Excerpt - Contract Pending

From chapter 5-ish: Savannah's first meeting with Jorge Pena:

I turned toward the curb and the pale blue Volvo. Only to stop after a few steps when I saw that Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t alone.

For just a second—less; half a second, maybe—my heart stuttered in my chest at the sight of the man leaning on the car. Tall, dark, muscular... One arm braced above the passenger side window and dark head inclined toward Mrs. J, he was dressed in faded jeans that molded long legs and a nice posterior, while a plain white T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and well-developed arms.

My breath caught in my throat, my stomach swooped... and then I realized that it wasn’t Rafe after all. Just another tall, dark, muscular guy in faded jeans and a T-shirt. One who was bugging Mrs. Jenkins.

“Excuse me!” I raised my voice and sped up, my heels clicking against the pavement. “Sir!”

The man straightened and turned. Up close and from the front, he looked less like Rafe. The coloring was the same—dark hair and eyes, golden skin—but this guy’s hair was longer than Rafe’s, straight and shiny, slicked back. Rafe keeps his hair cropped short. The man had a trim goatee, while Rafe stays clean-shaven, and he had an earring, a small silver cross, that Rafe doesn’t have. He also had some sort of tattoo—a dragon or demon, maybe; something green and scaly—that extended a claw above the neck of the T-shirt in the back, and around the side of his throat. And though the eyes were the same—brown bordering on black, deep and dark, fringed with long, sooty lashes any woman would sell her soul for—the expression in them was different. Where Rafe rarely looks at me without some form of amusement, even when he’s about to kiss me and his gaze is hot enough to scorch, this guy’s eyes were flat and expressionless.

“Can I help you?” I came to a stop in front of him. He was a little shorter than Rafe, too. Just an inch or so over six feet tall.

He looked me over. From head to toe and back. If it had been Rafe, the inspection would have been slow, insolent, appreciative, and ending in a killer grin. It would have made my cheeks flush and my stomach quiver. This appraisal made a chill go down my spine. There was no feeling there. No appreciation, no curiosity, no anger—nothing but cold assessment.

I forced myself not to show a reaction. “Sir?”

“I’m looking for Rafe.” His voice was low, harsh, with a hint of an accent. Not Southern. That was different, too. Rafe’s voice is husky and warm. Only when he’s angry do his voice and eyes go dead and flat, like this man’s.

“That’s quite a coincidence,” I said. “So am I. I’m sure Mrs. Jenkins told you we haven’t seen him for more than a month?”

I leaned sideways, to try to get a bead on Mrs. J, in the front seat of the Volvo. Just to make sure she was OK and still breathing. The way this guy was looking at me, I wouldn’t put it past him to have slit Mrs. Jenkins’s throat if he didn’t get the answers he wanted.

She was still alive. Staring straight ahead, her wrinkled face blank. I recognized the expression, or rather, the lack thereof. Clearly, whatever the guy had said or done to her, had scared her practically witless. She’d retreated into this place she goes, where she isn’t living in the same world as the rest of us anymore. She gets a vacant look in her eyes, and she babbles. About old Jim Collier shooting her son Tyrell, about Walker Lamont cutting Brenda Puckett’s throat, about Walker coming after the two of us with a gun... The poor dear has had some tough breaks in her life, and obviously, being related to Rafe isn’t destined to make anything easier for her.

I added, pulling my attention back to the man in front of me, “He left almost six weeks ago. He mentioned Memphis, although that could have been just a ruse. No one’s heard from him since. For all I know, he’s dead.”

The man parted his lips, just far enough to squeeze out a few words. “He ain’t dead.” The unspoken last word of that sentence, I thought, was yet.

It took another superhuman effort to keep my voice from shaking. “I’m sorry. As I told you, we haven’t heard from him. Not since he left. I’m sure he’ll be back sooner or later, but I have no idea when. And I doubt I’ll get advance warning. He usually just shows up. One day I’ll turn around, and there he’ll be.” Please, God...

The man didn’t answer. Just kept looking at me with those dead eyes.

“I’ll be happy to give him a message,” I offered, a little desperately. Maybe that would make him leave. “Whenever he comes home. Or in case he calls.”

The man looked at me again. Up and down. The regard was still impersonal, but his eyes lingered for a second longer than necessary on my legs and on the top button of my blouse. And on my throat. I paled. It was only too easy to guess what he was thinking, and I hadn’t meant that I wanted to be the message.

He must have seen the realization on my face, because he smiled. Chillingly. By which I mean that the corners of his mouth stretched, but his eyes stayed the same. “Tell him to watch his back.”

I nodded. Fervently. “I can do that. When I see him. Or talk to him. Whenever that will be.”

He nodded. And turned on his heel and walked away. 

# # # 

 

Contract Pending is the third book in the Cutthroat Business mystery series featuring Realtor® and Southern Belle Savannah Martin.

 

It's available in electronic format from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords.

#SampleSunday - a taste of Contract Pending

A few pages from chapter 2 of Contract Pending for your enjoyment:

Chapter 2

“Spicer and Truman found her walking down the street in her housecoat and slippers,” Detective Grimaldi said twenty minutes later.

I had driven hell for leather into downtown, found a parking space a block and a half from Police Plaza, and hoofed it up to her office with five seconds to spare, only to find her entertaining Tondalia Jenkins, who was drinking Diet Pepsi and eating peanut butter crackers from a vending machine, in front of a TV in the lounge. Her fuzzy slippers were dirty and worn through on the bottom—clearly not meant for walking long distances outside—and her hair stood out at weird angles to her head, the way it had back when she was living in an old folks’ home where nobody cared for her.

“They drove her back to the house, but no one was there. Since they didn’t feel good about leaving her by herself, to wander off again, they brought her to me.”

“And you called me,” I said. She shrugged unapologetically.

“I figured you’d be the most likely person to know how to get in touch with her grandson.”

We were standing in the doorway to the lounge, keeping an eye on Mrs. Jenkins, but far enough away that she couldn’t hear our conversation. Or so I thought.

“You figured wrong. I have no idea how to get in touch with Rafe. I haven’t heard from him since he left. For all I know, he’s been dead for the past five weeks.”

Mrs. Jenkins glanced up at that, her beady eyes concerned. I mustered a smile. “Sorry, Mrs. Jenkins. I’m sure he’s not. I just haven’t heard from him, is all.”

I lowered my voice again, and added, for Detective Grimaldi’s benefit, “And I have absolutely no idea how to get in touch with him.”

“He didn’t tell you where he was going? Give you a phone number to use in case of emergencies? Call or write?” Tamara Grimaldi’s voice was disbelieving. I shook my head.

“He mentioned Memphis, in a throwaway sort of way, but he didn’t actually say he was going there. And the only phone number I’ve ever had for him, is the one I gave you back in August, after Perry Fortunato’s… um… death. You said it had been disconnected.”

“And you have no other way of getting in touch with him?”

“None at all,” I said firmly. “Have you tried asking Julio Melendez? You’ve still got him locked up, right? Or what about Ishmael Jackson? Doesn’t one of them know how to find him? What would Julio do if he had another job for Rafe?”

“According to Julio,” Detective Grimaldi said, with a wolfish snap of strong, white teeth, “Mr. Collier was the one who approached him, not vice versa.”

I opened my eyes wide. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. It doesn’t matter what he says, either, because he can’t prove it. We can’t even prove that Mr. Collier was involved. He left town before I had the chance to ask him about it, but all he’d have to do, would be to say that he knew Julio and Ishmael and the others socially, but that he wasn’t involved in anything criminal. There’s no law against playing pool, even with known felons.”

I hid a smile. “Sorry to hear that.”

“No, you’re not. But that’s neither here nor there. Right at the moment, I need to get in touch with him because his grandmother is all alone and wandering around. If we can’t find him and get him to make alternative arrangements, we’ll have to put her back into the Milton House for the time being.”

Mrs. Jenkins’s hearing must have been acute when it came to things that mattered to her, because she looked up at the name of the nursing home where she had spent a few miserable weeks. Brenda Puckett had arranged for her to live there, after she had swindled Mrs. Jenkins out of her house, and as soon as Brenda’s murder was solved, the first thing Rafe did was get his grandmother out of the Milton House and back into her old home.

“You can’t do that!” I protested, turning away so Mrs. Jenkins couldn’t read my lips. “It’s a horrible place. They never combed her hair or washed her clothes or did anything nice for her.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“The best thing would be to find Marquita Johnson. Any idea where she is?”

“None at all,” Tamara Grimaldi said. “From what I understand, she got a phone call on Saturday afternoon, and left. Mrs. Jenkins thought she went to Sweetwater to see her children.”

