Is
Carlton the master of his own destiny, or is Mr. Turnbull the real
puppet master and author?
Top
New York publisher, Sheldon House, offers seventeen-year-old Carlton
Tucker a book publishing contract with a $100,000 advance payment and
a sixty-city book tour for his manuscript. Carlton believes he has
authored the book, A Novel Life. But did he? Mr. Arnold Turnbull,
Chief Editor of Sheldon House, has secretly written a manuscript with
the same story and title. Mr. Turnbull flies Carlton to New York to
meet him.
While
Carlton is on his book tour in Laramie, Wyoming, he encounters
uncanny, deja vu events which lead him to believe he has lived the
same life before. Carlton discovers things he wrote in his novel over
a year ago are coming to pass now. Is this merely a coincidence or
some supernatural force at work?
Carlton
falls more deeply in love with Taylor while signing his books in
Laramie. But then he discovers a devastating tragedy about to happen
to Taylor unless Carlton can convince Mr. Arnold Turnbull to allow
him to change the ending of his book. There's only one problem.
Unknown to Carlton, Mr. Arnold Turnbull controls Carlton's fate, and
every event that's unfolding in "A Novel Life." Can
Turnbull be stopped before it's too late for Taylor? Can Taylor be
saved from the disaster that awaits her?
Ever
since his mother signed him up for piano lessons at age five,
Thornton Cline has been writing non-stop.; With over 1,000 published
songs, 150 recorded songs, twenty-eight traditionally published
adult, children's and YA books published, Thornton Cline has been
nominated multiple times for Grammy and Dove Awards. In 2017, Cline
won a first place Maxy Literary Award for "Best Children's Young
Adult Book". Thornton Cline's books have appeared at the top of
the Amazon bestselling charts. Cline has been honored with
"Songwriter of the Year" twice-in-a row and has received a
platinum award for certified sales of over one million units in
Europe. Cline continues to mentor, speak, teach and inspire aspiring
authors and songwriters around the world. He resides in
Hendersonville, Tennessee with his wife, Audrey and two cats, Kiki
and Gracie.
Discouraged
by a recent deadbeat dad case, PI David Randall wonders if he should
close the detective agency he operates from his psychic friend
Camden's boarding house at 302 Grace Street in Parkland, North
Carolina. But Doreen Padgett, a scrappy teen, convinces him to find
her useless father, Arliss. Arliss and Doreen's mother have
divorced, and Doreen wants the man to pay what he owes her family.
It's another deadbeat dad, but Randall agrees to take the case.
When
policeman Jordan Finley comes to Grace Street with a blouse he wants
Camden to touch, a blouse that belongs to the victim of a suspected
serial killer, a man with a bizarre fondness for blond hair. Camden
has a serious reaction to the blouse, but can't see anything that
will lead to the killer except a hatred for a woman named Margaret.
Despite
Cam using an accident as an excuse not to be psychic, Randall finds a
connection to Margaret, Arliss, and the serial killer. All of them
plan to attend an upcoming high school reunion, the same reunion
Cam’s wife Ellin is looking forward to. Randall has to find the
killer, especially since he realizes that except for himself,
everyone who lives at 302 Grace Street is blond.
Gone
Daddy Blues is the seventh in the Grace Street Mysteries, the
continuing adventures of the family and friends who live at 302 Grace
Street.
"The
mystery plot is convincing and motives abound, but the vivid
characters are the main draw, in particular the wryly observant
Randall, who narrates the story with verve. Fans of cozies with a
paranormal twist will be rewarded." —Publishers
Weekly
Flamboyant
actor Leo Pierson's Art Nouveau treasures have been stolen, including
a one-of-a-kind Lalique glass dragonfly he claims is cursed. David
Randall, 302 Grace Street's private eye, agrees to recover the
valuables before he realizes murder has raised its ugly head in the
Parkland art community. Samuel Gallant of the museum board is
missing, until Randall and his landlord/consultant Camden find
Gallant's body stuffed in a museum closet. When another board member
suffers a fatal accident and the art critic for the Parkland
Herald is
attacked, Randall suspects the stolen dragonfly is indeed cursed. He
investigates Richard Mason, curator of the Little Gallery, whose
artwork consists of ugly mechanical sculptures, and Nancy Piper,
finance manager at the Parkland Art Museum.
