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That magic little pill [...]]]> It’s been thirty minutes since we turned out the lights. Misty will be stone cold asleep in another fifteen. Dead to the world. She used to toss and turn all night long. Neither of us slept a wink. Then her doctor came to the rescue with his prescription pad.

That magic little pill knocks her out for eight full hours. Oh, the wonders of modern medicine. I could crank up a jackhammer right here in the bedroom and she’d sleep right through it. Seriously.

So you’d think I’m getting a full night’s sleep these days, right? Wrong. I found something much more interesting to do at night. It’s called cheating.

I’m sick of being married to Misty, but I won’t divorce her—not until the clock runs out on that stupid prenup she made me sign. Two more weeks and I’m free. I’ll walk away with half of her fortune.

It started with just one night a week. I’d meet a hooker at a downtown hotel, and then pop back here, sleep a couple of hours and get up for work. Not that I really work.

It’s Misty’s company, and she made me Vice President of Special Projects. So, what are my special projects? Whatever the hell I want them to be, which currently is throwing paper wads at my trash can.

After a while, the one-hooker-per-week thing got boring. So I stepped up to two nights a week, then three. These days I have a different lover for each night of the week. Is this the perfect life or what? And Misty doesn’t suspect a thing. Little twit.

But don’t I feel guilty for treating my wife this way? Hey, it’s not my fault that she was dumb enough to marry me. She should have known better. But then, how could she resist—I am a major hunk.

Of course, my seven girlfriends are even more stupid than Misty. Each one of them actually thinks I’m going to marry her. Why should I? Once I have all that money, I’ll be able to get any woman I want, any time I want. No need to settle for just one. Been there. Done that.

Misty’s been perfectly still for a few minutes. I’ll give her a couple more before I get up, change clothes, and drive to the hotel.

Room 523. Can’t wait. Libby is smoking hot. I usually give her five hundred—not that she asks for it. She’s no hooker. I give her money out of the goodness of my heart, as I do with all my girls.

Okay, time to go. Wait—the lights came on. Misty’s awake. How did this happen? She should be sound asleep. She’s using the phone. I’ll hold still and pretend I’m sleeping.

“Hey. I did it.”

Who is she talking to at this hour?

“Don’t worry—he can’t hear me.”

Yes, I can. I can hear everything you’re saying.

“I know. I can’t believe I did it either.”

Did what?

“But he was cheating on me.”

Uh-oh. She knows.

“And I hate being played for a fool.”

This is crazy. Does she really think I can’t hear her?

“Yeah, I’m about to call—in just a minute.”

What is going on?

“That was a brilliant idea—to spike his whiskey with some of my sleeping pills. I crushed them up like you said, and he didn’t notice a thing. All it took was three. Those little babies are extremely dangerous.” She giggled.

You bitch! The joke’s on you. It didn’t work. I’m alive, and I’m hearing everything you’re saying. This is attempted murder. You’re gonna rot in prison. Now I’ll get ALL of your money. Ha!

And now for the big surprise. I can’t wait to see the expression on her face…Why can’t I move?…I can’t even open my eyes…But if my eyes are closed, how am I seeing everything?

“I’m waiting a few extra minutes to make sure he’s really dead.”

I’m not dead.

“I sure wouldn’t want the paramedics to be able to shock him back to life.”

Huh?

“What if he’s having an out-of-body experience right now? Wouldn’t that be funny? Maybe he’s looking down, hearing how I killed him, seeing his dead body lying here beside me, wishing he could jump up and strangle me.” She looked up at the ceiling and shot it the finger.

No!

“That would be hilarious.”

You don’t want to do this, Misty. I love you, Honey. Please call 9-1-1 now. Please!

“But wait—I don’t need to call now. I don’t have to worry about time of death. How would I know he had died? I was asleep. In fact, I could wait until morning to call 9-1-1. Then I’d be absolutely sure he was really dead.”

No, please! I’m fading, Misty. I can barely see you now. Please call..before it’s..too late…

THE END

Fancy words are fine for literary fiction. But in the mystery genre you [...]]]> Don’t Try to Impress the Reader with Fancy Words
Have you ever searched your Thesaurus for twenty minutes trying to find the perfect word? And when you found it, was it a word you’ve never used before? Throw it away.

Fancy words are fine for literary fiction. But in the mystery genre you don’t need or even want them. They’re just going to gum up the works. You’ll make the reader slow down and think about the words, and maybe even refer to a dictionary—or she might skip over words and miss what you’re trying to say. Congratulations. You’ve just killed your story.

Your prose should be transparent. The reader should not be thinking about the words at all. She should be seeing the story, living it.

Cut the Excess Words
Can you get your point across with less words? Then do it! Cut every unnecessary word. For example, the word “that” is often unneeded:

“She told him that he was not the man that she was looking for.”

Now, without the that’s: “She told him he was not the man she was looking for.”

Cut the Excess Sentences
Sometimes you can cut out an entire sentence and lose none of the meaning. Do it. An unneeded sentence just slows down your story. “But it adds to the meaning of the paragraph,” you say. Then keep it. But check it again. Does that sentence truly add something? Or have you simply fallen in love with the way it rolls off your tongue?

Similes, Metaphors, Allusions
Should you eliminate all similes, metaphors, and allusions from your mystery novel? No. They can be beautiful, powerful, and highly effective. But use them sparingly. Sometimes a face truly is poetry. Sometimes a voice is like a Nightingale’s. Sometimes an allusion is just what you need to make your point. But use these figures of speech sparingly—like salt. A sprinkle can sometimes make your prose more tasty, but pouring it on will render your story inedible.

Make Every Word Count
Do you like it when a reader skips over parts of your writing? Neither do I. But how can you train her to read every word? By letting her know from the very first paragraph that your writing contains absolutely no fat. When she realizes she can’t skip over words without missing something important, she will begin to read every one of them.

Words are the Tools
Words are the tools—they’re not the story. So use them wisely to capture your reader’s imagination, and entice her to spend time in the murder mystery world you’ve created.

She walked back into the bank and took her place behind the counter.

A handsome young man came in.

Janet’s smile drew him to her station. “I need to make a withdrawal.”

They had chatted online for weeks and really seemed like a great match. Tonight’s date would [...]]]> Harley smiled as she sat in the dark with her laptop, looking at Jeremy’s profile picture. The handsome young man was perfect—even better than the last one. And he lived in a house, which was a big plus.

They had chatted online for weeks and really seemed like a great match. Tonight’s date would be the moment of truth. Online chemistry is one thing. Face to face can be something entirely different. Harley knew it all too well.

Jeremy had suggested dinner at a fine restaurant.

Harley told him she would prefer a more intimate setting.

He liked the sound of that, and said he would be happy to prepare spaghetti, salad, and garlic bread. He admitted it was one of the few meals he knew how to cook.

Harley arrived at his door wearing her best blond wig. It always made a better first impression than the short, brunette hair hiding beneath it. Besides, that was what he would be expecting, since she was wearing it in her profile picture. And as they say, blondes have more fun.

They also say that blondes are dumb. That gave her an advantage. Harley was anything but dumb.

“Wow,” said Jeremy, “you’re even more beautiful than your picture.”

Harley heard him say beautiful, but knew he was thinking sex. The man was practically drooling.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling.

“Come in.”

As she walked in past him, she could feel the heat of his eyes trained on her tight butt. It was so easy for Harley to get men excited. Like flipping a switch.

“You lied in your profile,” said Jeremy.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s no way you’re 5-foot-10. I’m six foot, and you’re definitely taller than me.”

“Oh, it’s the heels. Sorry. I’ll just slip them off, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, make yourself at home.”

Now he was staring at her feet—a little too long. Foot fetish?

“That’s more like it,” he said. “Sorry I called you a liar. Guess that’s no way to start a date.” He smiled and winked.

“No problem.” She smiled. Some guys were so insecure. Would he really be devastated if she was two inches taller than him?

“You know, you remind me of somebody.”

“Really? Who?”

“I don’t know. But it’s driving me crazy. I’ll figure it out.”

“Well, you know what they say.”

“Everyone has a double?”

“Right.”

“I hope that’s not true. There’s this old man at work—he’s so ugly I can hardly stand to look at him. Surely there can’t be two of him. I don’t know—maybe in some foreign country, where they have mostly ugly people.” He laughed.

“I guess.” This guy might not deserve a woman, thought Harley.

“Okay,” he said, “just make yourself at comfortable. I need to go pop the dinner rolls into the oven.”

“Mm, great. I love rolls.”

He grinned at her, and walked into the kitchen.

What? Did he think she was throwing him a double entendre? I love to eat rolls and I love rolls in the hay. That’s exactly what she was doing.

Harley saw a framed picture on an end table and went over to check them out. It was Jeremy, standing arm in arm with an attractive woman. When she held the picture up close, she saw her own reflection, ghost-like, hovering over the couple in the photo.

The woman in the picture looked almost identical to Harley. Was Jeremy a complete idiot, a compulsive liar, or a weirdo?

He walked into the room, and seemed startled when he saw her holding the picture.

“So you couldn’t think who I reminded you of? What kind of game are you playing?”

“It’s not a game. I forgot that picture was out.”

“So you meant to hide it from me?”

“I just didn’t want you to freak out.”

“Why would I freak out? Because you only date women who look exactly the same?”

“I wasn’t dating her.”

“Oh, really? You two look pretty chummy to me.”

“It’s my sister. Two years ago, she married this rich guy from Ireland and moved back there with him. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Well, that’s even worse. You’re drawn to women who look like your sister?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“You were hoping to have sex with me tonight, weren’t you?”

“No. I mean…yeah, I guess.”

“At least now you’re being honest about something. Apparently, you and your sister had a very sick relationship.”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” He stepped in close to her and gently took the picture out of her hands and dropped it on the couch. “I really like you. Yes, you do look like my sister, but that doesn’t matter.”

“So if I kissed you right now, you wouldn’t be thinking of her?”

“No, of course not.”

Harley grabbed the back of his head with both hands and pulled his lips to hers. She didn’t know whether he was thinking about his sister, but he was definitely enjoying it—especially after she slipped her tongue into his mouth.

But his enjoyment faded quickly after her razor blade sliced his neck and the blood began to spurt.

He jumped back, holding his neck with his hand, staring at Harley in disbelief. “Why?” He collapsed to the floor. “Please, call 9-1-1.”

Harley pulled off her wig. She took a moist towelette from her purse and wiped the makeup off her face, and would have stripped naked. But there wasn’t time. Besides, she was sure Jeremy could now see that she was not a woman.

Harley crouched over Jeremy and saw the confusion in his eyes—when looking at someone else is the same as looking in the mirror. He and Harley could have been twins.

“Goodbye, Jeremy. And thanks for the new life you’ve given me.”

Jeremy looked confused. “Please, help me.”

“Yeah, they say everyone has a twin. But you know what I’ve found, Jeremy?”

Jeremy said something unintelligible.

“I’ve discovered that we all have multiple lookalikes. We’re quintuplets—and we don’t even know it.”

Harley stood up and looked around. “So this is my new house. Thanks. And my new name is Jeremy. I like it. That’s a good name.”

Jeremy tried to speak.

“I’ll forgive you for getting blood on my carpet. Fortunately, I have experience with this type of cleanup. I’ve done it many times. But I know what you’re thinking. DNA evidence and all that. I’ll never get away with it, right?”

Jeremy struggled to breathe.

“But you see, the police will have no reason to suspect anything. I’ll buy a big freezer to store your body. And I’ll just start living your life. Nobody will suspect a thing. I’m very good at faking it. You might even say it’s my life’s work.”

Jeremy’s eyes began to close.

“Sooner or later my luck will run out here, and I’ll have to move on. But no problem. I’ve already located the next me. His name is Benjamin, and he lives in London. I’m working on my British accent. I’ll have it perfected by then.”

Jeremy was barely hanging on.

Harley bent down. “It was so good to finally meet you, Jeremy—face to face.”

THE END

“No.” Jessie had never spent much time in dark alleys either.

“So do you have a job for me or what?”

The guy certainly didn’t look like [...]]]> Neil stepped in close. “Do I make you nervous?” he said, puffing rancid cigarette smoke into Jessie’s face. “You’ve never spent much time around ex-cons have you?”

“No.” Jessie had never spent much time in dark alleys either.

“So do you have a job for me or what?”

The guy certainly didn’t look like a cop. But Jessie would be careful, just in case. “Yes. Friday night at my business partner’s house. His wife is throwing him a big surprise birthday party. I want to give him a little surprise of my own—right in front of all his friends and family.”

“Some special…entertainment?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like fun.” He lit up another cigarette. “I’ll need ten thousand in small bills.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

Neil offered a sly grin. “Hey, if you’d rather hire somebody else, be my guest. But it could really spoil the party if they don’t know what they’re doing. Things could get…messy.”

He thought for a moment. “No—I can’t take that chance. It’s got to be done right.”

“Smart man.”

Jessie reached into his suit coat pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “Here’s the address. Come at around eight. I’ll be there, of course. Nobody will ever suspect that I’m the one who hired you.”

“Right.”

“But he’s got two young kids, so be careful. Actually, they’re my kids…and my wife.”

“The son of bitch stole your family?”

“Yeah. And now he’s trying to force me out of the company. We built that business together. Screw him!”

“Sounds like you’ve got anger issues, Man.”