I nodded. “That’s what she told me too, when I was there on Saturday. I was a little worried about leaving her by herself, but she assured me that Marquita would be home by evening. She said Marquita goes to Sweetwater to visit her children regularly.”

“From what we can gather, she didn’t come back. I’ve contacted the sheriff down there…”

“Bob Satterfield,” I said. She nodded.

“He talked to her ex-husband, apparently he’s a deputy sheriff…”

I nodded. “Cletus Johnson. They’ve been separated for a while.”

“He claimed not to have spoken to her since last week sometime, and he certainly didn’t call her on Saturday to tell her to come down to Sweetwater. They’re fighting over custody and visitation rights, and he’s not about to give her any more time with those children than he has to.”

“What a guy,” I said. Detective Grimaldi snorted.

“Though he told us that if anything had happened to her, he knew who was to blame.”

“Let me guess. Rafe Collier.”

The detective nodded. “Some history there, I take it.”

“Marquita had a crush on Rafe in high school. Cletus liked her, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day when Rafe was around. Then Rafe went to jail and Cletus and Marquita got married. I don’t think Rafe had anything to do with their splitting up, but I guess Cletus felt he needed someone to blame.”

“I’m sure,” Detective Grimaldi agreed. “We’ll keep looking for her, of course, but aside from talking to her friends and acquaintances down there, there’s not a lot we can do. Sheriff Satterfield said he’d tell his officers to keep an extra eye out as they go about their business, just in case someone has seen her. In the meantime, I have to decide what to do about Mrs. Jenkins.”

I nodded gloomily. She continued, “I don’t really have a desire to put her back into the Milton House—I was there with you, remember, and I know what it’s like—but Mrs. Puckett did pay for her care there, so they wouldn’t be able to turn her away, and sad as it is to admit, it’s a nicer place than some I’ve seen.”

“That’s a scary thought.”

“She can’t stay in her house alone. That’s a disaster waiting to happen, and I won’t allow it.”

“So what do you suggest?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know.

She grinned. “Didn’t you tell me that Mr. Collier asked you to keep an eye on her while he was away? Maybe you can move in with her until we either find Miss Johnson or until Mr. Collier comes back.”

I had known what was coming, but that didn’t mean I liked hearing it. “What am I going to do with her when I have to go show a house? Or write a contract? I have a committee meeting for the Eye Ball tonight, although I suppose I can cancel that. But I also have a date with Todd tomorrow. And believe me, he’s not going to be happy about me bringing Rafe’s grandmother along. Anyone’s grandmother, really, but especially Rafe’s.”

Tamara Grimaldi smirked. “I met Todd Satterfield once, did I tell you that?”

“He told me. He said he gave you those pictures of Rafe and Ishmael Jackson and the others, that he got from his tame P.I. back in September. Isn’t there a law against civilians hiring private investigators to follow other civilians around?”

“You’d think,” Detective Grimaldi said, “but you’d be wrong. Anyway, I formed the impression that Mr. Satterfield doesn’t care for Mr. Collier, or for anyone associated with him. I’d cancel that date, if I were you.”

“On the other hand, it would almost be worth bringing her, just to see his face.” I grinned unbecomingly for a moment, and then got myself under control again. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice. I mean, I promised Rafe I’d look after her. She can move in with me. I’d rather do that, than spend days or weeks in that house on Potsdam Street. I’m sure it’s not haunted, but I still avoid looking into the library whenever I’m there, just in case. And it’s where Walker tried to kill me, too. I have bad memories of the place. I’d rather stay in my apartment. I’ve only got one bedroom, but she can have that, and I’ll sleep on the sofa. And if I have to go show houses, she can come with me. I’ll just have to cancel Todd and the Eye Ball.”

The Eye Ball is a charitable event benefiting the optometry department at Vanderbilt Hospital. I was doing some volunteer work for them, preparing for the gala.

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot to figure out,” Detective Grimaldi said pleasantly. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Right. “I suppose you have work to do?”

“Two dead in a house fire, both with bullets through their brains, and a fatality during a domestic brawl. A woman stabbed her husband four times with a carving knife. Thanks for asking.”

I was sorry I had.

“If you think of any way to get in touch with Mr. Collier, let me know. I’ll let the Memphis PD and the TBI know we’re looking for him, just in case he shows up on their radar. And I’ll let you know if I find out anything about Marquita Johnson.”

“Please do. Believe me, the sooner you find either her or Rafe, the happier I’ll be.”

Detective Grimaldi didn’t answer, but she smiled.

# # #

Contract Pending will be available on or around July 1 from Amazon, BN, and Smashwords.

The Boddy in the Snowbank - whodunit

Just for fun, this is a blog post I wrote for the 7 Criminal Minds blog earlier this year. The prompt was, "the Clue characters are visiting a hunting lodge. The next morning, the host, Mr. Boddy, is found dead outside in the snow with no visible marks on him. Your job is to figure out whodunit, using nothing but the items available to you at the lodge."

*Disclaimer: I do not own the Clue characters, nor would I particularly want to. I just borrowed them for a bit.*

“When I walked outside that morning, he was facedown in the snow, still wearing his tuxedo from last night and no overcoat. There was no mark on him, no footprints in the snow, nothing to show what had happened.

The last time I saw Mr. Boddy alive was at dinner. Veal Parmesan. There were five guests. All were there to, quote, ‘assist Mr. Boddy with his research,’ unquote.

On Mr. Boddy’s right sat Mrs. Peacock, wife of Marcus Peacock, the reclusive millionaire, and over dessert, Mr. Boddy accused her of having done away with no less than four of her previous husbands. The real reason she was there, however, was so that Mr. Boddy could see the look on her face when he told her that her current husband had been caught on camera coming out of Scarlet Begonia’s apartment in the wee hours of the morning one day last week. Lavinia was furious, of course, and it didn’t make Scarlet happy either, especially when Lavinia threw an entire glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in her face, totally ruining her make-up.

Boddy had another reason for inviting Scarlet. Professor Peter Plum was among the guests. Five years ago, Plum lost his license to practice psychology after word got out that he had made sexual overtures toward a patient. Well, that patient was Scarlet Begonia, and she was only fourteen at the time. So the scandal was even more scandalous than anyone originally thought.

Boddy had gotten that piece of intelligence from the Reverend John Green, who has some sort of strange connection with Mrs. Begonia, Scarlet’s mom. She seems to be one of these crazy women who finds solace in bogus TV evangelists. According to Mr. Boddy, she has given all her money to Reverend Green, and that’s why Scarlet set her sights on Marcus Peacock and his fortune. Incidentally, the money Mrs. Begonia gave the Reverend Green, was the money she had gotten from Peter Plum in return for keeping her mouth shut about the scandal, so Professor Plum wasn’t too happy after Green spilled the beans that Plum had paid through the nose to keep buried.

Mr. Boddy’s tame investigator, Michael Mustard, seemed to be the one who had procured the photographic evidence of the affair between Scarlet and Marcus Peacock. And not only that, but Mr. Boddy had figured out that Mustard was Lavinia’s first husband, the one who disappeared in the Congo six years ago. Neither of them offered an explanation, but either way, Mrs. Peacock clearly isn’t Mrs. Peacock at all. She’s Mrs. Mustard, and a bigamist.

All in all, it was a memorable meal. Everyone was scowling at everyone else, while David Boddy sat in the middle of it all and took mental notes, grinning from ear to ear.

After dinner, everyone went their separate ways. Lavinia retired to her room—and who could blame her?—while Scarlet did her best to stir up trouble in the library, where the men had retired to drink. Plum and Green almost came to blows, and Mustard had to break them up.

After that little brouhaha, Mr. Boddy retired to his study to work on his latest exposé. I could hear the click-click-click of the keyboard from my room behind the pantry. Everyone else went upstairs, and then the migrations started. Lavinia Peacock headed for Michael Mustard’s room, Professor Plum headed for Scarlet’s—and found it empty because she was already in with the Reverend Green. I wouldn’t have been surprised to have found any one of them dead the next morning, by someone’s hand, and that’s the truth.

However, when I woke up and went outside to pick up the morning news, it was Mr. Boddy I found facedown in the snowbank.

The first clue to what had happened, even before I got outside, was that the front door was locked. From the inside. With a deadbolt. And not only that, it was chained, too.

There was nothing about Boddy that gave any indication of how he had met his demise. No gunshot wound, no blunt force trauma to the head, no lingering odor of almonds. No footprints other than his own. He was just dead. Cold and dead. Clutching a matchbox in his hand.

It seemed obvious. Mr. Boddy had come outside to smoke a last cigarette before bed, the way he always did, and someone had locked the door behind him, causing him to freeze to death. He couldn’t have planned to stay outside long, or he would have worn an overcoat. He probably used the matches to try to keep himself warm. If he pounded on the door, no one heard him. Not surprising, as the guest rooms are upstairs and most of the guests were busy with other things. The less said about that, the better.



