “I’m Miss Sadie.”

It was about then that her eyes became accustomed to the light and she recognized me. She stopped and clasped her hands at her waist. The woman who now called herself Miss Sadie was the woman I was looking for, Sharon Dalton.

***

D.M. McGowan has been a cowboy, forest firefighter, heavy equipment operator, farmhand, gardener, road musician and businessman. He lives with his wife, Karen, and children and grand children in Northern British Columbia, where he works as a commercial driver.

http://www.dmmcgowan.blogspot.com

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Book Review for STEALING FACES by Michael Prescott

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Review by Aaron Paul Lazar

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Title: Stealing Faces
Author: Michael Prescott
Publisher: Amazon Digital Services, Ulverscroft
Genre: Thriller
Formats: Hardcover, Paperback, and eBook
ISBN-10: 0708943500
ISBN-13: 978-0708943502
ASIN: B00547KH66
Price: Kindle, $ 0.99; Large Print, $29.91
Author’s website: http://www.michaelprescott.net/

Stealing Faces

by Michael Prescott

Book review by Aaron Paul Lazar

I’ve been reading and reviewing a fair amount of books this year, all of them quite good, and most of them on Kindle. Of course, I vet them before I accept a review request by reading the first few pages and the synopsis. There’s nothing worse than reviewing a book that bores you to tears or that just isn’t your cup of tea. So I almost always love the titles I accept.

In the midst of all these excellent books, however, came STEALING FACES. This high suspense thriller literally knocked my socks off.

Mr. Prescott’s writing style is what hooked me from the beginning. Smooth, tight, and fast flowing, the prose held me as spellbound as the suspense. Frankly, STEALING FACES is one of the best-written novels I’ve come across in a very long time, and I can’t believe I haven’t discovered Mr. Prescott’s work to date.

Cray has been stalking and killing women for over a decade. Well-respected by day, savage hunter by night, the man’s character is impeccably drawn using inner thoughts and dialog. The contrast between his day job (revealed partway through the book) and his secret, sick obsession, accentuates his evil.

Now, meet protagonist Elizabeth Palmer. Desperate, broke, resourceful, and lovely, this woman has fixated on finding and bringing Cray to justice since she escaped his clutches twelve years earlier.

From the first primal scream of Cray’s victim to the kaleidoscope of terror-filled memories experienced by Elizabeth, Prescott doesn’t let his readers relax, or even take a breath. Both characters, juxtaposed brilliantly against each other, drive the story forward to its very satisfying conclusion.

The plot is well recounted in many of the 100 plus reviews on Amazon, so let it suffice for me to say that many plot threads and themes are tightly woven into this book, with shock after shock and absolutely no letting down of the tension. I would actually recommend STEALING FACES as a primer for those interested in pursuing a career in writing thrillers.

Thank you, Mr. Prescott, for showing us all how it should be done, and for several nights of delicious, exhilarating thrills.

Highly recommended by Aaron Paul Lazar.

***Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. An award-winning, bestselling Kindle author of three addictive mystery series, Aaron enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his website at http://www.lazarbooks.com and watch for his upcoming Twilight Times Books releases, FOR KEEPS (MAY 2012), DON’T LET THE WIND CATCH YOU (APRIL 2012), and the author’s preferred edition of UPSTAGED (JUNE 2012).

www.lazarbooks.com

Book Review for THE ABDUCTION OF MARY ROSE by Joan Hall Hovey

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Review by Aaron Paul Lazar

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Title:  THE ABDUCTION OF MARY ROSE
Author:  Joan Hall Hovey
Publisher: BWLPP
Genre: Suspense, 240 pages
ISBN-10: 1466337338
ISBN-13: 978-1466337336
Price: Kindle eBook: $2.99 Print Book: $11.99
Publisher website address: http://bwlpp.com/mysteries.php
Author’s personal website:http://www.joanhallhovey.com

The Abduction of Mary Rose

by Joan Hall Hovey

Book review by Aaron Paul Lazar

I have been a fan of Joan Hall Hovey since I read CHILL WATERS last year. After that, I reached for each and every release with the same excitement I do for new books by bestselling authors like Dean Koontz. And with THE ABDUCTION OF MARY ROSE, Ms. Hovey follows in the same tradition of grabbing her readers by the throat and never letting go until the final pages bring the story to its ultimate resolution.