Meanwhile,
Camden struggles against psychic visions he's had since birth, taking
pills to limit sudden intense visions. His wife, Ellin, fends off
Matt Grabber, a television celebrity healer threatening to take over
her Psychic Service Network and using his two large pythons to
emphasize his bid. The pythons take a liking to Camden, upping his
stress level, while he takes more pills hoping his visions—and the
snakes—disappear. Kit, a new tenant at Grace Street, is a young
rock star who is also psychic. As Camden becomes more addicted, Kit
becomes an early warning system, alerting Randall to the next attack.
Randall
works to solve the murders, find the jeweled collection, help Cam,
deter Grabber and his pythons, romance the young lovely Kary, and
avoid stray curses. A spirit on the Other Side surprisingly requests
his help, a spirit with ties to the stolen pieces of Art Nouveau.
"...readers
seeking a cozy, feel-good mystery will enjoy this outing to Grace
Street. The delightful characters navigate their worldly and
otherworldly challenges with affection and humor, and Tesh maintains
a whimsical tone that doesn't detract from the serious subject
matter."
—Publishers
Weekly
Camden's
friend Rufus Jackson receives a letter from his ex-wife, Bobbi, and
he's surprised to learn he's the father of a baby. When Bobbi is
found murdered in her home and her baby stolen, Rufus becomes suspect
number one. PI David Randall immediately takes the case.
But
Randall is almost sidetracked from the case by a series of what
appears to be never-ending favors. When he takes his friend Cam to
the Carlyle House to sing for a concert, Cam encounters Delores
Carlyle, a troubled spirit trapped inside a huge mirror, who wants to
see her daughter, Beverly, one last time. Beverly Carlyle will come
to the house on one condition: that Randall find a home for her surly
teenage son, Kit, and a band for her obnoxious daughter, Frieda. Kit
is welcome at 302 Grace, but to secure a spot for Frieda, Randall has
to get a local girl group a gig at a local nightclub. The owner
agrees, if Cam will pose as a teenager and spy on a rival club. Cam
agrees if Randall will take him to Green Valley to answer some
questions about his past. And another ghost is haunting the hot dog
restaurant, refusing to talk to Cam.
In
addition to the tangle of deals, Randall has to contend with Rufus
being hell-bent on revenge, the return of Cam's telekinesis, and
growing concern that if the baby—a girl named Mary Rose, as it
turns out—is found, Rufus, might not want to keep her.
David
Randall, a private detective short of work, invites his psychic
friend Camden into a case. Miss Viola Mitchell, an aging local
actress, has recently been reported missing. The Parkland PD's Jordan
Finley objects to the pair inspecting Viola's home, claiming the
police don't need their help. Moments later, despite the array of
birds and cats perfuming the residence, Cam advises Finley, "Check
the basement."
Meanwhile,
a new Grace Street client, owner of popular BeautiQueen Cosmetics, is
searching for her arrogant, absconding partner. Randall tracks him to
Clearwater, Florida, and soon finds himself chasing shoplifters
stealing pharmaceuticals and helping a jazz musician woo his woman
while failing to woo his own love, Kary. Will Randall and Cam piece
all this together?
Who
is audacious enough to steal an antique box once owned by Harry
Houdini? This collector’s treasure, skillfully hidden in the local
Magic Club— a nightclub where magicians perform—is not merely an
old theatrical prop. It is the prize in a contest that promises to
jump start a magician’s career. At least that’s what Taft and
Lucas Finch hoped before their prized possession was stolen. Private
investigator David Randall is already busy searching for socialite
Sandy Olaf’s missing diamond bracelet when he begins the search for
Houdini’s box. But instead of finding the valuable box, Randall
finds Taft murdered, his body locked in a backstage trunk. The
magical world is brimming with jealous suspects, less successful
magical competitors, romantic rivals, business conflicts, and
festering hurts from long ago. Randall’s friend Camden is concerned
with losing his voice, his girlfriend Kary insists on being a
magician’s assistant, and Cam’s girlfriend Ellin has to deal with
the overbearing Sheila Kirk, wife of a potential sponsor, who insists
on hosting the Psychic Service Network’s programs.
Warned
away from interfering in a police homicide investigation, Randall
focuses on finding the box, searching for a missing diamond bracelet,
and handling the crises embroiling his unique housemates in their
rambling home on Grace Street. It will take a stroke of magic to
connect the interlocking circles of these crimes.