But was it murder? I’m afraid I believe it was. And it’s obvious who the killer is. If Lavinia Peacock was with Michael Mustard, and Scarlet was with John Green, then Peter Plum was the only suspect without an alibi. He must have come downstairs after he failed to find Scarlet, to have it out with Mr. Boddy. Finding the study empty and the front door ajar, he must have snatched at the opportunity to get rid of Mr. Boddy once and for all, before the author could turn Plum’s venality into another one of his sensational exposés.”

Stopping for air and to give the nice policeman taking her statement enough time to catch up, Mrs. Blanche White, cook and housekeeper to the late Mr. David Boddy, leaned back on her chair and crossed her ankles demurely. “That should do it, I believe. The events of last weekend in as much detail as I can recall. Is there anything else I can do for you, young man?”

The young constable shook his head. “I don’t think so, Mrs. White. Open and shut case, seems to me. If you’ll just sign for me.” He uncapped a pen and placed it on the desk next to the witness statement.

“Of course, dear.” Mrs. White signed her name with a flourish. “Yes, it seemed that way to me, too. Open and shut. I suppose all of Mr. Boddy’s research is gone?”

“If he had any research on his computer,” the young constable confirmed, “we couldn’t find it. The hard drive was wiped.”

“Professor Plum must have gone into the study and done it, I expect. After Mr. Boddy was dead.” Mrs. White clicked her tongue and shook her head. “As a professor, he would have the know-how, of course. I would have no idea how to do something like that myself, but then I never did get much of an education. Been on my own since I was sixteen, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

Mrs. White got to her feet. “If there’s nothing else, I guess I’ll be on my way.”

The young constable stood as well, his face concerned. “Do you have somewhere to go, Mrs. White? It’s not easy, getting a new job in this economy.”

Mrs. White smiled. “I’ll be going to stay with my sister and her husband for a while. We don’t have much, but we have each other.”

She bustled out of the police station, the very picture of the dowdy housekeeper. After a few seconds, a big car pulled up to the curb and the back door opened. Lavinia Peacock grinned at her sister from the passenger seat, and Scarlet scooted across the back to make room for her aunt.

“Where’s John?” Blanche asked, looking around the interior of the car. It was Lavinia who answered.

“Back at work. He’ll be in touch. You know what he’s like. Everything work out all right in there?”

“Of course.” Blanche took off her unfashionable hat, unbuttoned the top two buttons on her prim blouse, and crossed her legs. “What could go wrong?”

“He could have caught on to the names?” Scarlet suggested. “Any idiot should have realized they were fake.”

Blanche shrugged. “The boy’s name is Bruno Gray. He probably thought Green, White, and Mustard were perfectly reasonable names.”

Scarlet huffed.

“So no problems?” Michael wanted to know, from behind the wheel. “No questions about the fact that your room was on the first floor, and you should have heard David Boddy banging on the door? No suggestion that you didn’t have an alibi and might have been the one who locked the door behind him?”

Blanche shook her head. “Not a one. Bruno said it seemed like an open and shut case. Peter Plum is out of our hair, finally paying for what he did, and David Boddy won’t be writing about us—or anyone else—ever again. I think it was a good night’s work.”

She leaned back, smiling. After a second, she added, “But next time, Lavinia can be the cook and maid, and I’ll be the wealthy divorcee.”

“Fine with me,” Lavinia said, smiling. In the back seat, Scarlet rolled her eyes and turned up the sound on her iPod.

# # #

#SampleSunday - Hot Property

Here's the last little tidbit from Hot Property; Savannah is sitting her first open house since her friend Lila was murdered, and she's a mite nervous that the Open House Bandits will pay her a visit:

I was still in the kitchen, looking at my list of names, when I heard the sound of an engine pulling up outside. The oven clock said 3:50 right on the dot, and my heart started beating faster. The rumbling was replaced by silence, and then I heard the sound of heavy boots on the flagstone steps. The door knob turned just as I hurried into the front foyer. The door opened and a man came in. He was tall and dark, with broad shoulders under a black leather jacket, and long legs encased in faded denim. His skin was the color of coffee with plenty of milk, a warm golden tan, and the eyes that scanned the room before landing on me, were as dark and melting as those on a Cocker Spaniel, and surrounded by a thick fringe of long, sooty lashes. They were also rimmed by a smudgy bruise of fatigue, a mute testament to a long and mostly sleepless night. When I didn’t say anything for a second, just stared at him, he flashed a grin. “Cat got your tongue, darlin’?”

My vocal chords were galvanized into cooperating as my cheeks turned pink. “You took your time getting back to me.”

He quirked a brow. “I didn’t know you’d called.”

“I didn’t call,” I said. “I left word with Marquita.”

“I ain’t been over there for a while.” He wandered closer to me, assessing the O’Keeffe, the baby grand, and the antiques along the way. “Your kind of place, ain’t it? All this old stuff.”

I shook my head. “The house is too modern. When you grow up in an 1839 mansion on the Antebellum Trail, a brand new house, no matter how ostentatious, just doesn’t cut it.”

Rafe didn’t answer, but he smiled. I flushed, feeling stupid. He had spent his childhood in a trailer in the Bog, surrounded by leaning walls and a leaking roof, so this place probably looked like a palace.

Then again, Mrs. Jenkins’s house on Potsdam Street, where he lived now – at least from time to time – wasn’t anything to sneeze at, either. Circa 1889, it was a three-story Victorian with a ballroom on the third floor and a circular tower on the southeast corner. It needed a ton of work, some of which he had done, some which he hadn’t gotten around to yet, but it had all the personality this cookie-cutter McMansion lacked.

“So what’s been going on,” I asked, “that you haven’t been over to see your grandmother lately?”

“I spent the night with Tammy Grimaldi.” His voice was so even that it took a moment for the words to sink in. Just as the realization of what he’d said sucker-punched me in the stomach, he added, “So what is it you want, darlin’?”

“Want?” I repeated blankly.

“If you went toe to toe with Marquita, you gotta want something. What is it?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” I grimaced. “I wanted to tell you that Lila Vaughn was dead. But if you spent the night with Tamara Grimaldi, I guess you already know that.”

His eyes were opaque. “The subject came up, yeah.”

“Pillow talk?”

Try as I might – and I wasn’t trying that hard – my voice came out sounding snippier than I wanted it to. His lips curved.

“Never mind,” I added, with what little dignity I could muster. Goodness, how humiliating! I wouldn’t blame him for thinking I was jealous.

His voice was easy. “You’re giving me too much credit, darlin’. Women like Tammy Grimaldi don’t look twice at somebody like me.”

“You haven’t heard the way she asks questions about you,” I answered.

He laughed. “That ain’t cause she likes me, darlin’. She probably thinks I’m doing something I shouldn’t be.”

“And are you?” The words just fell out of my mouth without conscious thought, and Rafe chuckled.

“I’m sure I’m doing plenty of stuff I shouldn’t be.”

“Like what?”

“You sure you wanna know, darlin’?”

I hesitated. For just long enough to make it difficult to say yes. “You said you had things to do this afternoon,” I said instead. “What happened?”

He shrugged. “Change of plans.”

“Well, if you didn’t speak to Marquita and get my message, how did you know I wanted to talk to you?”

That was easy, he didn’t.

“So what are you doing here?” I asked.

“Maybe I just came by to pick up where we left off last week.” He grinned, and I took an immediate step back, fetching up against the nearest piece of antique furniture with a bump that sent the elegant console-table knocking against the wall. He laughed. “Relax, darlin’. After Tammy told me what’d happened to Lila, I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I see,” I said. “That’s really quite nice of you, to take time out to check on me. Do you want to go back to her, now that you’ve seen that I’m all right?”

He laughed. “What exactly d’you think we were doing, darlin’? I spent the night in jail. She hauled me in for questioning around 8 o’clock yesterday, kept at me till one in the morning, let me sleep for five hours, and came back to work at seven. Then we kept going in circles till one, when she finally let me leave. I had to tell her you were waiting for me before she’d let me out of her sight. She’s probably outside right now, making sure I’m doing what I said I was gonna do.”

“So you’re only here because you told her you would be?”

He shrugged, looking around. “You alone?”

“No, actually. There’s a young couple around somewhere. They went back that way, to look at the master suite...” I pointed, “it must be ten minutes ago now.”

And they hadn’t come back yet.

Maybe Gary Lee and Charlene had overheard our conversation and decided to make themselves scarce until we had finished. Or maybe they’d exited from the master suite out onto the deck, and had gone around the house to their car that way. Maybe I really was alone. Except for Rafe, who was making me feel just a touch apprehensive. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering. Busy day?”

