Showing posts with label Mystery Suspense. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mystery Suspense. Show all posts

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

DEMONICALLY TEMPTED by Stacey Kennedy

DEMONICALLY TEMPTED by Stacey Kennedy

Frostbite Book Two

Tess Jennings, now a member of the Memphis Police Department, is on her first cold case. The suspected suicide of Lizbeth Knapp ten years ago isn't a theory her family accepts - they believe she was murdered.

But the case is only one of Tess's worries. Ghosts are talking, and word of her abilities rapidly spreads. A dark ghost is terrifying the spirits of Memphis, and she must force the entity to cross over.

Tess doesn't have to do this alone. Not only does she have her ghost-lover, Kipp McGowen, but the department has brought in a medium. Dane Wolfe might answer all her questions, but he also brings a world of trouble. Will Tess finally have all she's ever wanted, or will everything she's vowed to protect be ripped away?

*SERIES DOES NOT CONTAIN STANDALONE STORIES. MUST BE READ IN ORDER. FIRST BOOK IN SERIES IS SUPERNATURALLY KISSED*

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Excerpt:
Copyright © STACEY KENNEDY, 2012

Chapter One

The old farmhouse had seen better days. Not only could it use a coat of paint, but it also needed a dose of love. Dry, brown grass surrounded the home, and the only flowers topped four-foot high weeds.

I glanced next to me at Zach—a cop with the Memphis P.D.—and crinkled my nose. “Someone actually lives here?”

His blue eyes met mine and he ran a hand through his blond, stylish hair and shrugged. “Max said the victim’s sister still resides in the home where the death happened.”

As he lowered his arm, he cringed, and I winced at the memory. Heck, only weeks ago he’d been stabbed and shot in the shoulder.

The man who caused Zach’s injury got it worse—by my very hand, no less—but I was glad Hannah Reid’s murderer hadn’t returned to haunt me.

I might have suffered some serious remorse. That is, if I didn’t believe God wouldn’t punish me because I killed a murderer. Brody would’ve done the same to me if I hadn’t gotten to him first. I tried my best to stick with that theory. It saved me from the lingering guilt I might—and would never admit to—have for taking a life.

Sure, there was an internal investigation through the police department, and I had been questioned until my voice went scratchy. But in the end, the shooting had been declared self-defense, and I was perfectly happy with that. Or so I told myself every day until I finally believed it.

Besides, the cops that I now worked alongside had my back throughout the investigation, and nothing would change that. We’d grown close through the time spent during the Reid case, and even closer in the weeks that followed.

“I’m going to see if Lizbeth is out here somewhere,” Kipp—a ghost, and my lover—said, dragging me from my thoughts.

Yes, our relationship was complicated and it’s insanely sick that I’m in love with a ghost, but I wasn’t about to fight my heart’s desire.

“If you find her, then come tell us, immediately. The less time I have to spend in that house, the better.” Scummy houses and me didn’t mesh well. I like cleanliness and hate spiders.

“He’s going off on his own then?” Zach asked.

As of late, Zach had caught on to our conversations better. Seeing that I was the only lucky one—or not so lucky as I viewed it—who could hear ghosts’ communication was annoying, at best.

Maybe I gave more descriptions in my answers than I normally did, or maybe he’d gotten used to having to fill in the blanks. Whatever it was, I appreciated the ease of our conversations now. The back and forth got on my last nerve.

As Kipp strode away, I stared at his scrumptious ass filling his dark blue jeans. The man might be a ghost, but he was sex packaged into muscular goodness.

One of his eyes was chocolate brown, while the other was crystal blue, and he had untidy brown hair that no matter how messy only made him look more attractive. And he was all mine.

I blinked, pulling myself away from my ogling, and frowned at Zach. “Ready?”

His gaze danced with laughter, yet a smile never appeared. “For someone who accepted a job with the department, you would think you’d hold more excitement.”

“Just because I can officially call myself part of the police department—which is absurd, by the way—doesn’t mean I still don’t have hesitations.”

My gift took a while to adjust to but I knew when to see reason. Helping ghosts that had met a horrible fate wasn’t a bad job. That is, as long as I didn’t run into any more crazy-ass killers who wanted to make me a ghost, too.