It’s not so much the de facto smooth writing skills, or the vivid scene-setting that makes you feel as if you are right there with the protagonist, or the wonderful, natural-sounding dialog, or the edge-of-your-seat suspense, or the wild chase scenes that keep you up into the wee hours of morning with your heart pounding…No, I expect all of these elements in this author’s books. What shines so brightly above and beyond these great traits, however, is Ms. Hovey’s characters. Rich with back-story, as real as the person sitting next to you on the couch or in your office, these people leap off the page and invade your mind, lingering for weeks or months afterwards.

In THE ABDUCTION OF MARY ROSE, you’ll immediately begin to root for Naomi Waters, a twenty-eight year old woman who records audio books for a living. Bright, loving, and a dedicated daughter, her story starts at her dying mother’s bedside.

Now, imagine losing your only parent to a devastating disease. On the day of the funeral, now imagine discovering that she wasn’t your mother, that you were adopted. With that comes the knowledge that the photo on your dresser of your long dead military hero father was fake, too. Add to that the sudden unveiling of all this through your mother’s obituary, written by the nasty sister of the only mother you ever knew, and you have the springboard from which this riveting story moves forward.

When Naomi starts to dig into her birthmother’s history, she’s horrified to discover that poor Mary Rose was only sixteen when she was abducted, brutally raped and left for dead. The Micmac native girl lived long enough in a coma to give birth to Naomi, then died shortly thereafter. The case was never solved, and for nearly thirty years the rapist and his cohort have lived free among the local townspeople. One elderly witness saw two men take her back then, but couldn’t react fast enough to save the poor girl when the abduction happened.

Ms. Hovey’s scene of the abduction broke my heart. I’m still upset about it, and still feel ragged hatred toward the men who took her, used her, and threw her away. I am filled with sorrow for Mary Rose’s dear, sweet grandfather, who lost his only family member to violence of the worst sort. I’m not sure I would have survived such a loss, to tell the truth.

Yet through all of this tension and horrible upheaval, Naomi vows to dig into the past, catch her mother’s killer or killers, and bring them to justice. With skills that rival some of the best detectives, born of a passion to avenge her mother and a close spiritual connection with Mary Rose, she steadfastly makes progress in spite of the local police’s lack of interest.

In Joan Hall Hovey’s inimitable style, she ratchets up the suspense and fear as the story unfolds. Naomi goes public, gains the interest of the locals, and in particular one very brutal and nasty man, her mother’s rapist and her biological father.

The problem is, this man has no conscience, and only wants to destroy the DNA evidence of his misdeed that lies within Naomi’s cells. The final scenes will have you rooting for Naomi and clinging to the edge of your seat. They are brilliantly rendered.

When you buy this book–and I highly recommend you do–you need to set aside time to read. Start it on a Friday night or Saturday morning, or you’ll be calling your boss to take a vacation day. Yes, it’s that good.

***

Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. An award-winning, bestselling Kindle author of three addictive mystery series, Aaron enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his website at http://www.lazarbooks.com and watch for his upcoming Twilight Times Books releases, FOR KEEPS (MAY 2012), DON’T LET THE WIND CATCH YOU (APRIL 2012), and the author’s preferred edition of UPSTAGED (JUNE 2012).

www.lazarbooks.com

Excerpt from “The Abduction of Mary Rose” by Joan Hall Hovey
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Excerpt from “Through the Shadows” by Gloria Teague

A sensual, fictitious man has captured Victoria Stanfield’s imagination. She knows every inch of his heart, and body, because he is her own creation. Avery Norcross is the lustful hero in Victoria’s series of historical novels and she has made him into her ideal dream lover—on paper. Her husband begins to feel intimidated by a man that no mere mortal could compete with and, along with their inability to conceive; he grows angry and walks out of the marriage. As Victoria’s life begins to unravel she starts to sense there is a male presence still in her house. Not a ghost. Not a demon. She doesn’t find out the truth until her world crashes down around her.

Excerpt:

“It’d be easier to make money as a stripper in a smoke-filled, bug infested bar. Too bad I threw out all my fishnet hose. Too bad I don’t have the body for it. Too bad I can’t dance.” Tori sighed, glanced over the last sentence written and let her fingers fly across the keyboard.

He pulled Helene close, then closer still. Burying his nose in the luxuriant, flaxen curls clinging damply to her neck, Avery gently nibbled his way to the hollow of her throat and felt his lover’s pulse quicken against his lips.