“Not too bad. Seventeen visitors, eighteen with you. I’ve seen worse.”

“You sure you shouldn’t check up on your couple? If you ain’t heard a noise for ten minutes, they could be up to all sorts of trouble. Going through the medicine cabinets, pocketing the silverware, strangling one another...”

I shook my head. “They’re nice kids. Newlyweds looking for their first house. I met them two weeks ago at your grandmother’s open house, and I’ve shown them a couple of homes since then. They have another they want to see tomorrow. They’re not doing anything wrong.”

“It’s almost time to close up, though. You don’t wanna leave nobody behind.”

I glanced at my watch. “If they’re not out here in two minutes, I’ll go look for them. Just out of curiosity, why are you being so helpful? You don’t have a moving truck on standby outside, do you?”

“After what happened to Lila? No, darlin’. I ain’t that stupid.”

“Good to know,” I said, wondering whether he really had just admitted that he’d been involved in the open house robberies or if my imagination was running away with me.

“Course, if you’ve got a hankering for being tied up, I could oblige just to make you happy.”

“After what happened to Lila?” I said. “No, thanks. I’m not that stupid.”

“Good to know,” Rafe said with a grin.

# # # 

So there you have it. The last little tidbit of Hot Property, the second Cutthroat Business mystery. The book, as well as the other two, are available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords for a mere $3.99. A steal, I assure you. What are you waiting for?   

Since you asked...

Yes, the Wonderjocks are real. They're made by a company called Aussiebum. Check it out, for your delectation:

Excerpt - Hot Property

From somewhere in chapter 8, I think... In the midst of sleuthing, Savannah meets a guy:

I was in the process of locking the front door of the French Chateau when a bright blue Mini Cooper with white racing stripes zipped into the driveway and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. A young man jumped out. He looked to be in his early twenties, and was devastatingly handsome, in that glossy way that soap opera actors and matinee idols (and gay Realtors) are. His skin was luminous and as poreless and smooth as a baby’s bottom, his soft, brown hair flopped over his forehead in shining waves, and his eyes were midnight blue bordering on black and surrounded by lashes almost as luxurious as Rafe’s. “Hel-lo, beautiful!” he caroled when he saw me, his teeth shining with the radiance of a toothpaste ad. I smiled politely.

“Hi.”

He stuck out a hand. “I’m Beau. The house boy.”

“The what?”

“House boy. Here.” He dug into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to me. I caught quite a load of skin at the same time, because Beau – an awfully appropriate name, and one I doubted was legally his own; it was just too fitting – was bare-chested beneath. His jeans hung low on his hips, exposing a taut, tanned stomach and admirable musculature all the way around.

I looked away, down to the business card, blushing. Way to go, Savannah; ogle the gay guy, why don’t you?

Beau Riggins, the card said, House Cleaning, followed by a phone number. Feeling Dirty? the slogan underneath said, Call the House Boy!

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, “I’m sure you are who you say you are, but I really can’t let you into the house.”

“That’s OK, gorgeous. I’ve got my own key.” He pulled it out and dangled it in front of my face, something which necessitated another display of skin. “Mr. Givens will be here any minute himself, I’m sure. He always comes home for lunch on Mondays. To watch me work.” He winked.

“I see,” I said. “Um... not that it’s any of my business, but wouldn’t it be better to wear a uniform of some kind? What if you spill bleach on yourself or something?”

Beau ran a hand down his chest and stomach. It was as manicured as the rest of him. Whatever he was doing to the house, didn’t involve chapping his hands in hot water and ammonia. No calluses on Beau. “This is a bona fide, genuine tan, sweetie. The real thing; I was in Acapulco just two weeks ago, working on it. Bleach won’t take it off. And wearing a shirt would totally ruin everything. Nobody’s gonna pay me $100 an hour to vacuum the floors while I wear clothes.”

“You clean in the nude?” I said. “For $100 an hour?” Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure which was more shocking.

“I clean in a pair of Wonderjocks,” Beau corrected, unconcernedly pulling down his zipper to show them to me. They were bright blue, the same color as the car, and fit him like a second skin. The waistband identified them as Property of Australia in bright red and white letters. I stared in horrified fascination, although I still felt like I was missing something.

“I’m sorry. Wonder... what?”

“Wonderjocks,” Beau repeated, with a fond look down at them. Or himself. “They work the same way as that bra you’re wearing.” He demonstrated on his own well-developed pectorals. “The Wonderjock lifts and separates, too.”

“Lifts and separates what?” I asked. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Beau grinned. “They’re wonderful, aren’t they? Boosts the appeal of even the smallest guy, and for those of us who are OK on our own, they take us out of the merely average and give us a little something extra. And $100 an hour is my starting price. It goes up from there.”

“Good Lord,” I said reverently, not quite sure whether I was reacting to Beau’s price or the briefs. They were the first pair of men’s undies I had seen since my divorce, and Bradley’s tighty whities sure hadn’t looked like this.

Beau chuckled. “I do just fine, darling. Nashville is full of rich gay men and bored housewives who’ll pay through the nose to watch me swing a feather duster. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.” He winked.

Just at that moment, a dark sedan pulled into the driveway and saved me the trouble of coming up with a response. A well-dressed, older man got out and came up the stairs. “Good afternoon, Beau.”

“Hi, Mr. Givens,” Beau grinned. Mr. Givens, Beau’s employer – and audience for the next hour or two – turned to me.

“Hello.” It was less a greeting than a request for me to explain who I was and what I was doing there, distracting his entertainment.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Savannah Martin with Walker Lamont Realty. Previewing the house. I was just leaving.”

Mr. Givens nodded, but his gaze had already returned to the beautiful Beau. “Did you lose your key, Beau?”

“Not at all, Mr. Givens,” Beau said, brandishing it. Givens’s eyes glazed over at the display of skin, and Beau’s dimple made a brief appearance. “I was just shooting the breeze with Savannah. But now that you’re here, I guess I should get to work.”

Mr. Givens didn’t answer, just turned toward the front door. It was answer enough. Beau winked at me and followed.

# # #

 

There you go. The digital version of Hot Property is available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords for $3.99. Enjoy!  

Why Some Men Have Dogs And Not Wives

I couldn't resist this one. Not sure who wrote it originally, or I'd give credit where credit is due. It came to me via my husband, who got it from his mother.

1. The later you are, the more excited your dogs are to see you.

2. Dogs don't notice if you call them by another dog's name.

3. Dogs like it if you leave a lot of things on the floor.

4. A dog's parents never visit.

5. Dogs agree that you have to raise your voice to get your point across.

6. You never have to wait for a dog; they're ready to go 24 hours a day.

7. Dogs find you amusing when you're drunk..

8. Dogs like to go hunting and fishing.

9. A dog will not wake you up at night to ask, "If I died, would you get another dog?"

10. If a dog has babies, you can put an ad in the paper and give them away.

11. A dog will let you put a studded collar on it without calling you a pervert.

12. If a dog smells another dog on you, they don't get mad. They just think it's interesting.

13. Dogs like to ride in the back of a pickup truck.

And last but not least:

14. If a dog leaves, it won't take half of your stuff.

To test this theory:
Lock your wife and your dog in the garage for an hour. Then open it and see who's happy to see you.

Architecture 101 - Queen Anne

Of all the Victorian house styles, Queen Anne is the most elaborate as well as the most eccentric. The style is often called romantic and feminine, yet it is the product of a most unromantic era - the machine age.

Queen Anne became an architectural fashion in the 1880s and 1890s, when the industrial revolution was building up steam. North America was caught up in the excitement of new technologies. Factory-made, precut architectural parts were shuttled across the country on a rapidly expanding train network. Exuberant builders combined these pieces to create innovative, and sometimes excessive, homes. Country folk yearned for fancy city trappings. Wealthy industrialists pulled out all stops as they built lavish "castles" using Queen Anne ideas.

Although easy to spot, America's Queen Anne style is difficult to define. Some Queen Anne houses are lavished with gingerbread, but some are made of brick or stone. Many have turrets, but this crowning touch is not necessary. So, what is Queen Anne?

Anne was the Queen of England, Scotland, and Ireland in the early 1700s. Art and science flourished during her reign. One hundred and fifty years later, British architect Richard Norman Shaw and his followers used the term Queen Anne to describe their work. Their buildings didn't resemble the formal architecture of the Queen Anne period, but the name stuck.

In the US, builders began constructing homes with half-timbering and patterned masonry. These houses may have been inspired by the work of Richard Norman Shaw. Like Shaw's buildings, they were called Queen Anne. As builders added spindlework and other flourishes, America's Queen Anne houses grew increasingly elaborate. The Queen Anne style in the United States became entirely different from the Queen Anne style in England, and both styles were nothing like the formal, symmetrical architecture found during the time of Queen Anne's reign.