"A
solid mystery with a plethora of suspects and quirky
regulars."—Kirkus
Reviews
It's
Christmas in Parkland, North Carolina, and PI David Randall is
looking forward to his mother's visit, even though he knows she'll
want to talk about his daughter, Lindsey, who died in a car accident.
Further dampening the season's cheer, his psychic friend Camden has
harrowing flashbacks to a murder: Randall and Camden found Camden's
friend Jared Hunter brutally stabbed. Among the suspects is Boyd
Taylor, Randall's client. Jared had served time for breaking into the
Parkland Museum of History. Bert Galvin, son of the editor of the
Parkland Herald, was also involved.
And
what of the inept superhero, the Parkland Avenger? The Superhero
Society of Parkland insists the Avenger isn't one of them. Are these
things all somehow related?
2018
– ALA Book Club October Pick, Things that Go Bump:
Paranormal Mysteries
David
Randall's perfect family life came derailed when his little daughter
Lindsey died in a car crash. Thrown out by his second wife and
wanting to leave a dead-end detective agency to start his own, he
reluctantly accepts his psychic friend Camden's invitation to stay in
Camden's boarding house in Parkland, North Carolina.
Meanwhile,
working the case of the murder of Albert Bennett, Randall's only clue
is a notebook filled with odd musical notation. When another client,
Melanie Gentry, hires him to prove her great-grandmother was murdered
by her lover, composer John Burrows Ashford, over authorship of
"Patchwork Melodies," Randall sets out to find a connection
to Bennett's murder, as well as to the murder of a Smithsonian
director, who was preparing a new PBS documentary on early American
music.
Randall's
investigations lead him to another notebook, where he finds not only
"Two Hearts Singing," Ashford's most famous song, but a
valuable early copy of Stephen Foster's "Oh! Susanna,"
hidden in the cover. But things become more complicated when
Ashford's spirit parks itself in Cam...and refuses to leave until
Randall proves Ashford's innocence.
Jane
Tesh lives and works in Mt. Airy, North Carolina, Andy Griffith's
home town, a real life Mayberry. She is a retired media specialist
and the author of ten mystery novels, three fantasy novels, and over
thirty plays for children. When not writing, Jane plays the piano for
productions at the Andy Griffith Playhouse.
Can
two lost causes find love in the arms of one another?
Lily,
the peculiar youngest daughter of an earl, would rather spend her
life as a spinster, tending to her garden–alone. But when her
father falls critically ill, she suddenly faces the possibility of
becoming a penniless relation living on the charity of her sisters
unless she can find a husband–now. But facing her fifth Season and
feeling unable to meet the requirements of a proper wife, Lily
despairs of finding a kind and patient man she can trust enough to
marry.
Henry,
the war-wounded second son of an earl, needs to have a son to secure
his family's future. But worried about his condition worsening and
leaving him crippled, he fears turning any future wife into a mere
companion and nursemaid.
Both
are unable to resist the pressure from their families to attend the
Season and at least tryto
find a spouse. Can these two lost causes see past their own
limitations and let love in?
Garden
of Hope is a sweet, clean Regency romance and book 1 in the Garden of
Love series! It is a STANDALONE romance novel. No cheating, no
cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.
Daphne
Bloom is an author of romances and cozy mysteries. She lives in a
quaint Southern town with her family that lets her imagination run
free. When she's not watching the latest historical drama on TV,
she's usually curled up with her dog and a good book.
Sapphyria's Book Promotions is looking for hosts to share Mirror's Despair during the tour dates of October 17-22, 2020.
I will provide an HTML post and regular tour materials for this tour for easy posting or for those who like to create their own post.
About Mirror's Despair by Justine Alley Dowsett and Murandy Damodred:
Mirena’s back to claim what’s hers; this time, Tendro is ready for her.
Following ten tense years of absence, Mirena Calanais suddenly resurfaces as the Avatar of the Destroyer. With Abraxas’ dark army at her back, she’s determined to reclaim what she feels is her due; control over the lands the Panarch’im once ruled.