“You think?”

“Maybe you should surprise him yourself.”

“I’m not really a hands-on kind of guy.”

“Good. I need the work.”

“I can see that—which is why I think you’ll be happy to lower your price to five thousand.”

Neil raised his right hand.

Even in the dim lighting of the alley Jessie could see the shiny six-inch blade. Before he could react, Neil pinned him to the wall with his left arm.

“You whiny little bitch. No wonder your wife left you. How about I cut your giblets out and feed them to the rats?”

Jessie couldn’t speak. He couldn’t feel anything—except the warm urine gushing down his leg.

“You’ve hired me to do a job, and the job’s gonna get done. There’s no turning back now. No price reductions. So shut the hell up.”

Jessie gulped.

“Tomorrow night at 10:00, you’re gonna come back here with the money. And Friday night, your partner is gonna get an amazing surprise.”

Neil punched Jessie in the stomach and walked away.

**********

Jessie sipped his punch. “This is a great party, Cathy.”

“Only the best for my Jack.”

His smile nearly cracked. If he was half a man, he would tell her off. “I don’t think he suspected a thing.”

“Yeah, it’s amazing that nobody let it slip.”

“Hey, was that the doorbell?”

Cathy went to the front door.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, walking into the house. “Now, where’s our birthday boy?”

Cathy followed him. “Sir, I think you’ve got the wrong house. I didn’t hire a clown.”

Ignoring Cathy, he addressed the crowded room of adults, who were standing around chatting, drinking punch, and eating cake. “Okay now kiddies, where’s Jack?”

One of the men laughed and said, “Can’t you tell? He’s the one over there, wearing the purple party hat.”

The clown reached into one of his huge pockets as he walked toward Jack.

Jessie moved in for a better view.

The clown whipped out something—a red balloon. He blew it up and twisted it in just the right places to form a hat. With the second balloon, a yellow one, he added a gold band. “A crown for the king—I mean the birthday boy,” he said, placing it on Jack’s head.

Everyone laughed.

Cathy surveyed the room of guests, and seemed to wondering who had hired him.

The clown leaned in to Jack, thrusting out his chest, positioning the fake flower on his lapel directly in front of Jack’s face.

Then Jessie realized it was Neil—the ex-con he’d hired for ten-thousand dollars.

The clown squeezed the little red ball in his hand, and water sprayed out of the fake flower into Jack’s face.

The crowd roared with laughter.

After creating balloon toys for the two children and various hats and necklaces for the adults, the clown made a grand exit, waving goodbye with all the gusto of St. Nick. Jessie almost expected to hear: Merry Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.

Then he was gone—even more quickly than he had appeared.

Jessie kept his eye on Jack. Perhaps Neil had spiked the flower water with acid or some other deadly liquid. Soon it would begin to take its toll on poor old Jack.

Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Jack appeared to be just fine. He had another piece of cake and a cup of coffee.

Jessie excused himself and left the party.

**********

Jessie threw back another shot of whiskey. “Keep them coming,” he said to the bartender.

A familiar voice from behind him said, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

Jessie spun around and nearly fell off his stool. “You bastard,” he slurred.

Neil sat down beside him. “What’s your problem?”

“I paid you a lot of money to do that job.”

“And I did it well, don’t you think? They loved me.”

“Sure. You were a great clown. The balloon art was amazing. Just fabulous, you son of a bitch.”

“What are you so upset about? You paid a premium price for a premium job. You could not have found a better party clown. Admit it.”

Jessie stood up, dizzy from the alcohol. “I didn’t pay you to be a frigging party clown.”

“You didn’t?”

“You know damn well I didn’t.”

“Then exactly what did you expect me to do for that money?”

“You know.”

“Obviously I don’t.”

“Don’t give me that. I hired you to give Jack a big surprise. We both knew what we were really talking about. I mean, come on—you’re an ex-con.”

“So, instead of my clown act, you were expecting me to…”

“Yes. I was expecting you to kill him. I wanted to see you blow that bastard away—right in front of everybody.”

“So the money you paid me was not for entertainment. You were hiring me to kill your business partner.”

“How could you be so stupid. Of course that’s what I was doing. Idiot.”

Neil got off of his stool. “Jessie, you have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right—”

“—wait. What’s happening?”

Neil took out his cuffs.

“You’re a cop?”

“Anything you say can, and will, be used against you in a—”

“—son of a bitch!”

“Now who’s the clown?”

THE END

Ellegora Newcomb enjoyed peering out the window, imagining the common town folk down below, living their [...]]]> The Newcomb Mansion sat atop its own private hill, just outside of town. By Hollywood standards it wasn’t a mansion at all—just a very nice, large house. But to the small-town people of Coreyville it was a mansion.

Ellegora Newcomb enjoyed peering out the window, imagining the common town folk down below, living their meaningless lives—mere ants, working for pennies, eating scraps, struggling to survive. The thought of their suffering almost brought a smile to her sour face, which at age 54 looked decades older.

The townies could only dream of being rich like her. One day perhaps some Joe Blow would win the lottery. Then he’d have lots of new friends with endless wants and needs. In no time, he would have blown his wealth—certainly apropos for a guy named Joe Blow. Then he would be sad and poor.

But Joe would get over his sadness and go back to a normal life. Ellegora never would.

It hadn’t always been this way for her. She had once been the princess of Coreyville. In those days, she and Nigel would take the limo into town regularly, and the peasants were always thrilled to see them and bow down to their pseudo-royalty.

Nights were filled with food and wine. Even the fanciest Coreyville restaurants were reasonably priced, which frustrated the wealthy young couple to no end. They made up for it by ordering the most expensive wines in quantities that even they couldn’t drink. The commoners were always standing by, eager to lap up the leftovers.

The dancing and carousing went on for hours until they finally passed out. Servants would carry them away and take them home. Everyone loved Nigel and Ellegora. Everyone wanted to be them. Those were the glory days.

But then, right after the birth of their only child, Nigel’s life was cut short. One moment he was the proudest daddy in the world, anxious to give his son everything money could buy. The next, he lay flat in the street—plowed down by a bus. All the wealth Nigel had inherited from his father meant nothing. The most expensive doctor on earth could not have brought him back to life.

Ellegora took her revenge the very next day. The bus driver was fired—even though he had done nothing wrong. She tried to have him charged with Criminal Negligent Homicide. Nigel had wandered into the street drunk, waving a handful of cigars. There was no way for the driver to avoid hitting him. But none of that mattered to Ellegora Newcomb.

She turned away from the window and took another sip of tea, admiring a picture of her son, Navy, standing in front of his first car: a brand new red Camaro Super Sport convertible. He had totaled the car two weeks later—but what a handsome young man he was.

Forty-seven pictures of her son lined the walls of The Navy Room—creating a twenty-five year time-line of his life. He spoke out to her from those pictures, sometimes all at once, depending on her blood alcohol level. She often talked back. It was the one place where she could see beyond the grave.

Ellegora’s morning ritual was to sit in The Navy Room, drinking her hot rum tea while revisiting each and every picture. Per her instructions, Patsy gradually increased the concentration of rum in each cup of tea until lunchtime. Then she switched her to wine. By late afternoon, Ellegora couldn’t walk a straight line.

Navy had been such a sweet child. Then came the drugs, alcohol, girls in his bed, stealing a car for a joyride—you name it. Her son had given her ample justification to become a full-time drunk.

However, Navy had finally been getting his act together. He would have become a wonderful man, just like his father—he just needed more time. It was the one thing she couldn’t give him. His life was snuffed out at a young age—just like his father’s. The one thing that could have restored her faith in life and her joy of living had been taken from her in an instant.

All her sweet Navy had done was to eat a cake—a small breakfast cake. A poisoned cake. If he had not eaten that cake he would have still been alive. She could have been holding him in her arms right now. Ellegora felt the tears begin to well up.

No! She would no longer grieve for her son. It was time for revenge—Ellegora style.

“Patsy!” Her voice carried through the open door and echoed down the long hallway, bouncing off the stone floor and the dark mahogany walls. “Patsy, where are you?!”

Nothing.

“Pat—sy!”

Patsy hurried in, with a fresh cup of hot tea and rum.

“Where have you been?”

“I was preparing your tea, Ma’am.”

Patsy and the other servants were Ellegora’s only remaining loyal subjects—mostly because they were paid to be. The townspeople had lost interest in her after Nigel passed. Eventually her crown went to someone else—an unworthy wench.

“Where is the respect, Patsy? I get less of it from you every day—and after all I’ve done for you,” she said wagging her finger. “You were living in the streets when I found you. Everything you have is from me. What’s it been now, thirty years? Yes, for thirty years I’ve given you a wonderful place to live.” She stopped and stared at her for a moment. “Without me you’d be nothing. Dirtier than dirt. Smellier than a skunk. Do you hear what I’m saying, Patsy? Do you get it?”

“I’m sorry I was late with your tea, Ma’am.”

“It’s not just about the tea. It’s…never mind. Just get out of here. I can’t stand to look at your ugly disrespectful face.”

Patsy scurried out of the room.

Ellegora sucked down the entire cup of steaming hot tea, hoping the rum would kick in fast. She looked up at Navy’s last picture. “Don’t worry, Son, she’s gonna pay for what she’s done. Queen Ginger is gonna pay dearly.”

End of Excerpt

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Boot looked like an old sun-leathered drunk you might find sleeping in a big-city alley. He did dress better than the [...]]]> Justice of the Peace, Harvey ‘Boot’ Hornamer, arrived within two minutes—before the paramedics. It was almost as if he had been parked right outside, waiting for the 9-1-1 operator to dispatch the ambulance.

Boot looked like an old sun-leathered drunk you might find sleeping in a big-city alley. He did dress better than the drunk: Tony Lama Cowboy Classics and black Stetson, with a pistol strapped to his side and a badge pinned to his leather vest. But he and the drunk smelled about the same.

“How did you get here so fast, Boot?” said Ginger.

“I was in the area.”

“At this time of the morning?”

“I don’t sleep much.”

Ginger guessed he didn’t brush his teeth much either. She asked him to please remove the chewing tobacco from his mouth before entering.

He thrust a finger inside his jaw, dug out the big slimy wad, and flung it into the shrubs.

At least he wouldn’t be spitting tobacco juice into any of their flower pots, thought Ginger. She just wished he wouldn’t touch anything.

Boot stepped inside. “It’s Jack Jickles, ain’t it?”

“How did you guess?”

“Well, I seen a copy of your guest list for tonight. They’re all locals—which is interesting.”

“How did you get a copy of our guest list?”

“It wasn’t no secret was it?”

Ginger would be having a little chat with Barb. “No, not really.”

“Anyhow, I knew old Jack was here, and that he’s had several heart attacks, so…”

Boot labored his way up the staircase, following Ginger into Maggie Jickles room.

Jane, Barb, and Ethel tagged along.

Ginger was surprised to see that both windows were wide open. “Why did you open the windows, Maggie? It’s freezing in here.”

“I felt lightheaded,” said Maggie. “I needed some fresh air.”

“Feeling better now?” said Ginger.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Ginger closed one of the windows while Jane closed the other.

“Hey, Boot,” said Maggie.

“Maggie.” He nodded, still panting from his climb up the stairs. He walked over and looked down at the body. “Finally had the big one, huh, Jack? You knew it was coming, Buddy.”

“He just couldn’t give up smoking,” said Maggie.

“I told him it weren’t no use,” said Boot. “May as well enjoy life while you can.”

Boot coughed hard and deep, and his chest rattled like loose change in a clothes dryer.

“We had a good life together,” said Maggie, shaking her head. “I guess it was just his time to go.”

“So, were you with him when he died?”

“No. I went downstairs for a few minutes, and when I came back he wasn’t breathing.”

Boot eyed the CPAP machine on the nightstand. “He was wearing his CPAP mask?”

“Yes,” said Maggie.

“I’ve got one of them buggers,” he said. “Hardly ever use it though. The durn thing drives me crazy.”

“Jack had trouble with it at first, but he finally got used to it,” said Maggie. “You really need to use it, Boot. The doctor wouldn’t have prescribed it if you didn’t need it.”

“I know,” he said. “It’ll help me live longer.” He eyed the CPAP machine, then Jack, and shook his head. “Okay. It looks like natural causes. But we’ll send him down to the medical examiner anyway.” He glanced at his watch. “Time of death: 2:34 a.m.” He took out a small spiral pad and wrote it down.

**********

“We’re getting out of here,” said Clare, opening a suitcase.

“Oh, come on, Clare,” said Bob, “we were gonna have a little fun tonight. I know it’s late, but—”

“—late? It’s the middle of the night, and there’s a dead body down the hall. And we can’t afford to be here anyway. If we go now, we can get a refund.”

“Is that what’s bothering you? I told you not to worry about the money.”

“How can I not worry, Bob? We haven’t paid our rent in six months.”

“Mom’s a softie. She would never kick us out.”

“Sometimes I wish she would. Then maybe you’d have to go out and get a job.”

“Me? What about you? Why can’t you get a job?”

“You know good and well why, Bob—because you promised me I would never have to work outside the home. That was the deal. I’d marry you and take care of the household, and you would bring home a paycheck.”

“Well, I’m working on something right now and—”

“—you’re always working on something. But it never pays anything, Bob. You need a real job—not another hair-brained scheme.”