Helene’s breathing grew rapid and shallow, her chest rose more with each breath as her passion grew. Her slender fingers drew his head closer to her. As he began to slowly, so slowly, kiss the hollow at her throat, she stroked the coarse, thick mat on his chest.

Helene enjoyed the way the moonlight had cast glints of silver within his jet black hair and ran her fingers through the soft tresses. She moved her hands across his back; the fingernails pressed just hard enough to leave a trail of tingles down his spine.

Avery pulled her to him, crushing her breasts against his hard chest, eliciting a moan through her parted lips. Her head fell back, and her eyes were glazed in wanton desire.

Avery’s own passion grew stronger by the second as he pulled the plunging neckline of her dress to her waist. Avery’s breath caught at her perfection and leaned down to…

“No, no, no! What’s wrong with you, you idiot? When did you start writing ‘bodice rippers’?” Talking to herself sometimes helped her to pull her thoughts into focus. “That’s too forceful for Avery! He would never rip a lady’s gown, even if she invited him to. C’mon Tori, you can write better than this crap!”

She shook her head at the character’s lack of finesse, and then realized it was her own lack of style. Tori was disappointed in herself for writing such a thing.

The corners of her lips were turned down in concentration, trying to correct this terrible wrong she had done her protagonist. She hated to go back and rewrite the whole chapter but she saw no way around it. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth to chew on it thoughtfully. What to do, what to do?

She felt a soft kiss of frosty air drift across the back of her neck with a feather-like touch, and a chill skittered down her spine. Nerve-endings were screaming a warning to the brain and her throat became arid. Tori stared at the computer screen, straining her peripheral vision to see who stood behind her. Whoever it was stood close enough that she could feel the heaviness of the air being occupied by his mass.

Did I leave the door open? Oh man, I didn’t bother to set the alarm. Glancing over the surface of her deck, she saw she had nothing to use as a weapon. Quickly she envisioned the layout of the room, the house, trying to quell her pounding heart enough to allow her to plan a route of escape.

I can plant my feet on the floor and forcefully shove my chair straight back, right into whoever it is. The weight of my body should be enough to at least knock him down. Him. Why am I thinking it’s a HIM? Because, oh God, a murderer would be a big strong man! But, maybe, with the element of surprise… Oh God, oh God, oh God! Okay, now just stop it! Just take a deep breath and do it before it’s too late. DO IT NOW!

Feet firmly planted, Tori leaned forward in her chair, then slammed her body against the back of the chair while shoving off with her feet. She held her breath, waiting for the collision and the terror of what would happen next.

Her chair tipped over, her legs flung outward like a wishbone, her hands scrabbled at empty air, trying to find purchase, and she cracked her head on the doorknob of the closet where she kept her writing supplies. Even through the swirling, bright stars dancing in front of her eyes, she could see there was no one there.

Well Tori, you’ve finally lost it! Mom always said if you keep writing “this stuff” you’ll lose your mind. Mom’s gonna be so happy that she was right.

She pulled herself off the floor, righted her chair, and rubbed the back of her head to feel the small knot forming already. She sat down straighter in her chair, turning her head to work the kinks from her neck and shoulders. The joints creaked and groaned like protesting hinges of a long-locked door being opened. Getting lost in your writing was a sure bet for muscle soreness. And throwing yourself against a wooden door was another. Perhaps a healthy imagination isn’t so healthy, after all.

***

Gloria Teague is an award-winning author in both fiction and nonfiction, in magazines, newspapers and e-zines. She has five books and nearly 60 short stories and several articles published. She had a full page feature article in Woman’s World in 2009 just before she was chosen as Tulsa NightWriter of the Year. She has two fiction stories in the e-zine, The World of Myth. She’s a former secretary in OWFI and is newsletter editor for the Tulsa NightWriters, a position she previously held for a number of years.

Excerpt from “Cat Moves” by Karen E. Rigley

When Sharly Johnson finds her cousin, best-selling author Trina Golden, murdered and a kiss and tell autobiography manuscript missing, Sharly plunges into danger, betrayal and deception as she and Ripper the Cat unravel layers of the mystery.

Excerpt:

The storm blew into Moon Bay, billowing with thunderous violet-black clouds to smother the night sky and anger the waves. Surf crashed and pounded the shore in deafening roars. Wind churned ocean scents up from the deep to saturate cold blasts of sand and sea.