Some Queen Anne houses are lavishly decorated. Others are restrained in their embellishments. Yet the flashy "painted ladies" of San Francisco and the refined brownstones of Brooklyn share many of the same features. There is an element of surprise to the typical Queen Anne home. The roof is steeply pitched and irregular. The overall shape of the house is asymmetrical.

A list of Queen Anne features can be deceptive. Queen Anne architecture is not an orderly or easily classified. Bay windows, balconies, stained glass, turrets, porches, brackets, and an abundance of decorative details combine in unexpected ways.

In Avery's world of Waterfield, Maine, there are a lot of Queen Anne Victorians, since a large part of Waterfield Village, the historic district, was built during the late 1800s. Of all of them, Kate McGillicutty's Bed and Breakfast, the Waterfield Inn, is probably the most impressive:

The Waterfield Inn turned out to be every bit as lovely – and expensive – as Melissa James had said. It was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. It was gorgeous, spotlessly clean, and meticulously maintained. A true Queen Anne Victorian, the Inn was a mix of architectural styles and angles. Two-and-a-half stories tall with a square tower, like Aunt Inga’s house, it also had a round tower with an onion dome, like the Kremlin in Moscow. The square tower had a mansard roof topped by a widow’s walk. There was a bay window on the first floor, a wrap-around porch, gingerbread trim, narrow, arched windows, and gables in every direction. The house had every Victorian excess imaginable – the very hallmark of the Queen Anne style – and everything was painted a sunny butter yellow with gleaming white accents.

Incidentally, Mrs. Jenkins's house in A Cutthroat Business and Hot Property is a Queen Anne, as well, although Savannah doesn't take the time to describe it in as much detail: Circa 1889, it was a three-story Victorian with a ballroom on the third floor and a circular tower on the southeast corner.

I see a lot of Queen Anne's. They're all over East Nashville. I've always thought Mrs. Jenkins's house at 101 Potsdam Street looks something like the Ambrose House, shown here, except in much worse shape. When I first moved to Nashville, rather a long time ago now, the Ambrose House was nothing but a shell. Now it's a gorgeously restored event venue, but in my mind, I still remember it the way it used to be, and used it for A Cutthroat Business.

So there you have it, the Queen Anne Victorian. Hope you enjoyed!

#SampleSunday - another tidbit from Hot Property

Here you go, a few pages from chapter 3:

3.


No sooner had I kicked my shoes off and padded into the kitchen in my stocking-feet, than there was a knock on the door. I reversed direction and unlocked the door again, wondering what Todd had forgotten to say. Had he decided to come out and propose, after all...?

“What did you...? Oh!”

“Evening, darlin’.”

The man outside lacked Todd’s all-American, clean-cut good looks, as well as his $500 suit and his impeccable manners. Instead of waiting for me to invite him in, he sauntered across the threshold, brushing against me on the way. Not by accident. I glanced out into the hallway – no sign of Todd – before I followed. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”

To my dismay, my heart was thumping a little faster than usual. I was nervous, and not looking forward to teasing answers to my questions out of him, although I can’t say I was terribly surprised to see him. I had called him, after all, and it wasn’t the first time he’d shown up unannounced on my doormat.

He stopped in the door to the living room and turned to face me. “Thought I already did. Hot date?”

“Dinner with Todd.”

Out of my customary high heels, he seemed even taller than usual. I folded my arms across my chest. It was a reflex, although in my more lucid moments I wasn’t entirely certain whether I was trying to prevent him from seeing into my cleavage or if it was more of a defense mechanism against the man in general, emotionally as well as physically.

He nodded. “Saw you drive up. Thought maybe he’d be staying the night.”

“I didn’t see you,” I said, diverted. He shrugged. “No, he won’t spend the night. I let him walk me to the door and I kissed him goodnight, but that’s it. My mother always told me a man won’t pay for the cow if he can get the milk for free.”

Rafe grinned, white teeth flashing. “So you’ll kiss Satterfield, but you won’t kiss me?”

So much for pretending last week’s kiss had never happened... “I kissed you. Or let you kiss me, which comes to the same thing.”

He shook his head. “No, it don’t. I’ll show you the difference, if you like.”

I stepped back, out of reach. “Some other time.”

He grinned, but let it go. “So what can I do for you, darlin’?”

“Oh. Um… Right. I called you, didn’t I? I’m never quite sure whether my messages are going to get to you or not. Sometimes you call back, sometimes you don’t, and whoever answers the phone – Wendell, isn’t it? – never answers it the same way twice. First it was a car lot, then a pawn shop, and today he said it was a storage place. The only consistent thing he says is that you’re not there.” I realized I was babbling, postponing the inevitable, and I reined myself in. “I wanted to ask you something. Do you want to sit down?”

He quirked a brow – usually I was trying to get him out, not in – but he didn’t comment. “Sure.”

“The living room is through there.” I pointed. “Can I get you anything? Milk, water, sweet tea?”

“Beer?”

“Sorry. Although I think I may have half a bottle of Chardonnay somewhere...” I looked around vaguely.

“I ain’t that big on wine. But I’ll take a glass of tea, if it ain’t too much trouble.”

“Coming right up.” I walked into the kitchen while he headed for the living room. A minute later, when I entered with two glasses of sweet – iced – tea on a tray, I found him not on the sofa, where I’d expected to see him, nor by the balcony doors, looking out at the view – my second guess – but lounging in the doorway to the bedroom, assessing my queen sized bed with an experienced eye. And why I had expected anything different, I don’t know. Nevertheless, I stopped as if I’d hit an invisible wall, and blushed. One corner of his mouth curled up, but he didn’t speak.

I prodded myself into moving, and put the tray down on the coffee table. “Here you go. It’s just instant; I didn’t have time to brew fresh.”

“You’re slipping, darlin’. What’d your mama say?” He removed himself from the door and came around the sofa to retrieve his glass. I did my best to avoid touching him when I handed it over, but without success. His fingertips brushed my knuckles, and I’m not willing to swear it wasn’t intentional. Rafe’s got the kind of in-your-face sex appeal that a lot of women – and Tim – seem to like, and although I’ve been brought up to value old-fashioned manners and decorum, I’m not entirely dead below the neck, either. Especially as he doesn’t scruple to turn the setting up to scorching hot every time he sees me.

“Cheers.” He lifted his glass. I did the same, without thinking. “To us.”

He drank. I hesitated, and then took a small sip from my own glass. It was just a toast, and joining in it didn’t mean that I acknowledged that there would ever be an ‘us.’

“So what do you need?” He put the glass down on the table and himself on the sofa, where he leaned back comfortably. He was wearing jeans tonight, and a black T-shirt that molded to his chest and upper arms. I turned away to sit down in a chair, before he could catch me looking. He added, with a grin, “You got someplace you need me to break into for you? Or somebody I can beat some answers out of?”

Recently, we had broken into a storage unit together, in the process of trying to discover who had murdered my two coworkers Brenda Puckett and Clarice Webb, and we had also persuaded a young man to come clean about finding Brenda’s dead body and not calling the authorities. Rafe hadn’t had to do any actual beating, but the way he had loomed over the youth, cowing him with his six feet three inches and 195 pounds of solid muscle, not to mention the demeanor he had developed in two years behind bars, hadn’t hurt. Nineteen-year-old Maurice Washington had sung like the proverbial nightingale.

I shook my head. “I know how much you enjoy doing that sort of thing, but this time, you can give me the answers I need yourself.”

“Shoot.” He lifted the glass and took another long draught of iced tea, throat moving smoothly as he swallowed. I wasn’t sure whether the word was an invitation to ask what I wanted, or a reaction to hearing that there was nothing macho and illegal for him to do.

“Do you know anything about these open house robberies that have been going on for the past two weekends?”

He put the glass down, and I thought there was a watchful look in the depths of his eyes, but it was hard to be sure. They’re so dark as to be almost black, and he’s learned to hide his feelings and reactions almost too well. “Why?”

“Tim has asked me to host an open house for him this Sunday.”

“Yeah? Where?”

I shrugged. I hadn’t been paying attention when Tim went over the details on Monday. “Some million-dollar McMansion in Brentwood somewhere.”

“Better be careful then, darlin’.” Rafe picked the glass up and took another swig. The ice cubes jingled when he put it down on the table again, empty. “So you want me to get you some protection? Gun? Knife? Something untraceable, in case you have to use it?”

“Lord, no!” I moderated my voice. “I’m not going to walk around with a gun in my handbag, thanks all the same. I thought about it after Walker tried to kill me, yes, but I’ve decided I’m just not comfortable carrying a weapon. More tea?”

“Not right now. You’d be more comfortable once you got used to using it.”