“Oh, you just wait and see, Clare. This time I’ll be bringing it, Baby. Bringing home the old bacon. Yep—I’m about to hit the Mother lode.”

“I’m sure.”

“No, really. And when I do, we’ll be moving out of Mom’s old garage apartment…”

“Right.”

“…into a big fancy house. That’s right, Clare—a brand new house. What do you think about that?”

“You’re a dreamer, Bob. And I love you for it, I really do. But you make me crazy.” She tossed the rest of their things into the suitcase and zipped it up. “Let’s go.”

“I need to make a trip to the john first,” said Bob.

“Can’t you hold it until we get home?”

“No, Clare, I can’t.”

“Quit acting like an old man, Bob. You’re forty-eight years old. It’s a five-minute drive. You can hold it.”

“No, Clare. I can’t.”

“Fine, but this place is creeping me out, so hurry it up.”

“Some things cannot be rushed.” Bob went into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the exhaust fan. He took out his phone and hit the speed dial. It rang six times.

“This better be good.”

“Sorry to wake you up, but I figured you’d want to know,” said Bob. “It’s done. Everybody thinks the house is haunted. Once the word gets around, nobody will want to come here.”

“Good job. Now don’t bother to call this number again. I’m throwing the phone away.”

“Only thing is…one of the guests had a heart attack and died.”

After a few moments, the voice said, “Who?”

“Jack Jickles.”

The line went dead.

The small East Texas town of Coreyville slept under a soft blanket of December snow. Ginger Lightley and her three fellow Domino Girls could not have imagined such perfect weather for the opening of Ginger Bread House, a beautiful [...]]]> Book Two of the Ginger Lightley Short-Novel Mystery Series
(Four-chapter excerpt) – Read description here

The small East Texas town of Coreyville slept under a soft blanket of December snow. Ginger Lightley and her three fellow Domino Girls could not have imagined such perfect weather for the opening of Ginger Bread House, a beautiful old three-story Georgian-style home they had converted into a bed and breakfast.

Their eighteen guests had enjoyed a lovely afternoon of coffee and assorted mini-cakes, followed by a traditional home-style dinner. For the remainder of the evening, the four proud owners sat around the fireplace with their guests, sipping hot tea and nibbling on Ginger’s famous little cakes.

Because of those cakes, Ginger Bread House was booked up—three months in advance. Ginger’s Coreyville Coffee Cakes bakery was the Number One tourist attraction in the area, and the new bed and breakfast promised to be just as deliciously enchanting—an expectation that Ginger and the gang were determined to meet. Ginger, along with Jane Appletree, Barb Omatta, and Ethel Eggly, owned equal pieces of the pie. Or, perhaps cake was the better word.

By midnight all the guests had retired to their rooms on the second floor and in the split-level basement. The Domino Girls settled into their two queen size beds in the master suite on the main floor. Outside, feathery snowflakes drifted down ever so gently, in deference to the toasty-warm, slumbering bedfellows inside.

**********

At around 2:00 a.m., Ginger awoke to a noise. Five rapid-fire taps—like a woodpecker.

Five more, louder. But it wasn’t a woodpecker. Someone was knocking on the door.

Ginger clicked on the lamp.

Her bed partner, Jane, rolled over. “What’s going on?”

Five more raps—harder and faster.

Barb and Ethel began to stir in the other bed.

Ginger got up and went to the door.

Jane followed her.

It was the twins, Helen and Holly Heevy, looking frantic. Their enormous breasts—mostly exposed—caused Ginger to gasp. The matching Winnie-the-Pooh nightgowns were much too small—especially in the chest area. Women in their fifties should dress more conservatively, thought Ginger, and more age-appropriately. But in fairness—it was sleepwear.

“They were right,” said Helen. “We should have listened.”

“We want a refund,” said Holly.

“Okay, now, just settle down,” said Ginger, “and tell me what’s bothering you.”

“This place is haunted,” said Helen. “That’s what’s bothering us. You promised it wasn’t true.”

“It’s not true,” said Ginger.

“All we wanted was a nice relaxing getaway. This is extremely upsetting.”

“Well, I’m sorry you’re not enjoying your stay with us. But, I can assure you that Ginger Bread House is not haunted.”

“Then how do you explain it?” said Holly. “We saw them—on the wall. It was definitely them.”

“Who?”

“Our husbands,” they said in unison.

Ginger looked at one, then the other.

“We saw them both—so clearly,” said Helen.

“And we heard music,” said Holly.

“It was our song,” said Helen.

“You and your husband’s?” said Ginger.

“Yes,” said Helen.

“Ours too,” said Holly. “Both of us and our husbands.”

“We had the same song,” said Helen. “We like exactly the same kind of music.”

Barb and Ethel joined Ginger and Jane at the door.

Barb glared at the twins. “You’re waking us up at two in the morning to tell us you saw a ghost?”

“Two ghosts,” said Holly.

“Did your husbands look exactly the same too?” said Ethel. “I mean, were they twins too?”

Barb frowned at her.

“Well,” said Ethel, “I was just wondering.”

“Actually, yes,” said Helen, “they were identical too.”

“So how do you know you saw ghosts of both of your husbands?” said Ethel. “Maybe you just saw the same one twice.”

Helen and Holly looked at each other as though they hadn’t considered that.

“I’m sorry, Ladies,” said Ginger, “but there is no such thing as a ghost.”

“What about the music?” said Holly. “You can’t tell me we didn’t hear it. We both heard it very clearly.”

Before Ginger could speak, Ethel blurted, “What was the name of the song?”

They both appeared to reminisce for a brief moment before Helen said, “Dream Lover, by Bobby Darin.”

“Love it,” said Holly, looking at her sister.

Helen turned to her, and in unison they recited, “Love it forever. Forever we will. Will we forever? Yes, love it we will.”

This was more scary than seeing a ghost, thought Ginger.

Maggie Jickles, another guest, walked up from behind the twins. “What’s going on? Why is everybody up?” She dropped something on the floor and bent over to pick it up.

“Why are you up, Maggie?” said Ginger.

Maggie grinned sheepishly. “I always get the munchies around this time of night. So I thought I’d snack on another one of your delicious little cakes.”

“Help yourself,” said Ginger.

Maggie walked off to the kitchen.

Ginger looked at the twins. “So…anything else?”

“Yes,” said Helen. “We’re leaving right now.”

“In the middle of the night?” said Jane. “It’s snowing out there.”

“And we’ll expect a full refund in the mail by next week,” said Holly. She turned to her sister. “Now let’s go pack our things and get out of this horrid place.”

The twins walked away.

Ginger closed the door.

“Not a great opening night,” said Barb.

“I really liked their nighties,” said Ethel.

Barb snapped at her. “I couldn’t care less about their stupid nighties. They’re gonna go out and tell everybody that Ginger Bread House is haunted.”

“Well, it might not be such a bad thing,” said Ethel.

“Are you losing it, Woman?” said Barb.

“No. Stop and think about it. Those women got to see their husbands.”

“Their dead husbands,” said Barb.

“Right,” said Ethel. “And I for one would pay good money for a chance to see my Earl.”

Everyone got quiet.

Finally, Ginger said, “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it tonight. Why don’t y’all go back to sleep. I’ll stay up until the twins are gone.”

“I’m not sleepy anymore,” said Jane.

“Me either,” said Barb, sitting down on the side of her bed. “I used my life savings to invest in this place. I can’t afford for it to fail.”

“I sold my house,” said Ethel.

“You’re not the only one,” said Barb. “If we can’t make this thing work, I’m gonna be out on the street.”

“I’ve still got a house,” said Jane, “but I sold my restaurant. I wouldn’t have a way to earn a living. And I’ve got no money to retire.”

“It’s going to be okay,” said Ginger. “The twins are strange. Hopefully people won’t believe them when they start talking about ghosts. I mean—would you?”

“I wouldn’t,” said Barb, “but some people would.”

“You’re talking about me, aren’t you, Barb?” said Ethel. “You’re talking about people like me.”

“Well, if the dress fits…” said Barb.

“Those were nice dresses the twins were wearing today,” said Ethel.

“Yeah, if it was 1960,” said Jane.

They all laughed.

“Good,” said Ginger. ” Laughter is what we need. Let’s do more laughing and less bickering.”

“Fine with me,” said Barb. “As long as Ethel doesn’t say anything idiotic.”

Ethel stuck out her tongue at Barb.

“And as long as she doesn’t do that,” said Barb.

They heard a bloodcurdling scream and froze.

“I think it was from upstairs,” said Jane, opening their bedroom door.

Two more screams.

“Yeah,” said Jane. “Definitely upstairs.”

The other three followed Jane through the living room, into the foyer and up the winding staircase.

A woman yelled, “Help! Please, somebody help me.”

“That’s Maggie Jickles,” said Ginger.

“Bedroom three,” said Barb.

When they got to the room, the door was open. All of the upstairs guests were in Maggie’s room—just standing there watching her.

Maggie crouched over her husband, who lay motionless in bed.

“What happened?” said Ginger.

Maggie turned. Her eyes were red, filled with tears. “I think he’s…dead. When I got back up here he had stopped breathing.”

Ginger walked over to him and felt the side of his neck. “I can’t find a pulse.”

“Has anyone called 9-1-1?” said Jane.

“I did,” said Bob Rendford.

“He’s had three heart attacks,” said Maggie, “but he’s been doing fine lately.”

“I’ll bet he saw a ghost,” said Helen Heevy. “That’s probably what killed him.”

“A ghost?” said Maggie.

“Yeah,” said Holly. “There were ghosts in our room.”

“Then it’s true,” said Clare Rendford.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said her husband, Bob.

“I see one right now,” said another guest, pointing. “Right there in the corner.”

“That’s just a shadow,” said Bob.

“No. It’s a ghost.”

“Okay,” said Barb, “we need for all of you to go back to your rooms.”

“If you know what’s good for you,” said Helen, “you’ll check out of this ghost hotel right now.”

“That’s what we’re doing,” said Holly.

Everyone began to scurry out of the room.

“Don’t leave tonight,” said Ginger. “It’s snowing.”

Ethel walked over to the bed. “Shouldn’t you…turn off his machine?”

“Ethel,” said Barb, snarling.

“I guess so,” said Maggie, in a daze. She reached over and turned off Jack’s CPAP machine. “I just can’t believe…” She took the CPAP mask off his nose.

Ginger was familiar with CPAPs. For several years, her deceased husband, Lester, had used a Continuous Positive Airway Pressure machine for his Sleep Apnea. The medical device pumps air through a hose to a mask that is worn over the nose or the nose and mouth to keep the air passages open while sleeping.

“We’ll leave you alone with him,” said Ginger.

The four women stepped out to the hallway.

“I’m gonna go down and wait for the paramedics,” said Ginger.

“Do you honestly think there’s anything they can do?” said Jane.

“Probably not,” said Ginger.

They headed down the staircase. Ginger stumbled and Barb caught her.

“Whoa,” said Barb. “You okay, Ginge?” Barb was the only person in the world who called Ginger ‘Ginge.’

“I just got dizzy for a second,” said Ginger. “I’m okay now.” She had no intention of telling them what she’d just seen at the bottom of the stairs.

1. Which character was in two Greg Tenorly books as well as in Sweet Ginger Poison? Answer: Jane Appletree (Bicycle Shop Murder, Hideaway Hospital Murders)

2. Which character was in Illusion of Luck and [...]]]> If you haven’t taken the quiz yet, go here to take it. This page has the questions AND the answers.

1. Which character was in two Greg Tenorly books as well as in Sweet Ginger Poison?
Answer: Jane Appletree (Bicycle Shop Murder, Hideaway Hospital Murders)

2. Which character was in Illusion of Luck and Naked Frame?
Answer: Rebecca Ranghorn

3. Which character went to college with Greg Tenorly?
Answer: Sandy Vockelman (Illusion of Luck)

4. Which character enjoyed reading romance novels?
Answer: Macy Golong (Hideaway Hospital Murders)

5. Which character wrote a cheerleading cheer?
Answer: Lucky Larry (Illusion of Luck)

6. Which character’s name sounds like a mathematical theorem?
Answer: Phillipa Thagery (Naked Frame)

7. Which character was poisoned and then barbequed?
Answer: Erin (Lucky Larry’s live-in girlfriend – Illusion of Luck)

8. Which character owned the popular Buttard Biscuit Restaurant?
Answer: Billy-Eye Buttard (Fly the Rain)

9. Which character was named after a car?
Answer: Edsel ‘Ed’ Torkman (Fly the Rain)

10. Which character tried to run Greg Tenorly’s car into an oncoming 18-wheeler?
Answer: John X (Bicycle Shop Murder)

11. Which character died of an allergic reaction?
Answer: Navy Newcomb (Sweet Ginger Poison)

12. Which character framed Rebecca Ranghorn?
Answer: Big Bill Smotherburn (Naked Frame)

13. Which character nearly drowned with his best friend tied to his back?
Answer: Gabby G’Blee (Naked Frame)

14. Which character nearly married a con artist?
Answer: Dr. Elmo Mobley (Hideaway Hospital Murders)

15. Which character wanted to be governor of Texas?
Answer: Buford Bellowin (Bicycle Shop Murder)

1. Which character was in two [...]]]> (This quiz was included in one of my Insider Newsletters a few months ago.) If you’ve read all my books you just might know the answers to these questions about my characters. Jot down your answers and then follow the link at the bottom for the question/answer sheet.