His political career and his marriage both drying up, Tendro Seynor long suspected this day would come, but what he isn’t prepared for is Mirena’s return to his personal life. There’s more to Mirena than her persona as the Dark Avatar; she’s the mother of the son Tendro hasn’t seen since the day he was born. As her presence in his life grows, Mirena confides in Tendro that she’s being haunted by someone who should be dead. As this vengeful presence closes in on her and the Destroyer’s hand thouches the world once more, they begin to realize their son may be at the center of it all and his innocence hangs in the balance.
Can Tendro and Mirena put aside their rivalry for the sake of their families, or will the bad blood between them finally escalate to the point where it has the power to tear the entire world apart?
This is for October 17 - 22 (Saturday is release day and the tour will also run October 19-22 , 2020). I don't require top or only post of the day for any of my tours. Materials will include a standard post and an HTML.
Libby is a lonely cactus plant who has trouble believing in herself. However, when lovely, confident Violet moves in next to her on the windowsill, Libby learns that the things that make her different also make her special.
Years ago I was faced with the choice between two women. Both were perfect in opposite ways. One was carefree and against commitment. The other was a woman you’d bring home to mom.
I was young, naïve and stupid. I’m sure you can guess who I chose.
Now, I’m older, wiser and know what the hell I want.
So, when the same two women pop back into my life it’s my chance for a do-over. But they flipped the script. Just like me, they want different things now. Leaving me with one choice—convince the woman I want that she wants me too.
Piper Rayne, or Piper and Rayne, whichever you prefer because we’re not one author, we’re two. Yep, you get two USA Today Bestselling authors for the price of one.
Our goal is to bring you romance stories that have "Heartwarming Humor With a Side of Sizzle" (okay...you caught us, that's our tagline).
A little about us...
We both have kindle’s full of one-clickable books.
We're both married to husbands who drive us to drink.
We're both chauffeurs to our kids.
Most of all, we love hot heroes and quirky heroines that make us laugh, and we hope you do, too.
Can this grieving investigator stay on the right track?
PI Kelly Pruett is determined to make it on her own. And juggling clients at her late father’s detective agency, a controlling ex, and caring for a deaf daughter was never going to be easy. She takes it as a good sign when a letter left by her dad ties into an unsolved case of a young woman struck by a train.
Hunting down the one person who can prove the mysterious death was not just a drunken accident, Kelly discovers this witness is in no condition to talk. And the closer she gets to the truth the longer her list of sleazy suspects with murderous motives grows. Each clue exposes another layer of the victim's steamy double life.
Can Kelly pinpoint the murderer, or is she on the fast track to disaster?
Book Details:
Genre: Mystery Published by: Camel Press Publication Date: May 12th 2020 Number of Pages: 232 ISBN: 1603817069 (ISBN13: 9781603817066) Series: PI Kelly Pruett #1 Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Bookshop
Portland, Oregon has as many parts as the human anatomy. Like the body, some are more attractive than others. My father’s P.I. business that I’d inherited was in what many considered the armpit, the northeast, where pickpockets and drug dealers dotted the narrow streets and spray paint tags of bubble-lettered gang signatures striped the concrete. In other words, home. I’m Kelly Pruett and I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
I’d just finished invoicing a client for a skip trace and flicked off the light in the front office my dad and I used to share when a series of taps came from the locked front door. It was three o’clock on a gloomy Friday afternoon. A panhandler looking for a handout or a bathroom was my best guess. Sitting at the desk, I couldn’t tell.
Floyd, my basset hound and the only real man in my life, lifted his droopy eyes to meet mine before flopping his head back down on his bed. No help there.
Another rap, louder this time.
Someone wanted my attention. I retrieved the canister of pepper spray from my purse and opened the door to a woman, her umbrella sheltering her from the late October drizzle. Her angle made it hard to see her face, only the soft curls in her hair and the briefcase hanging from her hand. I slipped the pepper spray into the pocket of my Nike warmup jacket.
“Is Roger Pruett in?” she asked, water droplets splatting the ground.
She hadn’t heard the news and I hadn’t brought myself to update R&K Investigation’s website. I swallowed the lump before it could form and clutch my throat. “No, sorry,” I said. “My dad died earlier this year. I’m his daughter, Kelly.”
“I’m so sorry.” She peered from under the umbrella, her expression pinched. She searched my face for a different answer.
I’d give anything to have one. “What do you need?”
“To hire a P.I. to investigate my daughter’s death. Can you help me?” Her voice cracked.