Zach approached the house, and I trailed after him, not showing half the confidence he carried in his gait.

I climbed the old steps, slightly worried the wood would break under my weight, but seeing Zach went first and the man was all power, the wooden planks could support my slender frame.

He knocked on the door. And a moment later, it opened to a woman who matched the house. She appeared to be in her fifties, but the dark circles under her eyes and the hunch to her shoulders made her look well worn.

“Ms. Knapp?” Zach asked.

“Yes.” Her voice dripped with despair. “Are you the detectives?”

Zach nodded. “Is it still all right if we come in?”

She widened the door, and moved aside. “Please call me Anna.”

“Thank you, Anna.” Zach entered the home. “We appreciate you taking the time to discuss Lizbeth with us.”

I hesitantly followed and tried my damndest not to let my repulsion in the house show. Not an easy feat.

“Please, will you have a seat?” She waved out to a couch that I wouldn’t sit on even if it had a layer of plastic over top of it.

I held back my desire to gag, and twirled my finger in my brown, shag-cut hair. “I’m okay here, thanks.”

Zach grimaced at me before he took a seat and shed all emotion as he turned to Anna. “We’re aware that this will be difficult for you to discuss, but we need you to remember anything you can from when Lizbeth died.”

“I’m not sure I can tell you anything that…” She peeked up at the ceiling. I followed her gaze seeing dark brown stains, and restrained my shudder. “…Max, was that who I spoke with?”

“That’s right. He’s the sergeant.” Zach smiled softly. “He told us the necessary information, but I’ve learned it’s always best to hear it directly for myself.”

In all actuality, I hadn’t heard all the details except that I was officially on my first cold-case.

“Well,” Anna paused, glancing down at her fingers as she fiddled them. “It started a year before Lizbeth’s death. She began to act differently.”

Zach pulled his pad of paper and pen from his pocket, and flipped the notebook open. “Can you explain that in more detail?”

I clasped my hands in front of me. Just because I was now part of team didn’t mean I would start acting like a cop in any official capacity. Let’s be serious now. I wasn’t really a detective.

Anna continued, “She’d talk to me about an evil presence around her.”

“Evil?” I gasped.

“I know how funny it sounds. At the time, it did to me, too. But looking back, Lizbeth just didn’t seem like herself, and maybe I should’ve listened to her.” Anna crossed her arms and shifted in her seat. “She used to be a very happy young woman. Full of life and spirit, but all of a sudden she seemed so dark.”

I gave my head a shake, trying to make sense out of her nonsense. “Dark how?”

“Depressed.” Anna exhaled. “She never came out of her room, and totally withdrew from life.”

“She was suicidal, then?” Zack asked with a gentle tone.

“I suppose you’d draw that conclusion from what I’m telling you now, but the truth is I never took her to be the type.” She gave a knowing look. “Like I said, she was well adjusted and quite happy.”

“But you just said she was depressed,” I countered.

“Yes, I did, but still, Lizbeth was a fighter. She used to tell me that this evil presence was overtaking her soul, and she tried so hard to fight against it.”

Zach made a face. I made one of my own. We were speaking English, yet gibberish would have made more sense.

Seeing that we were getting nowhere, and I suspected Anna had lost her mind a long time ago, I moved along. “Did her condition get worse?”

“It got so bad, my parents had no idea what to do. You have to remember it was a different time. The medications for depression that exist today didn’t back then.” Tears welled in her eyes, but they cleared just as quick. “My parents took her to a doctor, even admitted her into a hospital, but my mother couldn’t manage to leave her there. She thought love would bring Lizbeth out of her trouble.”

“Clearly, it didn’t.”

“That’s right, it only got worse. Lizbeth started to hurt herself.”

Zach’s eyebrows rose. “You mean, caused injuries to herself?”

“No one ever knew—and Lizbeth never said—how she did it. But she had lacerations all over her back.”

Zach scribbled notes, and then peered at Anna. “Did Lizbeth ever say anything to you about the wounds?”

Those tears now weren’t so easily pushed away. “She was adamant she had never caused them.”

One conclusion came to my mind. “No one believed her, did they?”

“Who else would have done it?” Anna retorted. “At that point, Lizbeth hadn’t left the house in over six months.”