“What makes you think I’d want to be comfortable using it? Deliberately shooting someone, or sticking a knife into them? No, thanks. I don’t think I have it in me.”

“If you had to, you could,” Rafe said, in a weird echo of Detective Grimaldi’s statement from earlier in the week.

I shrugged. “I appreciate the offer, but no. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me some... um... personal protection? Stay with me during the open house, just to make sure nothing happens?”

“Guard your body?” He grinned, letting his eyes wander over it. I compressed my lips and willed the incipient blush to stay where it was. “You sure your body’d be safe with me, darlin’?”

I hesitated. “I’d trust you to protect it from someone else coming at it with a knife or a gun.” Although not necessarily from himself. But if we were in someone else’s house, surely I’d be safe. “And I’d be happy to pay you for your time, if you’d like.”

“With your body?”

“No! Don’t you ever think about anything else?”

“I’m a man,” Rafe said, as if that was an explanation. Maybe it was. “It’s a tempting offer, darlin’, but I’ve got plans for Sunday afternoon.”

I’d been afraid he’d say that.

# # #

 

So there you have it. the electronic version of Hot Property is available for sale from Amazon, from Barnes and Noble, and from Smashwords, for $3.99. A steal, I assure you!

#SampleSunday - Hot Property

Here you go: the first four pages of Hot Property, Cutthroat Business mystery #2, for your enjoyment:

1.

The first open house robbery took place on the second Sunday in August, just at the time I was busy apprehending a murderer.

Before I go any further, I guess I should make it clear that I’m not actually in the business of law enforcement. Walker Lamont was the first, and I sincerely hope the last, murderer I’ll encounter.

My name is Savannah Martin, and what I am, is a Realtor. Walker was my boss. Up until the moment I happened to be standing next to him when he came face to face with someone who could put him in the wrong place at the wrong time, we’d had a very good relationship, and I’m sure he meant it sincerely when he apologized for having to kill me.

But I digress. As I was pushing the business end of a lipstick into Walker’s back, trying to make him believe it was a gun, another Realtor – Kieran Greene with RE/MAX – was being gagged and tied to a chair on the other side of town. After he was safely trussed, four masked men proceeded to strip the house of anything of value and cart it off in a rented moving van, leaving Kieran sitting in the kitchen waiting to be rescued.

The incident made the news, but was treated as sort of a sidebar to Walker’s arrest. Violence against Realtors, Part II. Poor Kieran’s ordeal was buried on page 4 of the Nashville Banner and received scant attention from anyone. It wasn’t until the next Sunday, when the same thing happened again, that the real estate community sat up and took notice.

The first I heard of this second robbery was at the weekly staff meeting on Monday morning. With Walker in jail, Timothy Briggs had taken over as managing broker of Walker Lamont Realty, and he was the one who brought it up. “Before we talk about holding open houses next weekend,” he said, leaning back in Walker’s leather chair and folding his manicured hands across his flat stomach, “I guess we should discuss what happened yesterday. I assume you’ve all heard the news?”

He looked around the table, his baby-blue eyes bright.

I raised my hand. “I haven’t. What happened yesterday?”

“Oh, Savannah, it was just awful!” Heidi Hoppenfeldt was busy chomping her way through the three dozen donuts Tim had brought in for us to share, and when she spoke, a fine spray of crumbs arched out of her mouth and landed on her ample bosom. She was on the other side of the table from me, so I wasn’t hit, but the people on either side of her leaned away.

“What’s awful?” I said. And added, mentally, “apart from Heidi’s table manners.”

Tim smirked. “Didn’t you catch the news last night, darling? My goodness, you must have had a busy day. It was on the five o’clock, six o’clock, nine o’clock and ten o’clock news!”

“I was in Sweetwater this weekend,” I said. Sweetwater is my hometown, a small place an hour or so south of Nashville. My mother and my two siblings live there, along with their spouses and children, my aunt Regina, and various old friends and acquaintances. “I had dinner with a friend before I drove back, so I didn’t get home until after eleven. And I didn’t listen to the radio in the car.”

Tim smacked his lips appreciatively. “And how is the scrumptious Mr. Collier?”

A few of the girls and the other (gay) guys tittered. Tim has an outspoken and unrequited crush on Rafael Collier, who’s an old acquaintance of mine, also from Sweetwater. Rafe isn’t gay – not by any stretch of the imagination – but Tim likes to dream.

“He’s fine,” I said repressively.

“He certainly is,” Tim agreed, with a saucy grin.

I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean. I haven’t seen him for a few days, but he seemed all right on Thursday. And we’re not dating.”

“You were dating last weekend at Fidelio’s,” Tim pointed out. A whisper, like a breath of wind through stiff grass, spread around the table. Fidelio’s is one of the nicest (and most expensive) restaurants in Nashville; the sort of place where country music stars dine and normal people can only afford to go on special occasions. It’s not the kind of place one takes a casual acquaintance, unless one has serious designs on her. Which Rafe does. (He wants to sleep with me. And he hasn’t made any secret of it, so I don’t see why I should.) But if he had thought that wining and dining me at Fidelio’s would make me give in to his predatory charms, he must have been disappointed. He didn’t get so much as a goodnight kiss when he brought me home, although I’d wager that my near-faint when he suggested it may have been almost as gratifying to his undeniable ego.

“It was a business dinner,” I said firmly. “And it’s none of your concern. Yesterday I had dinner with someone else. Someone you haven’t met.”

“You get around, don’t you, darling?” Tim smirked.

I narrowed my eyes. Tim added, “Well, since you missed the news... There was another open house robbery yesterday.”

I blinked. “Like the one last week? When the owners came home and found their Realtor bound and gagged in the kitchen?”

Tim nodded. “Poor Kieran. He’ll never be the same.” He clicked his tongue sympathetically and then brightened. “This time the Realtor was Lila Vaughn, with Worthington Properties.”

I must have made a noise, for he added, “Do you know her?”

I nodded. “I took real estate classes with Lila Vaughn. We got together for lunch less than two weeks ago.” Just after the ordeal with Walker, in fact. She’d wanted to hear the scoop.

“I saw her on the news yesterday,” Heidi mumbled, spraying another shower of crumbs across the table. The donut box was slowly emptying out.

“They interviewed her?” That sounded like Lila. She was an aggressive go-getter, willing to do pretty much whatever it took to get ahead, and she probably considered the news coverage free advertising. I could easily see her pushing through any fear or discomfort she was feeling to get her face on TV. She’d exhorted me to do the same thing last time we spoke, and to take advantage of the media circus surrounding Walker’s arrest.

Heidi nodded. “Black girl, pretty, with long, curly hair.”

“That’s her. What happened?” I looked around the table.

“The same thing as last time,” Tim said. “Just before the open house was over, a group of men showed up. They tied Lila to a chair and spent twenty or thirty minutes carrying everything of value out of the house. Electronics, jewelry, rugs, paintings. The house was full and they got it all.”

“Was Lila hurt?”

Tim shrugged. “The news didn’t say. The owners found her when they came home later.”

“Gosh,” I said, “she must have been terrified.”

We all thought about Lila’s ordeal and – I’m sure – thanked God it had happened to her and not to us.

“In light of all this,” Tim broke the silence, “those of you with open houses scheduled for this weekend may want to take some extra precautions. Get a friend to come with you so you don’t have to be alone. Keep the doors locked between visitors, or stay on the porch or outside in the yard where people can see you. Arrange to call a friend every fifteen minutes. You know, all the usual things.”

“The same things my daddy told me when I was sixteen and started dating,” one of the women said with a grin.

Tim nodded. “And that reminds me... Savannah, I can usually count on you to host an open house for me, but if you’d rather not, under the circumstances...” He let the sentence trail off suggestively. I grimaced. At the last open house I hosted, someone had tried to kill me, which didn’t make me particularly eager to try again. Until the open house robbers were caught, I’d just as soon not tempt fate.

However, I couldn’t in good conscience say no. Tim was, for all intents and purposes, my boss, now that Walker was languishing in jail, and although he couldn’t really order me to do anything – like all Realtors, I’m an independent contractor and responsible only to myself – I didn’t think it would go over very well to refuse. In my roughly eight weeks on the job, I hadn’t brought in so much as a dime in commissions.

“Sure. I’m happy to help.” I don’t think I sounded happy, but I got the words out.

“Excellent.” Tim showed all his capped teeth in a blinding smile. The conversation went on to the houses he and the others wanted to hold open next weekend, and I tuned out while I let my mind wander.

Poor Lila, what a horrible thing to have happen. She wasn’t the most delicate of women, bless her heart – not by a long shot – but still, surely something like this would be enough to put the wind up anyone. I’d had to deal with some scary stuff myself in the past few weeks, and I was becoming quite an expert on heart-stopping terror. I should definitely give her a call to commiserate, once the meeting was over. IfI scraped the bottom of my purse, I could come up with enough change to pay for lunch.