The girl shivered in her brief sundress, wishing she’d dressed for warmth instead of sex appeal. Flaxen hair flying, she picked her way down to a beach swallowed by heavy darkness. Shells and driftwood crunched underfoot as her sandals squished along the shoreline. Blowing sand stung her eyes.

When Megan reached the edge of the water, she found it difficult to see the huge rock outcrop she knew loomed there.

“Did you bring the note?” came a voice from the darkness.

“Right here.” Opening her fist, she revealed a crumpled square of paper. “Hey, you aren’t Trevor! Who are you?” Confused, she tried to distinguish shapes in the darkness. “Who’s there?”

A biting gust of wind fired sand grains at her bare limbs. The damp cotton of her dress whipped against her body and she hugged herself for warmth. She could just barely make out the rock outcrop, a craggy silhouette in the inky darkness.

“Who’s there?” she repeated. As she waited for an answer, human shape separated from the rock.

***

Karen E. Rigley is an internationally published writer/poet/designer who’s won numerous awards for her work. She’s a member of Sisters in Crime, Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America and Red River Writers.. Her writing has appeared in a variety of publications including: Chicken Soup for the Soul: Love Stories, Science Fiction Review, Grit, ComputerEdge, Andre Norton’s Tales of the Witch World 3, CATFANTASTIC Edited by Andre Norton & Martin H. Greenberg, CATFANTASTIC II and CATFANTASTIC III, Underwired Magazine, On the SingleSide, Magic, The Magic Within, Romance Writers Report, MysteryTime, Today’s Woman, Strange Wonderland, Warrior WiseWoman 2, etc. Her novel, That Carrington Magic was a launch books for Soul Mate Publishing and the sequel Wild West Cupid was released December 2012. A number of her other books are available through Amazon Kindle and Barnes & Noble Nookbooks. Also she’s co-editing The Spirit of Poe anthology which is a fundraiser for the House of Poe museum in Baltimore.

Click here for an interview with: Karen E. Rigley, Author of Cat Moves

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Excerpt From the “The Surreal Killer” by Jerold Last

A serial killer is leaving a trail of dead women across Chile, Peru, and Bolivia. The gruesome corpses all seem to have died in exactly the same macabre way. There may be a link to a small group of scientists who meet annually in different locations in the region. Roger Bowman and Suzanne Foster are asked by the local police to attend this year’s meeting of the group in Lima, Peru to try to find out who was present at the previous meetings when the murders occurred. And the reader is off on a fast paced pursuit of the killer through Lima, Cuzco, and Machu Picchu in Peru and Chile’s Atacama Desert. This is a true whodunit mystery novel set in an unusual and exotic locale.

Excerpt from “The Surreal Killer”
Chapter 1. Santiago, Chile, A Year Ago

He always thought of this part as cutting the calf out of the herd. The problem: Pick up the woman somewhere, somehow without any witnesses to the event. The solution this time: he found her hitchhiking late at night on the deserted street in a poorly lit part of town. He stopped the rented car and offered her a ride. She looked at him, decided he was safe, jumped in the car, congratulated herself on her good luck, and asked if he was heading towards the next town.

“Yes, I am. Where can I drop you off?”

“Anywhere near the middle of town would be great.”

“You’ve got it.”

The car started off in the right direction.

“Can I offer you a little brandy? It’s cold out there,” he said.

“I’d love a sip or two.”

He removed a flask from his pocket and passed it over.

“Thanks a lot,” she replied, and took a long slow swallow. She returned the flask to the driver.

Five minutes later the long-acting drug in the brandy had worked its magic and she was completely helpless. Wide awake, but totally unable to move or speak. She stared at the driver with terrified eyes. The driver steered the car onto a dirt road and drove about half a mile into the woods. After stopping the car, he came around to the passenger side, and pulled her out onto the ground. She noted that there was grass and dirt in the clearing. He pawed her body for a few moments, but didn’t seem interested in undressing or sexually assaulting her beyond the unwanted touching. Out came his syringe, and with a few well-coordinated movements he injected a few mL of fluid directly into her jugular vein. The powerful drug did its work and she was now completely paralyzed.

He opened the trunk of the car. Out came a disposable paper coverall and disposable latex rubber gloves, which he donned. Out came a large machete and a protective plastic face shield, which he also put on. He returned to his terrified victim, dragged her about 150 feet from the car, and proceeded to systematically whack away at arms and legs with the machete for several minutes after she had completely bled out. The mutilation of the corpse continued for what seemed to be a long time after she was clearly dead. Finally he dropped the machete, picked up a small stick from the ground nearby, and dipped the end of the stick in one of the many pools of blood around the body. Very carefully, using the blood as ink, he wrote the words “no mas” on the ground near the body. At that point he made a low, throaty growl that might have meant that he was finally satisfied with the result, and the machete overkill came to an end.