Zach stared at Anna, his gaze probing. I inhaled deeply, understanding the frustration. The dust in the room settled into my nostrils. I rubbed at the tickling in my nose, and considered what she had told us.

It seemed to me Lizbeth had clearly been suicidal. I’d watched television shows were people cut themselves. Maybe this was all that was going on here. Case closed.

Zach scribbled a few more lines of notes then scrutinized Anna. “How did Lizbeth act in the days before she died?”

“Strange.” Anna wiped the tears from her face. “She always had this dark cloud over her, but in the week before her death it became much worse. She’d stopped eating and we had to force liquids down her throat.” Her chin quivered, more tears spilling. “But it was in her eyes where I saw her demise.”

“What did you see?” I whispered, not totally sure I wanted to hear her answer.

“She was already dead.”

Zach coughed. “Pardon?”

“Lizbeth was no longer in her body.” Anna shook her head, sending more tears rushing down her cheeks. “I know that sounds crazy, but that’s the only way I can describe it. She had already left.”

“Where did she go?” I urged.

“I have no idea. All I know is she was gone.”

My assumptions that Anna was off her rocker deepened. One question would solidify if I believed she held any sanity at all. “Why do you stay here…in this house?”

Anna’s eyes swam in sadness. “I’m afraid that Lizbeth is still here, and if I leave she’ll be all alone. I don’t have the money to fix the house. Since her death—times have been hard.”

Wasn’t I a shit? Her answer was clear and concise, and, well…I could understand her reasons. If she were insane, I assumed her purpose for staying here would be, too.

Zach closed his notebook, and placed it into the pocket of his black slacks. “Would you take us outside to the water and discuss what happened the night she died?”

“Of course.” Anna stood from the couch and approached the front door.

Zach gestured toward the hall. I took the hint. Since Kipp hadn’t returned yet, it confirmed he hadn’t found Lizbeth’s ghost. Before we left I needed to check out the house to see if she remained. “Do you mind if I use your washroom?”

“Not at all.” Anna dabbed her tears with a tissue, and then raised her chin. “It’s down the hall—third door on the right.”

“Thank you.” I headed toward the hallway while Zach continued to ask Anna another question as they exited the front door.

The hallway was in a similar condition to the rest of the house, completely in shambles. The flowered wallpaper was peeling off the walls and the color of it resembled something not worth discussing. I wrinkled my nose, catching a whiff of mold, and continued walking.

To my left was an open door to a bedroom. I peeked in and clothes were thrown over the light blue bedspread. Furniture was scarce, but the room seemed lived in. It did appear slightly more taken care of than the rest of the home, which drew the conclusion that this had to be Anna’s bedroom.

I scanned the room and couldn’t see Lizbeth’s ghost, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t there. She could be hiding. “Lizbeth,” I whispered.

No one responded.

Leaving the room, I carried on down the hall to another bedroom on the right, but as I called out her name again, I received the same response.

The bathroom was to my left and another room lay on the right. The door was closed and I did my best to keep quiet as I opened it. I couldn’t hear Zach or Anna in the house anymore, but I didn’t want to chance it. I pushed the door open and it creaked.

I peered in and my heart skipped a beat. “Creepy.”

The room wasn’t in the same condition as the house. It looked brand new, even the paint on the walls appeared fresh, and Lizbeth’s name was written in wooden letters above the dresser.

Of all the rooms to keep nice, Anna chose this one. I couldn’t decide if that was sweet or freaky.

“Lizbeth,” I whispered again only to be met with silence. I’d never had a ghost hide from me before, usually they were so intrigued by my ability they always approached.

I closed the door, headed for the bathroom, and went straight for the sink. At least the room was clean. Yes, in horrible condition, but the yellow bathtub had been scrubbed recently.

At the sink, I turned on the faucet to wash the icky feeling off my hands. I wanted to get home and have a shower. Being in this house for even a few minutes had left my skin feeling filthy and downright gross.

I waited a moment to let the water warm since the pipes thumped indicating trouble stirred, and just as I placed my hands under the water, a voice startled me. “Why are you in my house?”

I looked over my shoulder and spotted a middle-aged ghost dressed in a double-breasted black coat, white dress shirt, and fitted tanned breeches.