1. Which character was in two Greg Tenorly books as well as in Sweet Ginger Poison?

2. Which character was in Illusion of Luck and Naked Frame?

3. Which character went to college with Greg Tenorly?

4. Which character enjoyed reading romance novels?

5. Which character wrote a cheerleading cheer?

6. Which character’s name sounds like a mathematical theorem?

7. Which character was poisoned and then barbequed?

8. Which character owned the popular Buttard Biscuit Restaurant?

9. Which character was named after a car?

10. Which character tried to run Greg Tenorly’s car into an oncoming 18-wheeler?

11. Which character died of an allergic reaction?

12. Which character framed Rebecca Ranghorn?

13. Which character nearly drowned with his best friend tied to his back?

14. Which character nearly married a con artist?

15. Which character wanted to be governor of Texas?

Go to question/answer sheet

Rebecca and Gabby jumped into his Honda Civic and he drove out of the motel parking lot. “So, I can understand why somebody would want to kill Big Bill. But why frame us for it?”

“The bigger question is how they framed us. They must have bugged my office. Otherwise, they [...]]]> Monday, 10:47 p.m.

Rebecca and Gabby jumped into his Honda Civic and he drove out of the motel parking lot. “So, I can understand why somebody would want to kill Big Bill. But why frame us for it?”

“The bigger question is how they framed us. They must have bugged my office. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have known the precise time to kill Big Bill and get out of there before you arrived.”

“Maybe they got lucky. Maybe they had no idea I was coming, and just happen to leave before I got there.”

“Are you sure they left? Did you check my closet?”

“No. I didn’t even think about it. I was too freaked out by the whole thing. My first thought was to get you out of there before the cops showed up.”

“Because you figured I shot him.”

“No. I mean—I wasn’t sure. I just knew you were in big trouble.”

“You were in trouble too, since you owed him thousands of dollars.”

“That was my second thought.”

“I believe the killer knew everything. He heard me talking to you on the phone this morning. That gave him all day to convince Big Bill to pay me a visit.”

“I don’t know, Becca. I realize this is your line of work. But that sounds pretty far-fetched.”

“Okay. Why were you late for our meeting?”

“I told you when I called. I had a flat tire.”

“What kind of flat? Did you have a nail in your tire or what?”

“No. It was leaking on the side.”

“As though somebody stabbed it with a knife?”

“Oh…yeah. I see what you mean,” said Gabby. “It was to hold me up. To make me late.”

“And to give the killer enough time to wait for the drug to work, and then shoot Big Bill with my gun—with it still in my hand.”

“Oh, my God.”

“He must have followed him into my reception area, and waited for just the right moment.”

“Big Bill drank the drug too. Although, his cup was still half full. And he had three times your body mass.”

“So, he might have just been drowsy,” said Rebecca.

“Which would have made him slow to react when the killer came in and pointed my gun at him.”

“Or,” said Gabby, “if he knew the killer, Big Bill might not have suspected he was going to shoot him.”

“Then you walk in, see the dead body and call the police. You and I both had motives to kill him.”

“But I didn’t call the police. The killer miscalculated that part.”

“Yeah. But eventually we’re going to be right where he wants us: in jail. Unless we can catch him before the police catch us.”

Neither of them spoke for several minutes.

Rebecca said, “It could have been his wife, Kimberly. She’s a trophy wife. He was 60. She’s 29. But apparently even that’s not young enough. He’s out there screwing teenagers.”

“I wonder if there was a prenup?”

“If not, I’d put her at the top of my list. Next, would come any business partners who stood to gain.”

“Could have been one of those teenage girls.”

“Maybe. But they had sex with him willingly. After two of his waitresses were discovered by a Hollywood agent, the word got out: get a job at Big Bill’s Café Nue, and first thing you know—you’ll be a star. Some girls will do anything to be famous.”

“Some do it just for the money. Those waitresses make a fortune in tips. Ever been there?”

“No.”

“It’s three blocks from my shop.”

“Good. After you do our makeovers, let’s go down there and nose around.”

Gabby stopped for a traffic signal. “Well, there it is. My baby. What do you think?”

It was smaller than Rebecca had imagined. The bold neon letters were spread diagonally across the entire width of the storefront: Gabby G’Blee Boutique. “Very nice, Gabby.”

“It’s bigger than it looks. I keep the high-priced stuff on the second floor, which is adults only—since the accident.”

“Somebody got hurt?”

“No. But one of my dresses did. I don’t allow food or drinks in my shop. But some girl pulled a bottle of grape soda out of her backpack.”

“And spilled it on one of your dresses?”

“The very thought of it makes me cringe. It was completely destroyed. Unsalvageable.”

“Well, I guess when something like that happens, you just write it off your taxes.”

“Oh, Honey, they won’t let me write it off. The IRS doesn’t understand the value of my creations.”

“What was the value?”

“The sales price was ten-thousand dollars.”

“Whoa. You can get that much for a frigging dress?”

“Not a dress. A Gabby G’Blee Original.”

“Then you must be loaded.”

“I’ve only sold two at that price. Most of my designs go for under a thousand. But lately, business has really been picking up. I think I’m finally becoming known.”

“Well, I’ve heard of Gabby G’Blee. So I guess you’re right. I just didn’t know it was you.”

Gabby drove around to the alley. They got out of the car, and she followed him into the back of the building. He flipped on the lights and locked the door behind them.

“Can you see these lights from the front of the store?”

“Worried about the police getting suspicious? That won’t be a problem. I’m always here at night. They’re used to it. And they know my car.”

“So, they won’t bother us.”

“Nope.” Gabby led her to the back stairs. “We need to go up to the third floor.” He began to attack the stairs, two at a time.

Rebecca followed suit. It brought back high school memories. She could almost hear Mrs. Mattison fussing at them for their enthusiastic, but illegal climbing of stairs. Right now she longed for those days— when the only laws she was breaking were in the school handbook.

They walked through a work room, past several large tables and industrial grade sewing machines, to the doorway of his office. “It’s not much, but—”

“—at least it doesn’t have a bloody corpse in it.”

“Yeah.”

Rebecca noticed the pillow and blanket on his couch. “You sleep up here?”

“Yeah. I had to give up my apartment. Couldn’t make the rent.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s not that bad. I’d do anything to keep my shop. Whatever it takes.”

“Don’t say that to the cops.”

“Oh. Right. So, let’s see…” He walked across the work room. Gabby’s Originals hung all over the walls. “Oh, this would be marvelous on you.”

She followed him to a pink, low-cut dress.

He took it off the wall and held it up in front of her. “Try it on.”

“Oh, no, Gabby. I don’t really do pink.”

“Which is why this will be perfect. We need something your best friend wouldn’t recognize you in,” said Gabby. “Do you have a best friend?”

She hesitated. “Melanie. She’s dead.”

“Oh, wonderful. Don’t you have any friends or family that are still breathing?”

“Just you, I guess.”

“That’s sad, Girl. But don’t worry. I’ll be like five friends.”

“You always were.”

“That’s right. Now try it on.”

“Is there a dressing room?”

He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to the side. “Really?”

“Oh, what the hell.”

She stripped down to panties and bra.

“You always did have lovely legs. And, Honey, your butt is still nice and firm. Good job.”

“Will you quit looking at me?”

“It’s just that I admire the human form…particularly when it’s so damn perfect.”

Rebecca frowned at him.

“A little over the top?”

“Yeah.”

“That bra won’t work. Hang on.” He scurried into his office and came back with a bra in hand. “Here’s what you need.”

“You’ve got a selection of bras in your office?”

“I like bras.” He grinned and shrugged.

Rebecca reluctantly unhooked her bra and took it off.

“Oh, my. You always had perky breasts. Probably from all that weight lifting and basketball.”

“Stop it!” She covered herself with her hands, and turned her back to him. “All those times in high school when I let you watch me get dressed—I thought you were gay.”

“Why? Because everybody else thought so? I told you I wasn’t. And you said you believed me.”

“I did. Sort of.” She spun around. “Well, if you weren’t gay…if you’re not gay, then why didn’t you ever make a move on me? Was I not pretty enough?”

“Not pretty enough?”

“I had zits all over my face. And because I was a tall basketball player who liked to get physical on the court, some of the kids thought I was gay too.”

“I knew you weren’t.”

“Then why didn’t you ever try to kiss me?”

“Because…I wanted to be the strong one in the relationship. And that was never going to happen with you.”

“So, I never even turned you on?”

He smiled. “Oh, I didn’t say that.” He gave her body the once over with smiling eyes.

“Quit looking at me that way.”

“Okay. I’ll try to restrain myself.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Ever been married?”

“No.” He hesitated. “Okay, I know how that looks. But I’ve been busy. How about you?”

“Have I ever been married? No. I’ve had a few boyfriends. In fact, I moved here to Dallas to be closer to a guy I was dating. I really thought we had something. But it didn’t work out. I always seem to scare them off.”

“I’m sorry, Becca.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Now…the ponytail has got to go. You wear it up most of the time, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Let it down. Nobody will recognize you.” He went into his office and came back with a brush and a wig. He handed her the brush. “Here you go.”

Rebecca took the brush. “Is that for you?”

“Yep. This is all I need.” He positioned the wig on his head.

“So, you’re going to be the one with the ponytail. You look like Paul Revere.”

“I was going for hippie. Alright, we’ll grab you a pair of shoes on the way out. They’re on the first floor. You still wear a 10B, right?”

“I can’t believe you remembered.”

“Are you kidding? How many times did you throw your smelly basketball shoes at me?”

Rebecca laughed.

“Okay. Let’s go to Café Nue and do some investigating.”

“You like to go there because of the sexy young waitresses.”

He grinned. “Sure. As well as the food. It’s exquisite. I love their chateaubriand with pommes de terre truffée and the Cabernet Sauvignon.”

“I’d rather have a burger with fries and a diet Coke.”

“They have that too.”

As they went down the staircase, Gabby said, “I love the name of the place. Café Nue. It’s French, you know. It means—”

“—I know what it means. Nude Café.”

END OF EXCERPT

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The woman was a bit mature for this line of work. But nobody had ever complained. Her customers always walked away happy. She made sure of that, by giving them even more than they asked for.

This particular john had requested lights out. That was fine with her. She did her [...]]]> Monday, 10:21 p.m.

The woman was a bit mature for this line of work. But nobody had ever complained. Her customers always walked away happy. She made sure of that, by giving them even more than they asked for.

This particular john had requested lights out. That was fine with her. She did her best work in the dark, knowing the little imperfections of her maturity could not be seen.

Newbies thought they could outperform the senior members of their profession through sheer physicality. Eventually they would learn that sex is more mental than physical. If your brain thinks you’re turned on, then Baby, you’re turned on.

She was a magician of sorts—a wizard, practicing dark arts not easily mastered. Seasoned practitioners, such as herself, could cast a sexual spell upon a man, gently massaging his brain with her words, slowly but surely leading him into mind-blowing, convulsive ecstasy.

Occasionally, a man would stop her, just as her magic began to envelope him, having been frightened by the power of the spell. But this rarely happened. And once the orgasm became inevitable, he was beyond the point of no return.

The young whores didn’t have a clue.

She was also smarter about money. Hers was a solo operation. No pimp to slap her around and take most of her earnings. A simple online ad, offering escort services brought in plenty of business. Two-hundred bucks for an hour’s work. And she could handle two to three customers per night.

Her only regret about her work was its effect on her daughter. She had successfully hidden her true profession for years.

Mommy’s a nurse, and some nurses have to work at night. So, be good for Daddy, and I will see you in the morning, Sweetie.

But her baby girl turned sixteen last year and got a driver’s license. And one night she followed her mom to work. That’s when she found out mommy wasn’t healing sick people. She was screwing sick bastards.

That night, as soon as the first john left, there was a knock at the door. When she looked through the peephole and saw her sweet, innocent daughter standing there, her heart dropped. There was no denying what she had just done. An ear to the door had provided all the gory details.

But instead of the expected disappoint or insults, there were probing questions about money. And how to get into the biz. There were visions of cash and shopping sprees and new cars.

“So, you want to turn tricks like your mother? Make a lot of money? Fine. All I ask is that you wait a while—until you’re older. Wait until you have a dud for a husband who can’t ever seem to make enough money to support his family.

“Wait until you’re about to be evicted from your home. Until the repo man comes after your car. Then you can be a hooker like your mother. Then you can do nasty, disgusting things with sweaty old men who can’t get sex without buying it.

“But not now. You’re sixteen years old. Have a normal life while you still can, for heaven’s sake. I pray to God your life never sucks as bad as mine.”

She inspected her motion-activated piggy bank. It was armed and ready to go. The cash went into the bank before any work was done. And if the john messed with miss piggy, the little porker would squeal loud enough for the entire floor to hear.

There was a knock at the door. It was a young man in a uniform, holding a tray of food. “Room Service.”

Poking her head out the door, she said, “I didn’t order anything.”

He looked down at the receipt. “Well, it says here…oops, sorry.” He walked away.

She released the door handle, and the automatic door closer pulled it shut. Turning and walking into the bathroom, she didn’t notice that the door did not completely close.

A couple of minutes later, she turned off the light and walked out of the bathroom into the darkness.

“Hello.” The man’s voice came from across the room.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Who’s there?”

“Who do you think?”