The bloodstained and splattered paper coveralls, latex gloves, and face shield came off and were thrown on top of the dismembered body. So was the machete. Careful examination revealed that there was no apparent blood visible anywhere on him or his clothing after the disposables were taken off. Back to the trunk of the car from which he removed a large plastic container of gasoline that he poured over the body and the disposables. One flick of a match and everything went up in flames, which burned long and hot. When nothing remained but charred flesh, teeth, bones, and ashes he returned to the car and went on to his destination, satisfied that any forensic evidence had been destroyed in the fire. Nothing remained that could link him to the dead young woman, who was a perfect stranger. He smiled a genuine smile of satisfaction.

***

Jerold Last is a scientist on the faculty of the University of California and a big fan of California mystery novels. He taught a popular Freshman Seminar on California Mystery novels for several years at UC Davis.

The settings and locales for all three books, The Empanada Affair, The Ambivalent Corpse, and The Surreal Killer are authentic; the author lived previously in Salta, Argentina and Montevideo, Uruguay for several months each, and selected several of the most interesting locations he found for Roger and Suzanne to visit. The Empanada Affair’s title comes from a local food served ubiquitously as an appetizer in the region. Another book in this series is in preparation; look for it later in 2012.

Link to book on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/The-Surreal-Killer-ebook/dp/B007H21EFO/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1330988453&sr=1-2

Click here for an interview with: Jerold Last
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Excerpt From “It All Started with a Dog” by Leigh Somerville

Despite the good intentions of matchmaking friends, family and neighbors, Rachel Springer, a tough Washington, D.C. lawyer, has spent a lifetime protecting her heart from the dangerous possibilities of love. When she finds a ragged stray dog on the streets of Georgetown and brings him home with her, she starts a sequence of startling events that lead her down a path she’s never explored. Along the way, she rents her downstairs apartment to a bachelor whose 5-year-old grandson has the same effect on her as the homeless dog. Rachel’s expanded life in Washington takes several unexpected turns as she juggles the dramas of divorces and molestation charges; a midnight drunk on her front porch; a health crisis that threatens to disrupt her law firm; and a weekend tragedy that turns her world upside down. All it takes to fully open the door to Rachel’s heart is the disappearance of the dog that started it all.

Excerpt:

When Rachel answered the door eight minutes later, her friend stood on the stoop grinning. She carried two forest-green folding chairs, wore a huge straw sun hat, hot pink and white polka dotted Capri pants, a royal blue tank top, and very large, very dark sunglasses. At her feet sat a picnic basket and cooler.

“You can carry those,” Susan nodded in the direction of her feet, turned and marched down the sidewalk.

As Rachel locked the door, she marveled at the blessing — or bane, depending on her mood at the time — of having two such bossy women in her life — Georgia at work and Susan at home. For someone who grew up with no mother, she certainly had made up for that lack of maternal nurturing in her later life.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Rachel asked as she trudged behind her friend the couple of blocks to the Dupont Circle metro station.

Susan nodded emphatically.

Finding a place to sit on the subway car with room for all their paraphernalia was a challenge. Susan convinced a couple of teen-aged boys to give up their seats at the rear of the car, and the two women spread out for the short ride.

The car was full of Saturday shoppers, who got off at Metro Central, and tourists who left at the Mall. By the time the train stopped near Capitol Hill, it was almost empty.

Susan and Rachel gave up their seats to an elderly couple, grateful to have so much room. They thanked them profusely.

“Now, isn’t that nice to see older folks out so early in the morning, heading out for an adventure,” Susan chirped when they got off the train.

“Susan, those people weren’t much older than we are.”

“There you go again, Rachel — being pessimistic. Thank god, you’ve got me, that’s all I can say.”

“Thank god,” Rachel echoed as she followed her friend up the escalator into the carnival atmosphere of the Market.

“Where is your booth?” Rachel asked as they stood looking at the rows of vegetable stands, tables piled high with handcrafted Mexican rugs and beaded jewelry, racks of Indian saris and embroidered peasant dresses. The wind blew the colorful fabrics like kites against the brilliant blue sky.