“I beg your pardon,” I snapped. “But I don’t deserve to be glared at—or spoken to in that nasty tone—when I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You can hear me?” His eyes widened. “You can see me?”

“Yes I can.” I returned the glower he not-so-kindly offered me. “Why are you so rude?”

“I-I-I…”

“Classic.” I snorted. “The ghost is beside himself. Isn’t it supposed to be the live person who is shocked when they see a ghost?”

“You’re alive?”

Now he was being just downright mean. I shut off the faucet, and with the water dripping off my fingertips, I turned to face him. “Do I look dead to you?”

He gave me a once over with an expression that left something to be desired. “No, but why are you glowing?”

“Yes, well,” I wiped my damp hands on my skinny jeans, “that’s my ability.”

He examined my gold hue—or so I’d been told that is how it appeared—and by his huge eyes this revelation stunned him. “And this ability is how you can see me?”

I wasn’t in any mood to get into this with him. A change in topic was in order. “Have you seen a young girl around here?”

“No,” he responded without haste.

I nibbled my lip, considering that. “Not ever, or not lately?”

“Never.”

If Lizbeth died in misery, it made no sense that her ghost wasn’t here. Ghosts always lingered and needed help to cross over. Someone who committed suicide wouldn’t be a settled soul. And most of the ghosts I’d met returned to a place that had meant something to them. Considering Lizbeth was young when she died, I had assumed she’d come home. Where else would she have gone?

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

“I have no idea.” He paused, thoughtful, then said, “I think it’s been quite some time.”

His response didn’t surprise me. Ghosts never remembered much except what they needed to, to move on. Seeing that this ghost would lead me nowhere, I figured I might as well try and help one ghost today. “Do you want to cross over?”

He scowled. “Are you threatening me?”

“Good God. You’re foul. I’m asking to be nice. I can help you, if you’d like.”

“This is my house. I don’t want to leave. I want you to.”

I grunted. “Trust me, I want the same damn thing.”

He gestured toward the door in what might have seemed like a bow of respect, if his tight features hadn’t thoroughly flipped me off. “Best you see yourself out.”

I had just about enough of his bad attitude. I pointed at him. “You better not go scaring Anna. She’s been through enough.”

“I don’t scare her.” He scoffed. “She’s a lovely woman and I don’t mind her sharing the home with me.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but if I find out you’re frightening her, I will Ghostbuster your ass. Got it, jacko?” I flicked my hair over my shoulder, not waiting for him to respond because frankly, I didn’t give a shit.

I exited the bathroom, heard him grumbling something after me. I really couldn’t blame him, though. If I’d been dead since the eighteen hundreds, from the looks of his clothing, I’d be pissy too.

Once on the front porch, I spotted Zach and Anna. They talked down by a creek that was completely overgrown with weeds, rocks lining the shore.

On my approach, Zach glimpsed at me. I shook my head to indicate I hadn’t found Lizbeth in the house.

He visibly sighed, turning to Anna. “Now that Tess has arrived, would you please tell us what happened?”

I took a moment to scan the area, and listened hard to see if I could hear anything, but only the sound of rushing water and chirping birds filled my ears.

The air around the home smelled so fresh, and thrived with nature, it was a wonderful contrast to the dust and mold inside the house.

Anna drew in a long, deep breath. “It was a spooky evening that night. The fog settled above the water and the full moon provided a lot of light.” Her eyes glazed over, lost in memory. “I heard Lizbeth leave the house, so I went over to my bedroom window.”

I glanced at the house. One lone window faced the creek.

“I saw Lizbeth walking out to the water. She wore just her white nighty, and she was so frail.” Anna rubbed her arms. “She was all skin and bones.”

“She came out here alone?” I asked.

Anna nodded. “I didn’t see anyone with her, at the time. She stood by the water’s edge and was so pretty.”

I had a hard time imagining anyone as pretty in the way Anna had described. But I wasn’t about to bring up that point and merely listened as she went on.

“Lizbeth looked over her shoulder, and I’m still not sure how she knew I was watching her, but she smiled one of the coldest smiles I’d ever seen.” Anna hugged herself. “I’m sure that smile will haunt me forever.”

I gulped, a sudden nervousness wrapped around me and icy fingertips ran up my spine.

“What did she do after that?” Zach asked.