She stood frozen in place, wondering how the hell he got in.

“It’s me. John Doe.”

His body, and the chair he was sitting in, began to materialize as her eyes adjusted to the dark room. A sliver of hallway light peeking in below the door provided the only illumination.

The john stood up. He was wearing a black trench coat and a hat. “Here’s your money.” He tossed some bills onto the center of the bed.

She reached over and picked up the money.

“Five-hundred, as agreed.”

He was to be her only john for the entire night. She had discounted her hourly rate.

Holding the five bills at an angle, she was able to catch enough light to confirm their denomination. She folded the bills and stuffed them into the piggy bank, expecting to hear the usual snide comments about the bank.

“Ready to get down to business?” he said.

“Sure. You’ve got my undivided attention for the next six hours.” Thirty minutes of sex with her, and he’d be asleep for the rest of his time.

He walked around the bed to where she was standing. “Sit on the bed, please, with your back to me.”

“Don’t you want to get comfortable first?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay.” She got up on the bed reluctantly, wondering what he had in mind.

He placed his hands on her shoulders.

Her nose caught the familiar scent of latex. She thought she had made it clear that he must use her condoms. She never trusted a john’s rubbers.

But, no, it wasn’t a condom she was smelling. It was latex gloves. Why was he wearing gloves? A chill ran up her spine at the thought of how vulnerable she was. His hands could easily go around her neck.

“You seem tense,” he said. “Maybe this will help.” He began to massage her shoulders, and up her neck to the back of her head.

Just as she had begun to relax, she heard an aerosol can spraying. The back of her head felt cold and numb.

She pulled away. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Take it easy,” he said. “You’re going to enjoy this.”

He pulled her head back to himself and massaged it.

There were two clicks, and she felt something weird. She bounced to the center of the bed and turned around. “I don’t like this. You paid me to have sex with you—not to let you get all weird, and spray stuff on my head.”

He reached into his coat pocket and took out some gadget. It was a small silver box with buttons, lights and dials. “Tell me how this feels.” He pushed a button.

“No. I’m done with you. Get out of—” She felt a tingle between her legs. How strange, she thought.

He adjusted a dial.

The tingling intensified. “What is that thing?”

He turned it up another notch. “Feel good?”

Stretching out on her back, she said, “Don’t stop.” She couldn’t believe those words had come out of her mouth. It was as though she was under one of her own sexual spells.

He turned it up higher.

She had not felt anything like this in years. No john had ever turned her on. Nobody ever gave her any sexual pleasure.

Tossing and turning, she moaned in ecstasy.

Gradually, he lowered the setting on his remote.

She lay sprawled across the bed, spent.

“Let’s go again,” he said, turning up the dial.

“Who are you? And where can I buy one of those things?” Her voice sounded more sultry than she could ever fake.

“How’s this?” He increased the intensity more rapidly than before.

“Damn.” She grabbed her breasts and held on tight for another wild ride.

He spun the dial to the maximum setting.

“No, that’s too much. Stop!” It was like twelve orgasms coming all at once. Her body began to quiver. Convulse. “Please, stop!” She grabbed her chest. An elephant foot crushed her ribcage down against her heart. Her body bounced around on the bed like a ragdoll in an earthquake.

“Stop,” she gasped. “I can’t breathe!”

Rebecca tried to force her eyes open. Her head was spinning. How long had she been asleep? She hadn’t felt this bad since the last time she downed a full bottle of tequila. But she didn’t remember drinking. She glanced over at her alarm clock, but couldn’t see it.

The door [...]]]> Monday, 10:09 p.m.

Rebecca tried to force her eyes open. Her head was spinning. How long had she been asleep? She hadn’t felt this bad since the last time she downed a full bottle of tequila. But she didn’t remember drinking. She glanced over at her alarm clock, but couldn’t see it.

The door opened. Somebody was coming into her bedroom. She rolled to her side, opened the night table drawer, and reached for her pistol—but found a book instead.

A book? She wasn’t at home. She was in a motel room. Rebecca needed a weapon. But instead of a gun, all she had was a Gideon Bible.

“Take it easy. You’re going to be fine.” The man flipped the wall switch, and a lamp came on.

Rebecca’s eyes were still blurry. She threw off the covers, leaped out of bed, and ran blindly at the intruder with all her might.

“Whoa!” He backpedaled into the door.

Rebecca slammed into him at full speed, grabbed his wrists, and plowed a knee deep into his crotch.

He yelped, bent forward, and grabbed himself.

She pushed him hard to the floor, and went for the door knob.

He struggled to catch his breath. “Are you sure you want to go out dressed like that?”

Rebecca looked down. Her vision had cleared just enough for her to see she was wearing only a bra and panties. “Where are my clothes? What did you do to me, you pervert?” She kicked him in the ribs with her bare foot.

“Stop it. I didn’t do anything to you.”

She pulled the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around herself. “Then why am I here? And why did you take my clothes off?” She kicked him again—harder.

“Becca, stop! Please.”

“Gabby?”

“Yeah, Sweetie. It’s me. I rescued you. If it wasn’t for me, you’d probably be in jail right now—for murder.”

“Murder?”

“I’m sure you had a good reason for killing him. Or maybe it was accidental.”

Now she remembered Big Bill breaking into her office and trying to bribe her…offering her a drink. She remembered how she began to feel drowsy. “Bill Smotherburn is dead?”

“Yeah. When I got there, you were passed out across your desk—with a gun in your hand.”

“I do remember having the gun. My dad’s old revolver. I was holding it when Big Bill broke into my office.”

“Well, by the time I got there, he was sprawled out across the floor with half his face blown off.”

“No. No way. I didn’t kill him. There’s no way in hell I killed that bastard. But now the police are never going to believe me—since I left the scene of the crime. What were you thinking?”

“Well, what was I supposed to do? Call the police? Let them see you there with a smoking gun in your hand?”

“It was smoking?”

“Well, maybe not smoking. But it was still warm.”

Rebecca racked her brain. She remembered getting drowsy…and then going completely under. No, wait. Right before she went under, she heard Big Bill say something…and then…a gunshot. She sniffed her right hand. It smelled like gunpowder. “Dammit. Maybe I should turn myself in.”

“How are you going to explain it to the police—if you don’t even know what happened?”

“And how am I going to explain why I ran?” She frowned.

“But you couldn’t have killed him if you weren’t there.”

“My fingerprints are all over the gun, Gabby. And the coffee cup.”

“The police don’t have the gun or the cups. We’ve got them. And I grabbed your backpack too. And don’t worry. I wiped off everything I touched.”

Rebecca let it all sink in for a moment. “I can’t believe this.”

“I’m sorry, Becca. Maybe if I had been on time for my appointment…”

“Why did you undress me?”

“I thought you’d sleep better. I remembered how you always hated to sleep in your clothes. You’ve been out cold for four hours. But I was a gentleman. There was no inappropriate touching.”

She believed him. In high school, kids assumed Gabby was gay. He denied it. But even as his best friend, Rebecca never knew for sure. “I guess you know they’re going to throw you in jail, too—for helping me.”

“I know. Aiding and abetting, tampering with a crime scene, and all that stuff. But none of that is going to matter once we catch the real killer.”

Poor Gabby, she thought. They make it look so easy on TV. “Where are my clothes?”

“They’re hung nicely and neatly in the closet over there.”

“Of course.” She let the blanket fall off her shoulders and drop to the floor as she walked to the closet and began to get dressed.

“Does it bother you at all that I’m watching you put your clothes on?” Gabby got up from the floor and started brushing off his clothes with his hands.

“Why should it? You’ve watched me get dressed a hundred times.”

He hesitated. “I’m not gay, you know.”

“I know,” she said too quickly.

“The whole high school was wrong about me.” He waited. But she did not chime in. “Just because I’m not super macho…”

“The drama club thing is what started it.” She took her pants off the hanger.

“I wasn’t the only boy in drama club.”

“No. But you were the only one designing costumes.”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t understand why everybody didn’t want that job. The beautiful fabrics against the magnificent form of the human body…”

“Bingo. That’s the kind of talk that earned you the nickname, Gabby Girl. At least you don’t have to deal with that stuff anymore.” Rebecca stepped into her pants and pulled them up.

“Well…”

“You’re kidding. Where do you work?” She zipped her pants.

“I have my own business.”

“Wow, that’s great, Gabby.”

“It’s a boutique.”

“Boutique?”

“Ever heard of Gabby G’Blee?”

She slipped into her blouse and began to button it. “It’s a women’s clothing store. Right?”

“Yes. My own original designs.”

“Well, what happened to Gabby Garnersdale?”

“I had it legally changed to G’Blee. Nobody wants to buy original designs by Gabby Garnersdale. It’s a boring name. And I needed pizzazz.”

Rebecca grabbed her shoulder holster from the closet shelf and strapped it on. “But now, with that name, and the fact that you own a women’s boutique, everybody in Dallas probably thinks you’re gay.” She checked her pistol and put it back in the holster.

“But now I don’t care. And what if I really was gay? Would you still want to be my friend?”

“Of course I would.” Rebecca picked up her backpack from the closet floor, set it on the bed, and opened it. She located her dad’s revolver at the bottom of the bag and took it out to examine it. “Damn.”

“What?”

“You’re right. It’s been fired. One shot.” She put the revolver back into the bag. “I’ve got to get out of here and do some nosing around.” She slipped into her shoes.

“I’m your driver.”

“Oh, right. My car’s still at my office.”

“The old Lincoln, right? It’s just as well. The cops would have seen you coming from a mile away driving that battleship.”

“True. But I don’t want to get you into any more trouble than you’re already in.”

“Oh, believe me, Honey, I’m in just as much trouble as you are. Maybe more.”

“What do you mean?”

“I owed him money.”

“Big Bill? You borrowed money from Big Bill Smotherburn? Are you crazy? How much?”

“Twenty thousand.”

“Oh, Gabby.”

“And every time I made a payment, he told me it was just enough to cover the interest. Becca, I was going to be paying him for the rest of my life.”

“Gabby, what were you thinking? Borrowing money from a loan shark?”

“I didn’t know he was a loan shark. I was three months behind on my lease. They were going to evict me. I was going to lose my shop. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“So, you had a motive to kill him.”

“Doesn’t look good, does it?”

“Is that why you were coming to see me?”

“Yeah. I thought maybe you would have some way to help me get out of the mess I was in.”

“Well…I did help you get out of it, I guess. Your loan has been paid in full—assuming Big Bill kept no records. Of course, you may end up in prison. Did you sign a contract?”

“No. He said a handshake deal was good enough for him.”

“This is too coincidental, Gabby. For him to show up at my office right before you got there. Did anybody else know about your loan?”

“His son, Wiley, knew about it. He’s the one who hooked me up with Big Bill.”

“What did you do with the money that was on my desk?”

“What money?”

“There was an envelope with fifty-thousand dollars in it. Big Bill tried to bribe me with it.”

“Why was he trying to bribe you?”

“One of my clients was about to file charges against him, and he thought he could buy his way out of it.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Becca. I don’t know what happened to it, but believe me—there was no money on your desk. No envelope.”

Rebecca sighed. “We’ve been framed, Gabby. Big time. I can imagine what the police are going to think after they talk to Wiley. They know Big Bill’s a son-of-a-bitch. And they know about my hot temper.”

“Not a good combo, huh?”

“Let me lay it out for you. My best friend from high school owes Big Bill Smotherburn thousands of dollars. The three of us meet in my office to discuss the loan. Big Bill is being unreasonable, then verbally abusive. He waves his big fat finger in my face, and throws a few insults. He laughs at us. I lose it and shoot the bastard. We panic and run.”

“We’re screwed.”

“You got that right.”

“But we’ll figure this thing out together, Becca. Just like in high school when we used to map out your new basketball moves. That’s how you won Most Valuable Player, three years in a row.”

“This ain’t basketball, Gabby. This is life and death. Whoever framed us is not going to like it when we start snooping around.”

“I understand. But I don’t care. I’m all in.”

Rebecca almost smiled.

“But, Honey, we’ve got to go incognito. We can’t go prancing around Dallas as Rebecca Ranghorn and Gabby G’Blee.”

“That’s for sure.”

“I’ve got a fine little outfit that’s going to be fabulous on you. It’ll give you a completely different look. And I’ll let your hair down. Even I won’t recognize you when I’m done.”

“What about you? What are you going to wear?”

“Well, the first question is whether I should go male or female.”

Rebecca hoped he was kidding.

He laughed. “Not really. I’ve got lots of possibilities for me too. And all of them are male.”

“Good.”

Monday, 5:43 p.m.

Rebecca Ranghorn stared at her noisy wall clock. Each tick felt like a little hammer pounding at the back of her skull. The four aspirin had done nothing for her headache.

She commanded the clock to be silent.

It [...]]]> Book One of the Rebecca Ranghorn Short-Novel Mystery Series
(Four-chapter excerpt)

Monday, 5:43 p.m.

Rebecca Ranghorn stared at her noisy wall clock. Each tick felt like a little hammer pounding at the back of her skull. The four aspirin had done nothing for her headache.

She commanded the clock to be silent.

It ticked on.

Her sanity hanging by a thread, she jumped up from her chair, ready to quick-draw her pistol like a Wild West gunfighter, and blow the damn thing to kingdom come.