My stomach fluttered. Process serving, court document searches, and the occasional tedious stakeout had made up the bulk of my fifteen hundred hours of P.I. experience requirement. Not that I wasn’t capable of more. Dad had enjoyed handling cases himself with the plan to train me later. In the year since his death, no one had come knocking, and going through the motions of what I knew how to do well had been hard enough. Now this lady was here for my father’s help. I couldn’t turn her away. I raked my fingers through the top of my shoulder length hair and opened the door. “Come in.”
“Bless you.” She slid her umbrella closed and brushed past me.
After securing the lock, I led her through the small reception area and into my office. A bathroom and another office that substituted for a storage closet were down the long hallway heading to the rear exit. Floyd decided to take interest and lumbered over. With his butt in the air, he stretched at her feet before nearly snuffling my soon-to-be client’s shoe up his nose. She nodded at him before vicious Floyd found his way back to his corner, tail swaying behind him. Guess he approved.
The woman looked in her mid-sixties. She had coiffed hair the color of burnt almonds, high cheekbones, and a prominent nose. She reminded me of my middle school librarian who could get you to shut up with one glance. “Would you like coffee, Ms…?”
“No thank you. It’s Hanson.” She settled in the red vinyl chair across from my dad’s beaten and scarred desk. “Georgette Hanson.”
My skin tingled when she said her name.
“My condolences on your father,” she said.
“Thank you.” Her words were simple, and expected, but her eyes held pain. Having lost her daughter, she clearly could relate.
“How did it happen?” she asked.
I swallowed again. With as many people as I’d had to tell, it should be getting easier. It wasn’t. “Stroke. Were you a former client of my father’s?”
She waved her hand. “Something like that.” She lifted the briefcase to her lap and popped the latch. Her eyes softened. “He was a fine man. You look just like him.”
My confident, broad-shouldered, Welshman father had been quite fit and handsome in his youth. Most of my adult life he’d carried an extra fifty pounds, but that never undermined his strong chin, wise blue eyes, and thick chestnut hair. I’d been blessed with my Dad’s eyes and hair and had my mom’s round chin. But since I’d ballooned a couple of sizes while pregnant with Mitz, I knew which version she thought I resembled. “What were you hoping he could do for you with regards to your daughter?”
“Find out why she’s dead.” Georgette shoved a paper dated a few weeks ago onto the desk and snapped the case lid closed.
A picture of a young woman with a warm smile, a button nose, and long wavy brunette hair sat below the fold on the front page under the headline: WOMAN STRUCK BY MAX TRAIN DIES.
I winced at the thought of her violent end. “I’m sorry. Such a pretty girl.”
“She was perfect.” Georgette pulled off her gloves, her eyes brimming. “The train destroyed that. Do you know what a train does to a hundred-pound woman?” Her voice trembled.
To avoid envisioning the impact, I replaced it with the smiling face of Mitz, my eight-year-old daughter. Which made it worse. If anything ever happened to her… How Georgette wasn’t a puddle on the Formica eluded me. I took a minute to read the story. According to the article, Brooke Hanson fell from the sidewalk into the path of an oncoming MAX train downtown at Ninth and Morrison Street. The police reported alcohol was a contributing factor. “They detained the sole witness who found her, Jay Nightingale. Why?” I set the paper down.
Georgette brushed her hair away from her forehead flashing nails chewed to the quick. “At first, the police thought he had something to do with her fall. He told them he’d seen my Brooke stumble down the sidewalk and teeter on the edge of the curb. Supposedly, he called out the train was coming and she didn’t hear him. He made no effort to get her away from those tracks. When the autopsy showed she’d been drinking, they wrote her death off as an accident, released Mr. Nightingale, and closed the case.”
Their decision couldn’t have been that cut and dry. “How much had she been drinking?”
“You sound like the police.” Georgette lifted her chin and met my gaze. There are many stages to grief. One of them anger, another denial. Georgette straddled both, something I knew plenty about. “Not sure…exactly. You’ll have to check the report.”
I scanned her face for the truth. “You don’t know or you’re afraid to tell me?”
She massaged the palm of her hand with her thumb. “The bartender at the Limbo said she’d had a few before he’d cut her off and asked her to leave. None of that matters because Nightingale’s lying. He had something to do with her fall. He may have even pushed her. At the very least, he knows more than he’s telling.”