Anna inhaled sharply, clearly pulling herself away from the horrifying memory. “She turned toward the water, walked in, and killed herself.”

Had I heard her right? “Are you saying she drowned herself?”

“I know that’s hard to believe, but the second I saw her walk into the creek, she submerged herself into the water. That’s when I ran out after her.”

“What happened when you reached her?”

“She was floating, head first, and so I pulled her out.” A tear slid along her cheek, and she wiped it away. “I tried to do CPR, but it didn’t matter, she was already gone.”

Silence drifted around us. I welcomed it. This story needed some time to process, and even after a minute or so, I still came up empty.

Anna gazed out at the water, as she cried. I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to be here, staring at this water, and remembering what happened. How did she continue to live in that house?

A nudge on my arm had me glancing over at Zach. He mouthed the words, “Is she here?”

I shook my head.

His brow puckered.

Lizbeth’s lack of appearance seemed unusual even to me, but I hoped Kipp had better luck.

Zach cleared his throat breaking the silence. “After you pulled Lizbeth out of the water, what happened?”

Anna wiped her damp cheeks. “My mother and father came down and chaos erupted. They yelled, wanting to know what happened to her. When I told them, it was no surprise they didn’t believe me.”

She brought up a good point. “Where are you parents now?”

“Both, long dead.”

Insert foot into mouth! “I’m sorry.”

Anna sighed. “It’s for the best. Lizbeth’s death hit both of them very hard. My mother was never the same and my father became an alcoholic.”

Saddest thing I’d ever heard.

“I can’t find her outside.”

I glanced over my shoulder and Kipp approached, lips pressed into a thin line. Seeing that I couldn’t answer him with Anna here, I simply gave a short nod to show I understood his defeat.

“At what point did you see Hector?” Zach asked.

I gasped, unable to hide my shock. “Someone else saw her in the water?”

Zach nodded. “He’d been the main suspect in her death but—”

“My statement ruled him out,” Anna interjected. “He probably would’ve been found guilty of her murder since he’d been the only other person present at the time of her death. But I said it then, and I’ll say it now, he didn’t kill her. I saw Lizbeth walk into the water and drown herself. I couldn’t make up what I saw.”

“Ask her how she can be so sure,” Kipp said to me.

I shook my head, which I tried to hide by shifting my stance. There was no way I would argue with Anna. Kipp hadn’t heard the rest of the conversation and I believed every word she said.

Instead, I pressed on. “Did you know he was there when you first came out of the house?”

“No,” Anna replied. “He showed up out of nowhere. I hadn’t seen him near the house at all and his arrival startled me. But I’ll tell you one thing, his eyes were exactly like Lizbeth’s.”

My heart did that full skip-a-beat thing, indicating whatever she meant by that, scared me shitless. “They were?”

“When Lizbeth smiled at me, Hector did the exact same thing when he approached. To say it was creepy is really putting it mildly, but it was as if I stared at Lizbeth again—or what Lizbeth had turned into.”

The side of my temple hurt. I zeroed in on Zach. “So after they questioned Hector, they released him?”

“That’s right. But he’s now serving time for an unrelated crime he committed a month after Lizbeth’s death.”

I gave Zach and Kipp a knowing look, and they returned it. As much as Anna was sure of what she saw, I suspected she was wrong. A person in a state of shock might not be able to think straight. I surmised that’s exactly what happened.

“I know what y’all are thinking, but I know what I saw,” Anna said, adamantly. “Lizbeth walked into the water and killed herself. Trust me, I’ll never be able to forget it.” Sadness gone. Determination risen. “No matter how much everyone wanted me to retract my statement and pin it on Hector, I wouldn’t send an innocent man to jail for something he didn’t do.”

Innocent, my ass!

Zach inclined his head, as if he agreed with her, but I knew better. “Is there anything else you can tell us, Anna, that could help us?”

“I’m sorry. That’s all I know.”

“Thank you for talking to us.” I smiled, reached out for her hand and squeezed it. “We’ll do what we can to find out what happened to her.”

Anna returned the smile, but on her, it was despaired. “I appreciate y’all working on this case again. I do hope that you’ll discover what truly happened to Lizbeth. If it’s all right, I’d like to go into the house now.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for your time.” Zach shook Anna’s hand, and then she started toward the house.