Rebecca was an imposing figure: a lean, six-foot frame, long brown hair pulled back tight, steely eyes, and a kick-ass attitude.

Her desk phone rang, and her head nearly exploded. “Rebecca Ranghorn Investigations,” she barked.

“Becca, I’m so sorry. I had a flat tire, and—”

“—it’s okay, Gabby.” She sat down. “But instead of you coming here, why don’t we just meet for dinner? I’ve got an errand to run in a few minutes. But I could meet you someplace at around 7:00.”

“I really need to talk to you privately, if you don’t mind. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. I’ll wait. But my secretary has already gone home. So, just knock, and I’ll come out and let you in.”

Maybe Gabby had something stronger for a headache. Like opium. Rebecca was no druggy. But right now she couldn’t think of anything over-the-counter that would do the trick.

She got up, and snatched the battery out of the wall clock. Ah, silence. But after a few seconds she realized the silence might be even worse than the ticking. She sat back down at her desk, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

Rebecca was excited to see her old buddy. But why wouldn’t he tell her what this was about? They’d had no contact whatsoever since high school. She had no idea what he’d been up to for the past fifteen years.

Maybe he had a cheating wife. Surely he hadn’t killed somebody. Was that why he didn’t want to meet in public? Was he running from the cops? Didn’t sound like the Gabby she knew. But, then again, a person can change in fifteen years.

Rebecca no longer worked murder cases. Not since college, when she was partnering with her dad.

She caught cheaters, all over Dallas. That was her thing. Snooping. Gathering evidence—usually with her video camera. A little movie, starring the husband and the other woman, usually gave the wife all the leverage she needed in divorce court. The husbands hated Rebecca for it, and sometimes threatened her.

“Bitch, I’ve got half a mind to jam my fist right down your throat.”

“Try it, and I’ll pull my gun and blow your damn balls off.”

In truth, she had never shot anyone, and didn’t even know if she could. She was impressive at the shooting range. But those targets weren’t breathing. Good thing Rebecca was a stone-cold bluffer. Randy Ranghorn had taught his daughter well.

She leaned back in her rickety office chair, and tried to relax her headache away—imagining a steamy hot bubble bath. Soaking for an hour. An occasional toe to the faucet handle, releasing an influx of heat when needed. Reading a romance novel in the soft light of a dozen scented candles.

Someday she would take that bubble bath. But tonight would probably end like most other nights. Five minutes under the showerhead. Collapsing into bed. Too tired to even turn off the lamp.

Most women would be skittish about hanging around an empty office after hours. Particularly in a mostly vacant strip mall. But the rent was cheap. And Rebecca had learned to ignore the slight stench of mildew in her office.

If she screamed for help, nobody would hear her. But Rebecca wouldn’t scream. She’d reach under her suit jacket for the blue steel pistol snuggled inside her shoulder holster.

She unlocked the bottom desk drawer, picked up the handcrafted wooden case, and placed it on top of her desk. Her dad’s old Smith and Wesson Model 27 revolver held such strong memories. She took it out of the case and aimed at an imaginary criminal.

Rebecca loved remembering her first time. She was ten years old. It was a chilly Thanksgiving day on her grandfather’s old farm. After the football game, her dad had asked her to join him for a walk around the property. They agreed it would help work off the turkey and dressing.

“How about a little target practice?” he said, nodding to an old galvanized trash can lid that had been wired onto the side of a bale of hay. It was riddled with holes. “Think you could hit the bull’s eye?”

“Sure. Give me your gun.”

“Take it easy, Rebel. We’ll do it together.”

“Aw, come on, Daddy, I can do it by myself.”

He pulled the revolver out of its holster. Rebecca always wondered why her dad carried a weapon to family get-togethers. She later came to understand that P.I.’s were always in danger. You never knew when some guy you had investigated would come looking for payback.

He pointed the gun toward the target. “Now, do what I tell you, Rebel.”

She faked a pouty face. “My name is Rebecca.” But she loved it when he called her Rebel. She wanted to be tough—like her daddy.

“Now, take the weapon in your right hand like this.” He showed her how to grip it, and placed his hands on the sides of hers.

“What if I’m left-handed?”

“Are you left-handed?”

“No.”

“Then shut up and listen.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “I can do it myself.”

“Not the first time. Okay, now take aim.”

“Got it.”

“Are you sure? Because if you accidentally shoot one of grandpa’s cows, we’re going to be eating cow patties for dinner.”

“You mean hamburgers?”

“No, I mean cow patties.”

“Yuck.”

He chuckled. “Well, it’s the truth.”

“Grandpa wouldn’t be mean to me. He loves me.”

“Well, let’s not chance it.”

She squeezed the trigger. When the gun fired, Rebecca was surprised—not so much by the way it felt. She was surprised at how much she liked the way it felt. The sheer power of the weapon excited her.

Rebecca had no idea whether she could ever shoot an animal or a bad guy. But she was instantly addicted to that magnificent feeling of power. Yeah. She liked feeling tough.

It was a wonderful memory of her dad and his gun. For her next birthday, he gave her a silver charm bracelet. One of the charms was a pistol. She still wore that bracelet every day.

But the good memories were always followed by the bad: that horrible night when she found him in a pool of blood, on the floor of that abandoned old house.

His gun was still holstered. The drug dealer had caught him by surprise. Three shots to the back. Damn coward.

But her dad’s old revolver was for more than just memories. Rebecca cleaned it regularly, and kept it loaded, as a backup weapon. It gave her the feeling that her dad was there with her. That he always had her back.

She heard a noise from the reception area. Perhaps her young secretary had forgotten something and come back for it. Wouldn’t be the first time. “Wendy?”

No reply.

Her door swung open, and Big Bill Smotherburn stepped into her office, turning sideways to clear the doorway. At 6-foot-3, 350 lbs., he could knock down a door, frame and all, just by bumping into it.

She pointed the revolver at him. “You son of a bitch. How did you get in here?”

He seemed no more threatened by her gun than if she were holding a lollypop. “So, this is the office of Rebecca Ranghorn, Private Investigator.” He looked around as though he were actually interested. “What a dump.” He grinned. “Mind if I have a seat?”

“Mind if I blow your damn head off?”

“Now, now, Rebecca. You’re not gonna shoot me, and we both know it.” He walked over to the metal chair sitting in front of her desk.

“Wanna bet?” She released the safety, and aimed the gun at his head.

“Look, I didn’t make it this far in life without being a pretty good judge of character.” As he eased himself down onto the chair, it groaned in protest.

“What do you want from me?”

He set two cups on her desk. They were from her coffee bar in the reception area. “I want you to get your client to back off.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her head was still throbbing.

“Yes, you do. Carly Cinaway.”

She hesitated. “I don’t tell my clients what to do.”

He reached into his suit coat pocket.

She cocked the gun. “Careful.”

He pulled out a flask and unscrewed the lid.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“It’s tequila. Your favorite brand.”

“I don’t have a favorite brand. I don’t drink…anymore.”

He poured a few ounces into each cup. “I’m here to celebrate with you.” He picked up one of the cups.

“Really? What are we celebrating? The fact that you’re headed for prison?”

“I’ll be happy to tell you as soon as you join me.” He held up his cup and nodded to hers.

Rebecca knew she shouldn’t. It could be drugged. And, besides, she was afraid she was becoming an alcoholic. Her mind said No. But her pounding headache said YES, PLEASE. “You first.”

“You think I’ve come here to poison you?” He laughed. “My dear, if I had wanted you dead, your cute little ass would already be in the morgue.” He drank half of the tequila in his cup. “I don’t do business that way.”

Rebecca picked up the cup with her left hand, and took a sip. It didn’t taste funny.

“Excellent, huh?”

She gulped it down. It was so good. Better than sex. Although, it had been a long time.

“That old beat-up Lincoln sitting out front is a piece of shit.”

“Hey! That was my dad’s car.”

He held up his hands. “I apologize. It was a great automobile—in its time. But not anymore. And it’s just not you, Rebecca. Picture yourself in a brand new shiny convertible. Imagine how hot you’d look driving around town.”

“What’s your point?”

He carefully and slowly reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a thick envelope, and dropped it on her desk.

“You’re not seriously trying to bribe me?”

“Of course not. I’d like to make a purchase.” He pointed to the envelope. “Go ahead. Count it. Make sure there’s fifty thousand in there. I think that’s more than a fair price for an amateur movie.”

“Carly told you about the video.”

“Wasn’t that foolish of her? She even admitted she didn’t have a copy yet. Obviously, my offer is for the original and all copies.”

Rebecca slammed her empty coffee cup down on the desk. “You’re disgusting. I can’t get it out of my mind—you and her young daughter. How do you sleep at night?”

“We were two consenting adults having a little fun.”

“She’s seventeen!”

“She told me she was 21. It’s not my fault she lied. How was I to know?”

“You’re a dirty stinking pig.”

“Can I help it if women throw themselves at me?” He laughed. “Look, the truth is she wanted a job.”

“She’s a high school student.”

He shrugged. “What can you do? Girls lie to get what they want.” He wagged his long, fat index finger at her, as though it were a magic wand. “But don’t you think for one minute that Mrs. Cinaway is going to win this thing. I have some very expensive lawyers. All she’s going to do is humiliate her daughter in open court. And for what? Nothing.”

“If you’re so sure about that, why are you here offering me fifty thousand dollars?”

“Look, Rebecca, I’m a practical man. By handling it this way, everybody’s happy. Once I have all the copies, I’ll give you another fifty thousand—for your client.”

“What about her daughter?”

“I’ll take care of her myself.” He grinned.

Rebecca began to feel very drowsy. “You did put something in my drink.” She tried to point the gun at him. But she could not raise her arm. Her whole body went limp and her torso fell forward, onto the desk. She couldn’t find the strength to even open her eyes. But she could still hear him talking.

“Put that thing down,” he said.

The last thing she heard was a gunshot.

How does that sound? Your name at the top of bestseller lists. Instant name recognition. Tons of cash in the bank.

That would be cool. And few writers would turn it down. But back to reality. That’s a lot of pressure. Only one person can [...]]]> You are the greatest writer on the planet.

How does that sound? Your name at the top of bestseller lists. Instant name recognition. Tons of cash in the bank.

That would be cool. And few writers would turn it down. But back to reality. That’s a lot of pressure. Only one person can be the best. And what IS the best anyway? Who determines that?

Fifty years ago, an actor or singer who had a little talent, an interesting personality, the right timing, and some luck, just might make it big. But these days there’s American Idol, America’s Got Talent, So You Think You Can Dance, Project Runway, etc. So unless you have an amazing gift for singing, acting, modeling, whatever—you don’t stand a chance.

But wait—that’s not true. Every week I see a new actor or singer breaking out who doesn’t have near the level of talent exhibited in these reality shows. So how are they finding success? Luck? Timing? Connections?

All of those things can play a part. But I also think it has a lot to do with our uniqueness as human beings. No two of us are exactly alike. Whoever you are, you bring something special to the table. And in some small way (or big way) your uniqueness impacts the world.

As writers, we need to develop our craft, to continually be learning, improving. But it’s not about being better than other writers. It’s about being the best version of ourselves. Anything else is fake. I can’t be a better version of John Grisham (one of my faves), but I can certainly be better version of myself.

When readers go searching for a new writer, they’re looking for a another unique voice—not a pale imitation of one they already know.

So instead of trying to be the greatest writer in the world, work at being the best YOU. Develop your talent. Be the best writer you can be. And share your unique writing voice with the world.

It’s something that nobody else on the planet can do.

Madam Nowall – Psychic Therapy. The sign was big enough to be seen from outer space. And why [...]]]> He passed the place every day on his way to work. But he never thought he would actually stop there. It was for the strange, hippie people. Not for a normal, thirty-six year-old executive like Jeremy.

Madam Nowall – Psychic Therapy. The sign was big enough to be seen from outer space. And why not? Aliens probably needed psychics too.

Stepping out of his car, Jeremy felt like an alien. Strangers passing by were, no doubt, judging him as weird, if not crazy. Friends and family would be even less sympathetic.

He checked his watch: 12:15 p.m. He would have preferred coming at night, but oddly, Madam Nowall closed at 2:00 p.m. Hopefully, this would not take longer than his lunch hour.

Judy, one of the secretaries, had noticed that Jeremy seemed troubled, and offered him Madam Nowall’s card. Yoga Judy. Incense Judy. Strange Judy.

Still, if doing this psychic thing could help his sleep problems, it would be well worth the ridicule of his co-workers.

Jeremy wasn’t sure whether to knock or just open the door. Before he could decide, the door opened.

“Please come in, Sir.”

The woman was not at all what he had expected. She was a very young, petite Chinese woman. In a lovely blue silk dress, embroidered with pink flowers. Her shiny black hair hung just above her shoulders. Her porcelain white face was flawless. By impulse, Jeremy’s eyes went to her ring finger. No wedding ring.

Her English was broken, with a strong accent. But he had no trouble understanding her.

“Please have seat.” She showed him to a comfy-looking leather chair. She sat down in a matching chair, directly in front of him. “I have made tea for you.”

He saw the cup sitting on the small table next to his chair. “Thank you.” Jeremy picked up the cup. “But how did you…”

“How I know you come?”

“Yeah.”

She smiled warmly. “I know many thing.”

He took a sip of his tea. “Delicious. What is it? Oolong?”

“No. It my own special blend. I call Magic Tea.”