My eyebrows raised. The police weren’t perfect, but they had solid procedures in death investigations. They would have explored that angle. “What are you basing that on?”
“My gut.”
A mother’s intuition while undeniable, alone didn’t prove foul play. “Did the MAX operator see Mr. Nightingale next to her at any point?”
“He didn’t even see her because the area wasn’t well lit.”
“Do you have his name?”
“Chris Foley.”
I jotted the information down. “What do the train’s cameras show?”
“There weren’t any. And no passenger statements because the train was done for the night. But Brooke shouldn’t have even been in the vicinity of that train.”
“Where is the Limbo located?”
“Ten blocks from where she was hit.”
A half mile, give or take. “Could she have been heading to catch the MAX to go home?”
“Brooke detested mass transit. The people who ride during the day scared her. She wouldn’t go there at night. Besides, she lived south of town. The train wouldn’t have taken her there.” She sighed. “I’m telling you, she wouldn’t be that far from the bar unless someone…” She closed her eyes.
Georgette talked in circles attempting to make sense of it all, but I had first-hand knowledge of drunk people doing things out of character. Given what she’d described, I could understand why the police had closed the matter. Even so, her devastation gripped my heart. And something had brought her out on this rainy Friday. “What are you holding back, Ms. Hanson? Why do you feel so strongly Mr. Nightingale was involved that you’d come to my dad for help?”
She stared at her hands as if they held the answers. “Brooke had changed in the last year. Become more distant. Not visiting. Missing our weekly calls.” The corner of her mouth turned upward in a sad smile. “We used to go for pie once a month. She loved pie. Apple pie. Cherry pie.” Her smile melted. “One day she was too busy and couldn’t get away. When she did, she didn’t look well. Stressed.”
“Did she say what was bothering her?”
“No. She shut me out, which she’d never done before. Now to have been killed by a train downtown when that Nightingale fellow was close enough to stop it from happening? He’s involved. I can feel it.” She straightened. “Until I know what happened that night, I won’t rest.” Georgette reached into her purse and produced an envelope grasped in her right hand. “Here’s three thousand for you to find the truth. Please say you’ll help me.”
Despite steady work from a few law firms around town, and an adequate divorce settlement, being a single mom often meant more month than money. Georgette was offering twice what I made in a good month of process serving and that would go a long way in taking care of my little girl. Not needing to ever rely on my ex would have been incentive alone, but there was more to it than that.
I’d recognized Georgette’s name the moment she’d said it. At the reading of my dad’s will, his lawyer had handed me a handwritten letter. It was a request from my dad that if a Georgette Hanson ever came to his door asking for help, I should assist and not ask questions why. It had meant nothing at the time. I’d figured it was due to his unending dedication to his clients.
Because Georgette had a connection to my dad in some capacity, that sealed my decision to at least try and help her. While I’d been directed not to ask questions, even he would have needed the obvious one answered before he took her money.
“You said she’d changed. Is there any chance she might have…I mean, was she depressed? Could she have stepped…”
Georgette cut me off. “Stop.” Her eyes grew wide with denial and the damn broke. Tears poured over her cheeks; her shoulders shook, buckling from the weight of her anguish. The anger and determination she’d used as a mask crumbled, and each passing second exposed another layer of her gut-wrenching grief.
I shifted at witnessing her raw emotion, bracing myself against my own around my father, and my thoughts on Mitz. Tears stung my eyes, unsure how to comfort my client when I struggled to do that for myself.
She muffled a wail with the back of her hand and finally drew in deep breaths until the sobs subsided.
I grabbed a box of Kleenex behind me. She already had a handful of tissue ready from her purse. I’d back off the notion of suicide—for the moment. The woman didn’t need any more distress than she’d already endured.
She sniffed hard a couple of times and sopped up her face with the tissue. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I swiped under my eyes with my fingers, gaining control over my thoughts. “I’m not sure I’ll uncover anything new, but I will look for you.”
“Thank you.” She composed herself and stuffed the tissue back in her purse for the next inevitable breakdown.
I handed Georgette one of my dad’s old contracts, explaining my hourly rate, and a couple of authorization forms that might come in handy if requesting any case files was necessary.
She signed her name without bothering to read the fine print. She stood, the vinyl chair screeching against the hardwood floor startling Floyd. Her expression softened. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Brooke was a couple of years older, but pretty, like you and with the same flowing brown hair and kind eyes.” She sniffed. “I came to Roger because he could get to the heart of things. If you’re like him, you’ll find out what happened to my baby.”