“Does that sound OK, Savannah?” Tim’s voice said. I nodded vaguely. “I’ll put you down for that, then. Thank you.”

“No problem.” I had no idea what I’d just agreed to do, but I wasn’t willing to admit I hadn’t been paying attention by asking him to repeat it. I’d figure it out later.

Tim giggled. “If you’re worried, maybe you should ask Mr. Collier to keep you company. He looks like he’d be able to handle any number of robbers.”

Rafe would be more likely to be aiding and abetting them, but I didn’t say so. “I’ll keep the suggestion in mind,” I said instead, cooly.

“Do that, darling. And if you don’t, maybe I’ll ask him to guard my body instead.” Tim tittered.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be surprised if you find yourself tied to a chair, in that case.”

“Darling!” Tim bleated, seemingly overcome with emotion. He fanned himself with a limp hand as the rest of the room laughed. I blushed.

# # #

 

Look for Hot Property at an e-book retailer near you in the next few days. It should be available on Amazon, B&N and Smashwords around the 1st of June.  

Changing Worlds

I wrote this for the Working Stiffs a few months ago, about one of my favorite book characters. He doesn't qualify as a hunk, exactly - a little too short, for one thing - but he's still one of the best written, best realized, most amazing heroes out there, and I have a feeling that if we ever met, I'd probably develop a heck of a crush. How could you not?

Without further ado:

One of my favorite writers of all time has a new book out, in one of my favorite series, about one of my all-time favorite characters.
The writer is Lois McMaster Bujold, and the novel is called CryoBurn. It’s the last in a long line of semi-soft science fiction books known as the Vorkosigan Saga, set on the planet Barrayar in the year 3000-odd. The first few books, Shards of Honor and Barrayar, are about Aral Vorkosigan and his wife Cordelia, and then in The Warrior’s Apprentice, their son Miles takes over. And I mean that in the most literal way.
Miles is one of those characters who do that. As a recent review for CryoBurn says – you can go on Amazon and read it yourself – “Like many a Miles novel before it, it’s a fast-paced adventure wherein Miles happens to people, and their lives (and worlds) are skewed in his wake.”

I read that, and it got me to thinking about my own characters. Do they do that? Do I write the kinds of characters who happen to people, and who change lives and worlds as a result?

It’s not the first time I’ve heard that sentiment expressed as relates to Miles, by the way. A character in one of the books says much the same thing. “I’ve had many subordinates over the years, who’ve turned in impeccable careers. Perfection takes no risks with itself, you see. Miles was many things, but never perfect. It was a privilege and a terror to command him, and I’m thankful and amazed we both got out alive. Ultimately his career ran aground in disaster. But before it ended, he changed worlds.”

All in all, I’m not sure I accomplish the same thing. Oh, my characters are just fine. People seem to like them. They’re strong enough and interesting enough to carry their books. But they don’t change lives and worlds. They’re not iconic. They don’t jump off the page and hit you between the eyes. They don’t make you laugh and cry and think. At least I don’t think they do.

And that’s my fault, for not creating the kind of character who can do that. For taking the easy way out. For skimming the surface and not delving deep to where the real issues are.

We all want our characters to be ‘good,’ don’t we? We want them to come across as beautiful. Even when they have flaws, the flaws tend to be endearing. We do our best to create perfection. But as the quote above says, perfection takes no risks with itself. And compelling characters are all about risk.

Miles isn’t perfect, not by a long shot. Physically, he’s about as far from leading man material as you can get. Less than five feet tall, hunch-backed and bowlegged, he’s reviled by his fellow – ignorant – Barrayarans as a mutant. His own grandfather tried to cut his throat at birth. His mind is brilliant, but his body is crippled, and an obstacle to everything he wants to accomplish. So he tries harder, to the point of obnoxiousness. He’s driven, he’s manic, he’s sometimes suicidal. He screws up all the time. He makes mistakes – and aren’t we all loath to make our characters do that? We don’t want them to look bad. We love them, so we don’t want bad things to happen to them. We don’t want them to embarrass themselves, or look less than – here’s that word again – perfect.

We want people to like them. People who read our books, as well as other characters within our books. We don’t want our protagonists to be unlikeable. So we play it safe. We want their friends and family to love them. Not to try to cut their infant throats. Not to wish them to be other than they are because they’re just too damned embarrassing to be around.

Miles has a cousin named Ivan, who is everything Miles isn’t: tall, handsome, and a ladies man. Miles is a little envious of Ivan, and always has been. Ivan, on the other hand, wouldn’t want to be Miles for anything in the world – and I’m not sure I can blame him. But this passage from the book A Civil Campaign – Miles in love; scary thought – really says it all, if you’ll bear with me. It makes me cry every single time I read it, and I want to share it with you because it says so much, not just about Miles, but about Miles’s effect on the people around him, and about the kind of character that can be created by a writer who isn’t afraid of making their protagonist larger than life and at the same time so very human. This is Miles from Ivan’s point of view, with all his flaws and all his contradictions, with every quality that makes him who he is, and with Ivan’s conflicting emotions about it.

Enjoy. She’s a hell of a writer.

“Damn that smile. Was it Ivan’s fault, that he had been born undamaged while his cousin had been born crippled? No, blast it. It was bloody bungled politics that had wrecked him, and you’d think it would be a lesson to him, but no. Demonstrably, even sniper fire couldn’t stop the hyperactive little git. In between inspiring you to strangle him with your bare hands, he could make you proud enough to cry. At least, Ivan had taken care no one could see his face, when he’d watched from the Council floor as Miles had taken his Auditor’s oath with that terrifying intensity, before all the assembled panoply of Barrayar last Winterfair. So small, so wrecked, so obnoxious. So incandescent. Give the people a light, and they’ll follow it anywhere. Did Miles know how dangerous he was?


And the little paranoid actually believed Ivan had the magic to entice any woman Miles really wanted away from him. His fears were more flattering to Ivan than he would ever let on. But Miles had so few humilities, it seemed almost a sin to take this one away from him. Bad for his soul, eh.”

# # #

 

So what about you? Have any favorite characters who fit the bill? Care to share? 

#SampleSunday - A Cutthroat Business

Last year sometime, I went to a book club meeting with a bunch of ladies from Hillwood Presbyterian Church, who had been reading A Cutthroat Business for their selection that month. (Thanks again, Carmen!) One of them, a sweet little blue-hair in her sixties, made me mark this section of her book and autograph it, since she thought the sexual tension in this certain paragraph (below) was the best part of the entire story. Enjoy!


Rafe shrugged. “Can’t fault a man for looking.”

“I can,” I said.

He grinned. “That why you’re wearing those clothes? So I wouldn’t look?”

I opened my mouth, but before I could deny that such a thought had crossed my mind, the waiter appeared. He whisked Rafe’s plate away. I gave him mine, too. I’d eaten as much as I decently could without looking like a glutton.

“Would sir and madam like some dessert?”

He looked from one to the other of us. Rafe turned to me, questioningly. I shook my head. “None for me, thanks. Though you may want to try the chocolate raspberry cheesecake. Todd had it yesterday, and it looked good.”

He nodded. “One of them, then.”

I added, “And some coffee, please. Black.”

The waiter took himself and our used plates off, and Rafe returned his attention to me. An arched brow invited me to pick up where I’d left off. I said, reluctantly, “As a matter of fact, Todd asked me not to wear anything revealing.”

“You told him about tonight? Afraid you wouldn’t make it back home again?”

I shook my head. “It was yesterday. Last night, after you left. He said he didn’t like the way you looked at me, and would I please not wear anything provocative in front of you again.“

“You think he’d approve of that getup?” His eyes wandered over me, what he could see above the table.

“It’s not provocative,” I said.

He grinned. “That depends, darlin’.”

“On what?” What was provocative about a long sleeved, primly buttoned blouse and a chignon so severe my eyebrows were elevated, for goodness’ sake?

“I s’pose on what’s underneath. And what it’d take for someone to get to it.”

He smiled, but the eyes that met mine were intent. I opened my mouth, but found I had no words. Rafe didn’t speak, either. Leisurely, his gaze snagged on my lips for a moment before moving south. As the seconds ticked by, the curve of his mouth softened and his eyes turned hot. I had a hard time catching my breath. I felt the way you do when you jump into cool lakewater and all the air gets slammed out of your lungs. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, and for the life of me, I couldn’t look away. The sounds around me receded, until all I could hear was a faint buzzing, as if from a bumblebee trapped in a jam-jar. The drumming of my own heartbeat sounded uncomfortably loud in my ears.