“Really?” He almost snickered. But her intense eyes made him take her seriously.

“You here because cannot sleep.”

“How did you…never mind.” He figured Judy had given her a heads up. “That’s right. For a couple of months now I’ve had the problem. I toss and turn all night. And the over-the-counter sleep medicines I’ve tried didn’t help at all. I was about to go to a sleep specialist—”

“—but you come to me instead. Very wise.”

“Thank you.” He drank more of his tea. It tasted better with each sip.

“How you feel?”

“Better than I’ve felt all day. Relaxed. Kinda sleepy.”

“That good.”

“But I want to sleep tonight—in my bed. I don’t want to fall asleep here.” He finished off his tea.

“Just relax. Everything be okay.”

Those were the last words Jeremy heard before he drifted off.

When he woke up, he checked his watch. It was nearly 6 p.m. More than five hours had passed! “Madam Nowall?”

She walked out from the back. “Good. You awake now.”

“I can’t believe I slept for so long. I’m embarrassed. Did I snore?” He checked the corners of his mouth for drool.

“No. You very quiet. I think you sleep well.”

“That’s amazing. I can’t remember when I’ve slept that well.” He stood up. “How much do I owe you?” He pulled out his wallet.

“Two hundred dollar.”

He had come with cash, per Judy’s advice. “And how much for some of that Magic Tea?”

“Ten dollar a bag.”

Jeremy was puzzled. “You mean ten dollars a box.”

She smiled politely. “No. Ten dollar a bag. Only need one bag each night.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s outrageous.” He took two one-hundred dollar bills out of his wallet and handed them to her. “Thanks for your help. But I think I’m fine now. I don’t need any high-priced tea.”

“Very well.” She bowed.

**********

Jeremy got under the covers and turned off the lamp. To his surprise, he was sleepy—even after the long nap in Madam Nowall’s office. He was right. He didn’t need the tea. It was Friday night. He would sleep in tomorrow morning.

Before long, Jeremy began to dream…

The man slipped into the bank wearing a disguise and walked up to a teller. He place a money bag on the counter. “Empty your drawer. And don’t make any stupid moves.” He showed her the pistol under his jacket.

As the teller carried out his orders, a sweat broke out on her forehead. “That’s everything.”

“Thanks.” He picked up the bag and casually walked toward the front door.

A guard spotted him. “Sir?”

He whipped out his pistol and fired.

The guard went down.

He walked out of the bank, and down the sidewalk to his car. Pulling off his mask, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror.

Jeremy woke up screaming. “No, that wasn’t me! I didn’t do that!” What a horrible dream. His sheets were moist with sweat.

He wondered if Madam Nowall was open on Saturday.

**********

“Come in, Jeremy.”

“I’ve got a problem.”

“Nightmares.”

“Yes.”

“You need Magic Tea.”

Jeremy had not dreamed anything while sleeping in Madam Nowall’s office. “How does the tea help with nightmares? How does it work?”

“Magic Tea make you forget.”

“Forget what?”

She hesitated. “You steal money. You kill man.”

“No. That was a dream.” Jeremy gulped. “How did you know about my dream?”

“No dream. You really do it. I go to back room while you sleep. I come out, you gone—in car.”

“You’re telling me that I sleep-walked a bank robbery?”

“Yes.”

“Then where’s the gun…and the money? I don’t even own a gun.”

“I take care of money and gun. No evidence. I protect you.”

Jeremy was speechless.

“Nobody ever know. You wear mask.”

“This is nuts. I should go to the police.”

“Okay. But you go to jail—for long, long time.”

Jeremy pondered the seriousness of the situation. “But I’ll never sleep again.”

“Yes, you will. I lie. You not rob bank.” She smiled.

“Why did you tell me I did it? You scared me half to death.”

She did not respond.

“But…if it was just a dream, how did you know what I dreamt?”

“Yesterday, while you sleep, I have radio on. Listen to news. Reporter say about bank robbery. You hear while sleeping.”

Jeremy breathed a sigh of relief. “So, I’m okay. It was just a nightmare—because of hearing the radio while I was sleeping. I don’t need the tea.”

“Yes, you do. To help you forget bad thing you do.”

“What bad thing?”

She hesitated.

“Tell me. What bad thing?”

“You hit man with car. You don’t stop to help.”

Jeremy’s face turned pale. “How did you know about that? It was on a country road. Nobody saw. I didn’t tell anybody. And anyway, he was okay. He didn’t die.”

“He not die. But he in wheelchair. He never walk again—because you not go back, call for help. Someone find him much later. Too late for doctor to save leg.”

Jeremy’s eyes began to well up. “I know. I should have stopped.”

“Now you live with it. That why you can’t sleep.”

Jeremy hung his head.

“That why you need Magic Tea. It help you forget.”

He bought ten bags.

**********

Madam Nowall became like a drug dealer to Jeremy. Occasionally, he would try to stop using the tea. But the nightmares always returned. Either the one where he ran over a man, or the one where he robbed a bank and killed the guard.

The authorities had never been able to track down that bank robber. Although, the lead detective was reportedly getting close.

But Jeremy now leads a normal, happy life. And will continue to do so as long as he has his MAGIC TEA.

THE END

But it can be very discouraging if just when your book sales begin to take off, the bookseller [...]]]> There is plenty of turmoil in the publishing, distribution, and bookselling industries these days. At least we, as authors, have the one thing that none of these businesses can do without: the content that readers want.

But it can be very discouraging if just when your book sales begin to take off, the bookseller makes a software algorithm change or does a big promotion that causes your book to drop like a rock. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Right?

Actually, there is something you can do about it. You can establish your own personal connection with your readers. It’s not easy, since most of them shop on Amazon, B&N, Apple, etc., and never go to your website.

But there are so many ways to connect with readers these days: Twitter, Facebook, and many other social media, plus your blog or website. And this is great. But once you’ve made those connections, then what do you do? It’s difficult to keep up with everybody you meet online. And it’s particularly challenging to keep them interested in what you’re doing, considering it can be several months between book releases.

I recommend offering a free newsletter. That’s what I do, and it’s working very well for me. My Insider Newsletter goes out once per month, and always includes a brand new flash fiction short story.

That element is crucial: you must give them a good reason to sign up. If all you’re going to do in your newsletter is blab about yourself, nobody’s going to sign up.

Why were they attracted to you in the first place? Because they enjoy reading your fiction. So write them some more fiction, Baby. Every month.

It’s really not that hard if you go with flash fiction, since it’s only 1,000 words or less. Some of mine are a good bit longer than that, but nobody’s complaining.

“But it’s too much trouble,” you say. Or, “I don’t have the time.” Actually, once you’ve done your first edition, it’s pretty easy, and it doesn’t take long at all.

Ready to give it a try? First, you need a good mail marketing service. I use iContact (and nobody’s paying me to say it), and I’ve been very happy with it.

You just select a template, fill in your news, story, and picture(s), paste their code into your website or blog and boom! You’ve got your very own newsletter.

Now you promote it, telling your readers how wonderful it will be to get a free story from you in their Inbox each month. They fill in their email address and that’s it.

After a few months, you’ll have hundreds of subscribers, and whenever you have a new book coming out you can simply tell your fans in the newsletter. You never lose contact with them.

And imagine having thousands of subscribers. They’re fans, so when you promote that new book in the newsletter, a decent percentage of them are gonna go right out and buy that sucker. And then they’re going to love it and tell all their friends about it!

So everybody’s happy. It’s great. Try it.

P.S. You can also set things up so that new subscribers automatically get a few back issues. I give five back issues to my new subscribers on the day they sign up. And remember, each one has a short story in it that is not available anywhere else. Nice incentive, huh?

Description: Chip’s life is changed forever after an encounter with bullies in the woods on Halloween night.

Read it online (1,898 words.) Download the PDF

Get [...]]]> Here is the audio version of my humorous short story, Prince of Pumpkinshire. It’s read by me, so I hope you enjoy the Texas accent.

Description: Chip’s life is changed forever after an encounter with bullies in the woods on Halloween night.

Read it online (1,898 words.)
Download the PDF

“Well, most of the credit goes to Alfred, of course. But I helped.” She smiled and held up her wine glass. “In celebration of another year well spent in your company, my sweet husband.”

“How do you like the [...]]]> Reginald held up his wine glass. “To the lovely dinner you’ve prepared, my dear Kimberly.”

“Well, most of the credit goes to Alfred, of course. But I helped.” She smiled and held up her wine glass. “In celebration of another year well spent in your company, my sweet husband.”

“How do you like the wine,” he said.

“An excellent choice.”

He set down his glass and began to cut his roast beef. “Thanks for agreeing to this quiet dinner at home.”

“It was a great idea, Honey. This is such a nice change from the hustle and bustle of the typical New Year’s Eve parties we attend.”

“Yes, it is.” Reginald swallowed. “This roast beef is simply magnificent.”

“Thank you.”

“And I would like to start a new tradition: each of us shall announce our resolutions on New Year’s Eve.”

“But, Dear, isn’t that considered bad luck?”

“That’s what they say. But I say they’re wrong. Now, would you like to go first?”

“Well, since it is your idea, I think you should go first.”

“Very well. My resolution for the new year is…to KILL YOU.”

Kimberly’s smile morphed into an evil grin. “Really? Well, my resolution is to KILL YOU.”

“And how to you propose to commit this heinous act? Do you have a gun? Or perhaps you think you can strangle me with your bare hands. Come now, My Dear, you don’t have it in you.”

“But you do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It was in the roast beef. The poison.”

“You poisoned me?” He began to laugh.

“You think this is funny? You’re going to be dead in ten minutes. Then we’ll see how funny it is.”

“Where did you get the poison? From Alfred?”

Kimberly’s chin dropped. “You poisoned me too?”

“It was in the wine.”

“God, no!”

“But he gave me the antidote—in case I accidently drank from the wrong glass.” He rushed to the china cabinet and opened a drawer. ” Where is it? You took it.” He turned to glare at Kimberly, who was no longer at the table.

She was rummaging through the hutch, on the opposite wall. “Mine’s gone too. Shit! Now what am I going to do?”

Reginald checked his watch. “We’ve got eight minutes.”

Kimberly grabbed her stomach. “I’m already…feeling…sick.” She collapsed to the hardwood floor.

“That bastard. Why did we trust him?”

“Why did you put him in our will? Idiot!”

“He’s been with us for fifteen years. He’s like family.”

“Yeah. Family that wants to kill you.”

“Damnit.” Reginald’s knees gave way and he fell to the floor.

The dining room door swung open and Alfred walked in, sipping tea from one of Kimberly’s heirloom China cups. As their butler, he knew those cups were never to be used. “Oh, my. What’s the matter with you two?”

Reginald screamed at him with a hoarse voice. “We’re dying, you son of a bitch!”

“But this is what you wanted—to kill each other. I just helped you do it.”

Kimberly said, “I told you he couldn’t be trusted.”

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” Alfred walked in closer. “Now I’ll never have to hear your petty complaints again. I’ll never have to drive you to your pedicures or spas or dinner parties. I’ll never again be forced to—” Alfred’s cup slipped off his finger and fell to the floor, shattering.

Reginald looked up. “What’s the matter, Alfred? Feeling weak?”

“My stomach…is cramping.” His legs gave way, and his knees hit the floor, the bone crunching against the hardwood.

“Well,” said Reginald, “I’m sorry to hear that.” His voice sounded stronger.

“Yes,” said Kimberly, “that’s a shame.” She stood up.

Alfred watched her in disbelief.

Reginald stood up and brushed off his slacks. “This floor is dusty, Alfred. I’m very disappointed in your work.”

Alfred rolled onto the floor and looked up at them. “But…how?”

“Well, you see,” said Reginald, “I wanted to add you to our will. But Kimberly was concerned.”

“That’s right,” said Kimberly. “I didn’t trust you, Alfred. We know all about your gambling problem.”

“So,” said Reginald, “we decided to test your loyalty. We began to argue regularly. And the fights became more bitter each day. We wanted to convince you that we hated each other.”

“Then,” said Kimberly, “I asked for your help. And when I told you I wanted to kill Reginald, you were quick to tell me you could obtain an undetectable poison for the job. You also promised me an antidote—just in case I accidentally took some of the poison.”

“And you were more than happy to offer the same help to me,” said Reginald. “You suggested that I poison Kimberly’s wine. And you told Kimberly she should poison my roast beef. You knew that we had hidden our bottles of antidote in the dining room.”

“So, said Kimberly, “you stole the antidote, thinking we would both die, leaving you our entire estate.”

Alfred struggled to speak. “You didn’t poison each other? It was all an act?”

“Pretty good acting, huh?”

“I think we’re ready for Hollywood,” said Kimberly.

“We knew you would celebrate our demise with a cup of your special tea. And just in case you decided to poison us yourself…” He reached into his pocket and took out a small bottle. “The bottles you stole from our hiding places had water in them.”

Alfred’s shaky finger pointed to the bottle in Reginald’s hand. “Please…give me the antidote. Please, I beg you. I’ll do anything.”

“Gee, I don’t know, Alfred. What do you think, Honey?”

Kimberly shook her head.

“Actually,” said Reginald, “I’m surprised you didn’t notice that your beloved tea leaves were a bit moist tonight.”

Alfred tried to speak.

Reginald bent over and cupped his ear. “What’s that, Old Man?”