I’d never be as good as my dad, but I did possess his mule-like stubbornness to get to the bottom of things. My ex could attest to that. “I’ll do what I can.”
She nodded. “Brooke was a good girl. She loved animals, ran every morning, and worked for the law firm Anderson, Hiefield & Price. She was the head accountant there.” Her face beamed with pride before her chin trembled again, but she held it together.
“It might help if I get a better sense of who she was.” I slid the legal pad to her. “If I could get her address, I’d like to start there.”
Georgette jotted the information down and pushed it back to me. She dug into her purse and produced the key. “I haven’t brought myself to go there yet.”
I gave her a sympathetic smile. “Are there family or friends I should start with?”
“Besides my husband, Chester, there’s just her sister, Hannah, who lives in Seattle. They weren’t close.” Georgette cleared her throat. “She never spoke to me about friends or boyfriends. Honestly, with her work schedule, she didn’t have time for any.”
With my own social life lacking, I related. “Do you have her cell? I’d like to check who she had on speed dial.”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t among her belongings.”
What thirty-something didn’t have their phone glued to them? Unless the impact of the train threw it. Another image I pushed away. I rounded my desk and walked her out of my office.
“Please keep in touch on how the investigation is going,” she said.
I assured her I would. She squeezed my arm to thank me as she left. With a twist of the deadbolt, I rested my shoulder against the door and closed my eyes. Mitz would get hugged a little closer tonight.
At my desk, Floyd trotted over and sat at my feet. He rested his chin on my lap while I added a few more notes. His sixth sense of when I needed him never faltered. I tucked the notes, along with a couple of divorce petitions into my bag to serve in between outings with Mitz.
It was early enough to get to Brooke’s place, about twenty minutes away, and to the grocery store so Mitz and I weren’t eating PB&Js for dinner. The faster I got started and found answers, the sooner Georgette could begin healing. If I was lucky, Brooke’s phone would be sitting on her nightstand waiting to be found.
Before getting up, I pulled the letter from my dad out of the top drawer and unfolded the paper. I traced the ruts in the desk we shared with my finger as I read his words. Georgette’s name was there in black and white. I had wanted to ask her more about how she knew my dad, but he’d been explicit in his request. He was a good man, albeit a tough man that I didn’t question. Nor had I ever felt the need to. It hadn’t been easy for him after my mom died, and we became the Two Musketeers. We may have run out of time for him to teach me everything he knew about being a P.I., but I’d learn as I went. I had no other choice. Helping Georgette was the last thing I could do for him. And I would.
“Ready to boogie, Floyd?” I flicked off the lights and Floyd padded behind me down the narrow hall to the backdoor.
We jogged to my yellow 1980 Triumph Spitfire, a gift from my dad when I graduated. “You know the routine, buddy.” Floyd stretched himself halfway into the car, and with a grunt, I lifted in his other half. He tripped over the manual gearshift and settled into the passenger seat as I slunk behind the wheel. The engine started right up, for a change.
Brooke was a couple of years older than me—far too young to die. Was Nightingale involved in her death? Did he know more than he was telling? Or was he just a helpless bystander who could only watch Brooke fall because she was drunk off her ass? I had a feeling I’d be returning the bulk of Georgette’s money after putting in some legwork. With a case the Portland police had already closed and an eyewitness who’d already been cleared, what other possibility was there?
***
Excerpt from Derailed by Mary Keliikoa. Copyright 2020 by Mary Keliikoa. Reproduced with permission from Mary Keliikoa. All rights reserved.
Meet the Author:
Mary Keliikoa spent the first 18 years of her adult life working around lawyers. Combining her love of all things legal and books, she creates a twisting mystery where justice prevails. She has had a short story published in Woman’s World and is the author of the PI Kelly Pruett Mystery Series.
At home in Washington, she enjoys spending time with her family and her writing companions/fur-kids. When not at home, you can find Mary on a beach on the Big Island where she and her husband recharge. But even under the palm trees and blazing sun she’s plotting her next murder—novel that is.
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GIVEAWAY!:
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Mary Keliikoa. There will be 2 winners of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card each. The giveaway begins on September 1, 2020 and runs through October 2, 2020. Void where prohibited.