Susan’s hot pink fit in much better than Rachel’s uniform of black linen top and beige cotton pants. She was glad she had remembered the turquoise bracelet and necklace her brother had brought back from a recent trip out west.

Susan consulted a map for a few minutes and then took off toward the far end of a row of baked goods. An empty card table stood next to a woman frying funnel cakes.

Susan looked at Rachel and smiled. “Well, at least we won’t get hungry,” she said.

Efficiently, she began to set herself up to work. She yanked her chair out of its cover, snapping it into place and propping up a tiny umbrella to protect her against the rising sun. Out of an old canvas bag on which UVA could barely be read, she took several well-sharpened pencils and a brand-new spiral-bound notebook. Last, she pulled out a paperback version of Webster’s dictionary and plopped herself down to wait for business.

Rachel watched all this in awe. Almost afraid to ask, she timidly broached the question. “Susan, how are people supposed to know what you’re doing – that you’re here to write poems?”

“Oh my goodness, I almost forgot,” Susan said and dug around in her bag again to retrieve a small sign that she propped up against the cooler. “Original Poems Written for You for $5” was printed in bold black letters.

She sat back down with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Now, honey, you don’t need to feel like you have to sit here with me all the time. Go on off and see what’s happening and come back and tell me all about it. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? I thought you said you needed me.”

“I did need you. I needed you to get me going. I’m fine now.”

“Well, I would like to get a cup of coffee. Can I bring you one?”

“No, I think I’m coffee’ed out right now,” Susan said as she tapped the end of her No. 2 yellow pencil on the pad in her lap.

As Rachel walked away, she noticed the funnel cake vendor, a very large black woman with dreadlocks and African robes, staring at Susan like she was an alien from outer space.

* * *

When Rachel finally made her way back to Susan, following the sweet smell of funnel cakes to relocate her tiny table, she was surprised to see a little girl sitting in the chair next to her friend, waiting patiently for a poem. Her mother stood nearby smiling.

When the woman noticed Rachel, she walked over and spoke.

“Isn’t this great? That lady is making a poem for Christy. I had the hardest time convincing her to come with me this morning — terrible time. That child threw a fit getting out of bed, threw a fit eating her cereal, threw a fit all the way here on the train — and now look at her. It’s like that lady has put a magic spell on my child. She just heard that word “poem,” and her eyes lit up, and she said she had to have one.”

“Sounds like magic to me,” Rachel agreed as she watched while Susan tore a page out of her notebook and handed it to the little girl, who looked like she had just been crowned Queen for the Day.

The child danced over to her mother and asked that she read her the poem.

They walked off before Rachel heard the words, but the message was clear enough — art heals.

“Wow, that was powerful,” Rachel said.

Sharpening another pencil to replace the one she had already worn to a nub, Susan smiled up at her.

“I told you so,” she said. “You’ve got to learn to listen to me, Rachel. I’ve written 10 poems since you’ve been gone. People love it, and I’m having a blast.”

“I’m amazed. I’ll admit I had my doubts you could pull this off. How do you do it?”

“It’s not about how. It’s about doing.”

“Right.”

“Remember that when John Turner arrives Monday,” Susan said as another customer sat down beside her to buy a poem.

***

Leigh Somerville has had a long career as a full time writer doing business as Studio McMillan in Winston-Salem. Currently, she is the Director of Marketing & PR for Twin City Stage. Formerly, she was Editor of Winston-Salem Living and wrote as the Scene & Heard columnist for the Winston-Salem Journal for 10 years.  She has contributed to regional and national magazines.  Her work includes ghost-writing memoirs and legacy letters, facilitating writing workshops and retreats, coaching and public speaking.

Somerville entered the world of novels with It All Started with a Dog followed by All Good Things.

Click here to buy: It all Started with a Dog

Excerpt from “All Good Things” by Leigh Somerville

All Good Things by Leigh Somerville picks up where her first novel It All Started with a Dog left off, answering the question, “Will Rachel Springer marry John Turner?” Just when Rachel thought the biggest challenge was choosing a wedding dress, her ditsy friend Susan shares a painful secret that shakes her already shaky confidence in love. A bequest from Rachel’s grandmother — and a near-death experience with John’s grandson, Ben — help her make the decision that changes the lives of every character in the book.

_

Excerpt:

Many loving women, including her grandmother, had helped her father raise his two children in the years afterward. And in her adult life, women friends had continued to fill the role of mother for her. But sometimes, when she observed a special look pass between a young mother and her child, Rachel felt a longing.