The return of the waiter broke the spell, and I accepted my cup of coffee with hands that weren’t entirely steady. My voice wasn’t, either. “I don’t know why I ordered this. Could I have a glass of water, please? With ice?”

The waiter didn’t react, but of course Rafe did. “Have the cheesecake, too, darlin’. You look hungry.”

A choking noise came from the table next to us, and one of the women buried her face in her napkin. I opened my mouth to protest, but the waiter was already lowering the plate, and I didn’t want to argue in front of him. I waited until he was out of earshot before I hissed, “I told you I didn’t want any dessert.”

“That was before,” Rafe said.

“Before what?”

“Before I got you so hot and bothered you ordered ice water to cool down.”

“I am not hot and bothered!” I denied. “And I don’t want any cheesecake.” I pushed the plate away. For what might have been the first time in my life, cheesecake held absolutely no appeal.

# # #

 

So there you have it. A #SampleSunday excerpt from A Cutthroat Business. How did you like the super-sexy paragraph? (If that guy was looking at me, I might feel the need for a little ice water myself. Just sayin'...)

 

Check back next week for another #SampleSunday snippet. I think I might throw up a little teaser for Hot Property, Cutthroat Business Mystery #2, coming soon to a Kindle (or Nook) near you!

Behind every successful man

Today is the season finale of Criminal Minds, which is the only show I watch on television these days.

(Writing takes a lot of time. And it's easier to give up TV than to give up time with the kids or the hubster. Although I suppose I could give up eating. It might not hurt.)

Anyway, in honor of the occasion, here's a pretty picture.

This deliciousness, of course, is Shemar Moore, who plays Special Supervisory Agent Derek Morgan on Criminal Minds. Alpha male, noir hero, the guy who always kicks down the door and subdues the suspect.

Who can resist a hot alpha hero?

What makes Derek Morgan so much fun, though - other than the fact that he's extremely easy on the eyes - is his relationship with FBI technical analyst Penelope Garcia. Garcia is Morgan's Moneypenny.

If that reference is lost on you, you obviously don't know your Bond. James Bond went out and saved the world while Miss Moneypenny manned the office. Just like Penelope Garcia. And where Bond couldn't do his job without 'Penny,' Morgan couldn't do his without Penelope.

For your enjoyment, here's a clip from season 2, episode 17, in which Morgan is in Texas on a case, and Garcia is back at Quantico, Virginia, manning the computers.

If I recall correctly, there's a little bit of gratuitous Shemar Moore semi-nakedness added, that wasn't part of the original episode, but just suffer through it. And when you've watched it a couple of times, because I know you'll want to, tell me if you have a favorite TV pairing. I must say I'm partial to this one myself. Their chemistry is off the charts, and their banter is just damn funny, besides the fact that there's a little Penelope Garcia in all of us, and don't we all just love the idea that the not-quite-perfect girl can land the hot hunk? My fingers are crossed for something good tonight! 

Excerpt - A Cutthroat Business

For your delectation, here are a few words from Chapter 4 of A Cutthroat Business:

Rafe had been correct when he told me that I probably hadn’t come down his way a lot growing up. I’d never been to the area known as the Bog, but I knew where to find it: on the other side of Sweetwater from the Martin plantation. We’re on the north, or Columbia side; they’re on the southern road to Pulaski. And if the town of Pulaski sounds familiar to anyone, it’s probably because it was the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan. We have so much to be proud of here in middle Tennessee.

I’d driven past the Bog before, looking through the windows of dad’s Cadillac, but this was the first time I’d turned off from the highway onto the rutted one-lane track leading down through the trees.

For all that it’s in the South, Tennessee is not like Louisiana or Mississippi. We’re a rocky state, for the most part. Even in the flatter areas, there isn’t much in the way of wetlands. The Bog was not actually a bog, just a rather dank and dismal place. A small creek — or crick, as we say in these parts — ran through it, a tiny branch of the Duck River. But where it could have been picturesque and pretty, it was just sluggish and muddy brown. It looked unhealthy, like it was carrying disease. A half dozen rusted trailers — mobile homes in my new, professional lingo — were scattered through the spindly trees, and a few shacks squatted here and there among them. Clapboard shacks, low-slung and dilapidated, with leaking roofs and leaning walls. The few cars were American, old and rusted; some had missing parts or sat on cinderblocks, and none looked like they had been driven in the last few years. My immaculate Volvo — the only thing I had gotten in settlement after my short-lived marriage to Bradley Ferguson, aside from the chunk of change that was currently evaporating out of my savings account with every month that went by — was as out of place here as a prize brood mare among mules.

I turned off the engine and got out. The slam of the car door sounded very loud in the silence. And it was very silent here. No birds singing, no children playing, no conversations or music. The brook didn’t even babble. Very quiet.

Maybe too quiet, as they say in the movies. But I was here, so I looked around anyway. There were no names or numbers anywhere, or for that matter any mailboxes. Nothing to indicate in which of these depressing shacks LaDonna Collier had lived and died. If these people ever got mail, it must all arrive together in the big box up on the main road, and be distributed once someone had carried it all down here. Every place looked deserted, and just as neglected and derelict as the next. There was no sign of life, and no one I could ask directions of.

Just for kicks, since I was here anyway, I made my way over to the nearest of the shacks and peered through its dirty window. The interior was empty, save for some debris on the floor. Wire-hangers, crumpled papers, roach motels. It didn’t look as if anyone had lived there for a while.

Stepping carefully around broken bottles, crumpled beer cans and twigs, I moved to the next home. It was empty, too. Mother was right; people had been deserting the Bog like rats fleeing a sinking ship. There was nothing for me to do here but to go home. I turned on my heel to go back to the car, and stopped with a gasp.

He had moved so quietly through the dry grass that I hadn’t heard him, and now he stood between me and the Volvo. For a second, with the sun in my eyes, all I could see was a tall, dark figure, and I recoiled.

He didn’t move. Not when I stumbled back, not when the heel of my insensible shoe got caught in a snake hole, and not when I ended up on my derriere on the dusty ground, with my skirt twisted around my hips and my thighs on display. The only thing that moved was his eyes, from my face to my feet and back, with insolent appreciation.

“Didn’t your mama teach you better manners?” I inquired coldly, in spite of my burning cheeks. The tiny smile on his lips transformed into a full fledged, dangerous grin.

“Hell, no. My mama always said, grab what you can get, ‘cause it’ll be gone afore you know it.”

He held out a hand. I hesitated, trying to remember whether anyone had ever said anything about Rafe Collier being in the habit of forcing himself on women.

“Or you can stay there,” he added, pointedly. I took the hand and let him haul me to my feet. We stood contemplating one another in silence for a moment.

“Are you following me?” I asked, finally.

“Why’d I be following you? This is my place.”

“I thought you were in Nashville,” I said.

“I thought you were in Nashville.”

“It’s my mother’s birthday. I came down for the party.”

He didn’t answer. After a second I added, awkwardly, “I heard about what happened to your mother. I’m sorry.”

“So you came to offer your condolences?” His voice was dry.

I shrugged. It wasn’t as if I could tell him that I had come to the Bog out of idle curiosity, because I wondered if there might be a connection between LaDonna’s death and Brenda Puckett’s murder.

In the silence that followed, the sound of a car engine, backfiring badly, came closer. Turning, I could see an older model Chevy come bumping down the track. It stopped a few feet away, and the driver’s side door opened with a screech. An African-American woman shoehorned herself out from behind the steering wheel and waddled toward us.

She was about my height and age, and approximately three times my weight. Her breasts were the size of watermelons and she had a behind you could have left a tray of drinks on, with no worries that they’d spill. All of her was poured into a hot pink spandex dress with spaghetti straps, which must have been made for a woman half her size. Her hair was bleached yellow and curled into big, fat sausage curls, and her lips were painted a deep cherry red. She looked like a black drag-queen parody of Shirley Temple. Her eyes were small and half buried in fat, but she managed to give me a dirty look anyway, before turning to Rafe. “Who she?”

He opened his mouth, but I intercepted him. “I’m Savannah Martin. Who are you?”

She didn’t answer, nor give any indication of having heard me. “What you bring her here for?”

“He didn’t bring me,” I said. “I came on my own.”

“What you want with a skinny white chick like that? When you can have Marquita?”

She balanced her weight precariously on one foot and thrust the other ample hip out.

I hid a smile. “You know, I’m going to go. I can see you’ve got your hands full here, Rafe.”

I gave him a patronizing pat on the arm. The muscles under the golden skin were as hard as granite. He cut his eyes to me, but didn’t say a word. Marquita growled deep in her throat, like a Rottweiler. I found myself moving a little faster than usual as I headed for my car.

# # #

 

If this sounds like something you'd like, the ebook is available from the following outlets:

 

AMAZON

 

Barnes and Noble

 

Smashwords