Alfred coughed and forced himself to speak. “You’ll go to prison for this.”

Reginald and Kimberly laughed.

Kimberly said, “No, we won’t. You’re the one who bought the poison.”

“And your suicide won’t be a surprise, really,” said Reginald. “I’ve been telling my poker buddies for weeks that you’ve been depressed lately.”

The dining room door burst open and two large men stepped in. “Is this the home of Alfred Smith—the butler?”

“How dare you break into my house,” said Reginald.

One of the men saw Alfred lying on the floor, and pulled a pistol. “Is that him?”

Reginald and Kimberly stepped back.

“Yes,” said Reginald, “that’s him.”

The two men walked over to Alfred.

The man with the gun said, “Alfred Smith, this is for non-payment of debt—$250,000 to be exact.” He aimed the gun at his head.

“No, please,” said Alfred, holding up his trembling hand.

Reginald and Kimberly leaned back against the wall, frozen in fear.

The man fired a single shot into Alfred’s forehead. Then he quickly turned and nailed Reginald with two rapid-fire rounds to the heart, followed by two for Kimberly.

As the men walked out, one of them said, “So, have you got any New Year’s resolutions?”

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Yeah, me too.”

THE END

For me, writing fiction is like being in The Matrix.

When I began learning to write fiction, I was like Neo when he first awoke—learning martial arts from the master, Morpheus. I plugged into My [...]]]> Have you seen the movie, The Matrix? If you haven’t, you won’t understand what I am about to say.

For me, writing fiction is like being in The Matrix.

When I began learning to write fiction, I was like Neo when he first awoke—learning martial arts from the master, Morpheus. I plugged into My Matrix in training mode. I got beat up pretty badly. A bloody nose didn’t stop me. I kept learning.

Then I got a little crazy, thinking I could write like the masters. I took the giant leap. And at first, I was flying high. But ultimately, like Neo, I came up short, and plummeted to the reality of my unworthiness.

But I kept working at it. I became proficient. My writing was good, but not magical. What was I missing? How were other writers doing what seemed impossible? They could control the reader—bending his mind like the young boy bent the spoon in The Matrix. At first Neo thought the boy was able to manipulate physical objects through powers of mental concentration. He asked the boy how he was doing it.

Spoon Boy: Do not try and bend the spoon; that’s impossible. Instead, only try to realize the truth.

Neo: What truth?

Spoon Boy: There is no spoon.

Neo: There is no spoon?

Spoon Boy: Then you will see, it is not the spoon that bends, it is only yourself.

So, Neo began to understand the truth. There is nothing physical in The Matrix. It’s all in your mind. After that, Neo became more and more powerful—to the point that he could defeat The Agents, and even take over the body of Agent Smith and explode it.

Now, when I plug into My Matrix, I control everything. I create people (characters). I go into their minds and bodies and make them do whatever I want. I see what they see, feel what they feel.

And if I truly become The One, My Matrix will seem as real as The Real World. And once a reader plugs into My Matrix, she will not know the difference.

As a fiction writer, I can bend the reader’s mind at will—as long as I remember: THERE IS NO SPOON.

It is amazing. And [...]]]> Today I received an email from a ten year old girl named Jane Cooper. She asked me for permission to illustrate my flash fiction short story Santa Closet. Jane has a blog, The Vacation Called Life, where she writes stories and illustrates them. So I decided to check it out.

It is amazing. And wonderful. And hilarious. I laugh out loud every time I read one of her stories. They would be funny even without the illustrations, but her drawings make them twice as funny.

You may find it hard to believe you are reading the work of a ten year old, since she has a better grasp of the language than most high school graduates. But it’s true.

Check out Jane’s illustrated version of Santa Closet.

Here’s one of her illustrations:

I’m not so concerned about young children reading my books. It don’t think [...]]]>

What if novels and other fiction came with parental guidance like movies? Could the rating system of the Motion Picture Association of America be applied to books? Imagine a PG-13 mystery. Or an R-rated thriller. Seem like a silly idea?

I’m not so concerned about young children reading my books. It don’t think they would be interest in them anyway. But sometimes adults start reading a book they think has the language/sex/violence/etc. of a G or PG-rated movie, only to be offended when it turns out to be more like R-rated.

The first book of my Greg Tenorly Suspense Series, Bicycle Shop Murder, would be G-rated, I think. There is no sex, no language, and just a couple of brief bits of slightly graphic violence.

So some readers were shocked, expecting Book Two, Hideaway Hospital Murders, to be the same. It has no language, but it does have more violence, and it has several somewhat graphic sexual situations. It’s actually a romantic suspense. It would be a strong PG-13.

Book Three, Illusion of Luck, has no language, but it has some violence and some sexual situations—although much tamer than the ones in Hideaway Hospital Murders. The most alarming aspect of this book is the villain—who is the most despicable character I’ve ever created. He makes me cringe. I would give this one a PG-13, mostly because of the creepiness of the bad guy.

Book Four, Fly the Rain, (yeah, weird title) has no language, but has some fairly strong sexual situations and some violence. I would give it a PG.

The first book of my Ginger Lightley Cozy Mystery Series, Sweet Ginger Poison, is easily G-rated. I would think all cozies would be rated G.

The first book of my Rebecca Ranghorn Mystery Series, Naked Frame, would earn a PG-13, I think. There is some nudity and there are sexual references, and fairly strong language. Some people would give this one an R-rating just because they are offended by talk of nude waitresses and hookers. But of course, the only place you’re seeing the nude bodies is in your mind.

Maybe authors should stamp each of their books with a rating. If they did, perhaps they would get fewer one-star reviews from readers who were offended by an R-rated book they bought, thinking it was a G.

DESCRIPTION:Ginger and her fellow Domino Girls pool their funds to buy an old Colonial-style home on the outskirts of town and convert it into a bed and breakfast. The house [...]]]>

Ginger Dead House is the sequel to my Kindle bestselling cozy mystery, Sweet Ginger Poison. UPDATE (1-10-12): GINGER DEAD HOUSE is available now

DESCRIPTION:Ginger and her fellow Domino Girls pool their funds to buy an old Colonial-style home on the outskirts of town and convert it into a bed and breakfast. The house is rumored to be haunted—which enables them to get the place at a bargain. They name it “Ginger Bread House,” banking on Ginger’s notoriety as a famous cake baker to bring in the guests. She will provide a daily supply of her freshly-baked cakes to sweeten their stay.

But on the very first night, guests begin to see and hear strange things. Ginger manages to settle them down—until one of the guests is found dead. News quickly spreads, and gossipers rename the new bed & breakfast, “Ginger DEAD House.” Now every phone call is another cancellation.

The Domino Girls see their life savings about to go down the drain. So Ginger proposes that the four of them work together to solve the mystery of the ghosts and the murder. “Domino Sleuth Club” is born.

But their task may prove more difficult and dangerous than anyone could have imagined.

Buy the eBook

Three of my other books have also been on bestseller lists. [...]]]> My cozy mystery, Sweet Ginger Poison is on several Kindle Bestseller lists: #4 in Women Sleuths, #6 in Mystery, #28 in Suspense. The chart below is screenshot of the sales info from my Amazon Author Central account. (Click for a larger view.)

Three of my other books have also been on bestseller lists. Naked Frame is the most consistent seller of the three.

So how do I do it? Out of the 750,000 books in the Kindle store, what did I do to get my books ranked so highly? I don’t exactly know. I mean, there’s no secret, guaranteed formula.

But I can tell you the things I did for each book:

• Wrote the best book I could.
• Created an attractive cover that looks good even when it’s tiny.
• Wrote a good description, including some quotes from fans.
• Set a fair price. (I think $0.99 is a good price for the size books I write)

I also…

• Give away a lot of my writing on my website.
• Stay in touch with fans on Facebook.
• Publish a free email newsletter. Each issue contains a new flash fiction short story that’s not available anywhere else.
• Comment on author and publishing blogs when I have something to add to the conversation.
• Tweet. (I just set up a Twitter account.)

The things I can’t control, which are the magic ingredient in the recipe of bestsellerdom:

• People who post a great review.
• People who blog or tweet about your book.
• People who tell everybody they know about your book, both online and offline.

Did you notice the common factor in the list of things you can’t control? That’s right. It’s PEOPLE. It they love your book, nothing can stop it from shooting up the bestseller list. So, bottom line: do everything you can to help the book succeed. But in the end, you’d better hope readers love your book—or it’s going nowhere.

The following is a paper I recently wrote for my fifth grade English class. Mrs. Hilburn gave me an ‘A,’ undoubtedly for my excellent use of the language.

Three long years ago, when I was seven, I had a lot [...]]]> (Read it here or read the illustrated version of Santa Closet by Jane Cooper.)

The following is a paper I recently wrote for my fifth grade English class. Mrs. Hilburn gave me an ‘A,’ undoubtedly for my excellent use of the language.

Three long years ago, when I was seven, I had a lot on my mind. My family had moved into a new house right before Christmas. A house with no chimney.

And, like any discerning youngster, I immediately saw the handwriting on the wall.

No chimney, no Santa Claus. Period. The end.

I queried my parents concerning the dilemma.

“Don’t worry, Johnny,” they said, “Santa will find a way to deliver your presents.”

I was appalled by their laissez-faire attitude. This was a critical issue. I demanded a definitive answer.

They giggled, and told me I was cute.

But I didn’t want to be cute. I wanted my presents.

I found myself in a constant state of panic. My five-year-old brother, Billy, lived in his own little world. He was too young and immature to understand the ramifications of the situation.

Surrendering to the inevitable doom, I began to count down the dreary days.

On the first day of Christmas, Dear Santa gave to me: a woodpecker in a dead tree.

It was going to be the worst Christmas imaginable. And I was powerless to do anything about it.

On Christmas Eve our house was filled with merriment. My dad read “The Night Before Christmas” in dramatic fashion. Mom led us in the singing of familiar, peppy Christmas carols.

I played along—just to make my parents happy.

Billy laughed and sang his heart out—completely oblivious to the impending disaster.

When it was time for bed, my parents gave their usual spiel: “You boys try to fall asleep fast, because Santa won’t come until you’re asleep.”

I wondered how they could be so naive. Did they really think Santa could somehow get into a house without a chimney? What was he supposed to do—come in through the plumbing? Pop his head out of the toilet, and exclaim, ‘Merry Christmas?’ It was ludicrous.

So, for once in my life, I had very little trouble going to sleep on Christmas Eve. I had to tell Billy to shut up a couple of times. But after that, we were both out cold.

There would be no gifts in the morning—except the shirts I watched my mom buy for me at the mall. She had wrapped them up beautifully. And I would try to look thrilled when I opened the packages. But, come on—shirts are not even in the same league as bicycles and game consoles.

At 2:13 a.m., Billy punched me in the back. I rolled over, and was about to land a fist in his stomach when he whispered, “Listen.”

I don’t hear anything,” I said. “Go back to sleep and leave me alone.”

I rolled back over. Then I felt Billy get out of the bed. The nightlight projected a ten-foot shadow of my little brother on the wall as he approached the door.

“Come back here and get in bed,” I said. It was my responsibility to keep the little guy in our room. My parents did not appreciate night visitors to their bedroom. So, you’d better have a very good reason for waking them up in the middle of the night.

He ignored me, turning the doorknob very slowly. He opened the door just a crack and peeked out. Then he looked back at me and began to wave wildly for me to join him.

I jumped out of bed and rushed over to Billy. I was sure he was getting excited about nothing. The boy has little understanding of the things of this world. But I couldn’t let him wander into my parent’s room.

As soon as I stuck my head out the door, my heart began to race. There he was. All dressed up in red and white, just as you’d expect. He had a long, white beard and wore a red cap. I never dreamed I would ever see him in person.

He was standing in the closet at the end of the hallway, loading his arms with bright-colored packages. Then I saw the bicycle. The one I had asked Santa to bring me.

My parents were right! Santa had found a way.

I decided there must be a hidden door at the back of the closet. A door that only Santa could open. That’s how he got into the house.

I felt a chill down my spine. Billy and I were on the precipice. We had already seen too much. I carefully closed the door, and we held our breath as we slipped back into bed. I prayed we hadn’t ruined everything. I pictured our Christmas hopes plummeting into some black hole reserved for the lost dreams of the naughty, nosey children of the world.

But my fears were for naught. Christmas morning turned about to be the best ever. It was then that I realized my parents were perhaps somewhat wiser than I had always imagined.

Billy and I loved all our presents—especially the ones from Santa. But it wasn’t just about the gifts. It was about the magic.

And now I know the truth. You don’t need a chimney. Santa will find a way.

As you might imagine, I’ve searched for that hidden door at the back of the closet. But I’ve never found it. I figure it’s just part of the magic of Christmas. That closet is like any other closet—until Christmas, when it becomes…

The Santa Closet.

THE END

Description: The dying words of a ruthless businessman to his daughter seem to implicate her fiancé. She lies to the cops, leading them to believe his death was [...]]]> I’m very excited about the new cover for my second Rebecca Ranghorn mystery, ICY HOLLOW. Now I just have to finish writing the book.

Description: The dying words of a ruthless businessman to his daughter seem to implicate her fiancé. She lies to the cops, leading them to believe his death was accidental. Then she secretly hires a private investigator. Were her father’s words a last ditch effort to control her life? Or is her fiancé truly a murderer?