She closed the front door quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping child and walked toward the barn. Ralph saw her coming and ran down the hill toward her. The farm always seemed to take at least five years off Ralph’s life, and he leaped and bounded toward her like a puppy. At one point, he stopped to grab a stick in his mouth and rushed toward her to play fetch. Rachel pulled the stick out of his jaws and tossed it toward George, waiting at the barn.

“This dog is a natural born farm dog. You need to move him out of that dirty old city to a place where he can run free like he was meant to,” George said.

“Do you hear that, Ralph? He wants to take you away from the pigeons and all your friends on the Circle. The whole Capitol would collapse if Ralph left town. He’s one of the chief ambassadors there, aren’t you, boy?”

Ralph ran between the two, back and forth. Finally, George threw the stick toward the woods. Ralph ran into the underbrush but couldn’t find it.

“Come on, Ralph, we’ve got something to show your mistress.” Ralph came when he was called and trotted off down the path through the woods in front of them.

“The farm looks wonderful, George. You’ve done miracles with the place.”

George stared off into the woods and didn’t say anything, but Rachel knew he was grateful for her compliment. “I’m happy here, Rachel,” he finally said. “I didn’t think I’d ever be happy again. Didn’t think I’d ever work again. Feel safe.”

They walked on for a while in companionable silence, listening to the woods sounds. Ralph chased several squirrels, occasionally looking back to make sure Rachel had seen his bravery.

“My cousins are lucky to have found you. I’m afraid they were getting overwhelmed by the place and had started to let it get pretty run down.”

“I love this farm, and they’re good to share it with me. There’s only one problem.”

Rachel waited. She knew from her professional experience not to push. Finally, she stopped and turned to him. “What is it, George? Something I can do to help?”

“I get lonely, Rachel,” he said. She could see his shoulders sag with the loneliness. “Your cousins have each other. They’re still so much in love, and sometimes I feel like a fifth wheel. They don’t mean to make me feel that way. In fact, they go out of their way to include me in everything they do, but . . .”

“I know, George,” Rachel said, walking on toward the river. Even though she didn’t. Rachel had that unusual ability to be totally fulfilled alone. She’d never really known what lonely felt like. All her life, friends had felt sorry for her being single, but she’d never wanted to change that status. Never felt the need. She was the exception, she knew. George was the rule.

Suddenly, he veered off the path toward the river and inched his way down the bank to the water. Ralph leaped over the edge toward him. George held up his hand to help Rachel down the incline.

It was only after she reached the sandy beach that she saw what he had wanted to show her. A tower of rocks stood like a monument in the middle of the water. At its highest, it was taller than George and about as wide as a refrigerator.

“It just appeared one day,” George said. “I have no idea who did it or why, but he, or she, must have been tall.”

“And strong,” Rachel said. “Some of these rocks are heavy.” She reached out to touch the artwork. The sun created a mosaic of colors that glistened with the water. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “What a beautiful surprise. Thank you for sharing it with me. Thank you.”

Ralph lay in the water looking up at the rocks and the people admiring them. And then, without warning, he leaped to attention and rushed around and around it, splashing water in a mad dance of utter glee.

“This dog is crazy,” George laughed.

“No, just happy,” Rachel said.

“Me, too,” George said and joined Ralph in his water celebration. He grabbed Rachel’s hand, and the three splashed around the river rocks until Rachel became dizzy and begged to stop.

“We wore her out, Ralph,” George said, joining Rachel where she sat on the riverbank. Ralph came to sit next to the two where they rested, admiring the mysterious tower.

“Have you shown this to my cousins?” Rachel asked. “Maybe they’d have some idea who did it.”

“I haven’t shared it with anyone except you. Didn’t want to. In fact, I don’t think I want to know who did it. Might spoil the magic. You do believe in magic, don’t you, Rachel?”

***

Leigh Somerville has had a long career as a full time writer doing business as Studio McMillan in Winston-Salem. Currently, she is the Director of Marketing & PR for Twin City Stage. Formerly, she was Editor of Winston-Salem Living and wrote as the Scene & Heard columnist for the Winston-Salem Journal for 10 years.  She has contributed to regional and national magazines.  Her work includes ghost-writing memoirs and legacy letters, facilitating writing workshops and retreats, coaching and public speaking.

Somerville entered the world of novels with It All Started with a Dog followed by All Good Things.

Click here to buy: All Good Things