“This is by far the weirdest situation I’ve ever been in,” I whispered to Kipp. “I’ve never experienced a missing ghost before.”

“Quite unusual, to say the least,” he grumbled. “Let’s go to the station and fill Max in on what we’ve discovered.” He sighed. “Or not discovered.”

Without hesitation since I was more than happy to leave, I headed to the truck with the boys following. Anna climbed the steps of her porch, and I remembered there was something I needed to tell her. “Anna,” I called.

She turned.

“You have a very grumpy old ghost in your house, but don’t worry, he likes you.”

She didn’t appear nearly as surprised as I’d expected. Maybe she already suspected a ghost lived with her. Maybe not. But my job was done.

Now on to finding a missing ghost… LIKED THE EXCERPT?? CLICK HERE TO BUY THE eBOOK

Saturday, October 22, 2011

ULTIMATE JUSTICE by Ryder Islington

ULTIMATE JUSTICE by Ryder Islington

A Trey Fontaine Mystery

Special Agent Trey Fontaine has his hands full as he tries to juggle three different sets of cases in his hometown. While healing from a bullet wound, and on limited duty, he is charged with helping find out what's happening to young women who are disappearing without a trace. But that's just the beginning. Someone is beating and raping women in town, women who are related to his godfather, Detective Russell Coleman. And then the bodies of men start showing up, eviscerated. Are the crimes related? Or are has the town become a haven for all sorts of criminals?

Wile, Rocky, and Drew, three children from a violent home, take matters into their own hands and soon the small town of Raven Bayou, Louisiana is brimming with dead bodies. But the only victims are those whose background proves them to be deserving of such justice.

Can Special Agent Trey Fontaine stop the violence? Or will he only figure out the truth after someone he loves is dead?

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Chapter One

SPECIAL AGENT TREY FONTAINE

Rural Neighborhood Crime Scene

Raven Bayou, LA

Friday Early Morning, 3 June 2005



Intermittent flashes of the camera gave Trey ugly glimpses of the scene—cobwebs—a broken shovel—a roll of rusty wire—

The body.

Quick flickers of light enhanced the details as the camera clicked—the petite body in a semi-fetal position on the bare dirt, back to the door. Click—naked and bruised, hair matted with blood.

Click—camouflage-mottled skin, swollen and distorted with gases.

“Shit,” he mumbled, forcing a smile, trying not to gag.

His reaction to the dead woman gnawed at him. He’d been on the job with the bureau nine years, long enough to become immune to grisly images of death, so what was it about this scene that affected him so deeply? He’d learned to distance himself from the carnage that came with his profession, or so he thought. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath as a disturbing thought crossed his mind. Maybe he was losing it. Maybe being shot had done something to his mind. No. That’s not it, he thought. It was just seeing such a scene in his own hometown.

Back when he was a boy, the population was about nine thousand. Now it was closer to fifteen thousand, with two casinos. He hadn’t spent more than a weekend here since going off to Quantico. He took another deep breath, lifted the camera hanging from his neck, and limped a few feet away to get an overview shot of the shed.

Turning away, he wiped rain from his clean-shaven face, swallowed hard, and focused on the small forest across the road, trees fighting for life against the choking kudzu and poison ivy thick as the set of a jungle movie. Rain ran down his forehead from his short-cropped hair.

His Hummer, called “Streak,” for the silver grey paint the color of a lightning bolt, sat at the edge of the dirt road not far from the deputies and crime scene techs who combed the weeds inside the splintered rail fence. They swarmed over the Louisiana mud, fire ants searching for a lost colony. A couple of officers tied off the ends of the overhead tarp and started stringing lights.

Right hand stuffed in the front pocket of his black jeans, Trey stood between a dilapidated tool shed and a shanty some poor Louisiana family had once called home. Paint peeling. Windows broken. The small porch sagging on one end.

He took a breath and turned back to the crime scene. His eyes adjusted from dark clouds and pouring rain to the even darker shadows beneath the canvas canopy. He stared into the maw of darkness, the open door to the outbuilding in question. The canopy gave the detective some relief from the rain and would allow the coroner to remove the body without washing away evidence.

Trey’s cell rang.

“Got answers for you.” It was the smooth Southern drawl of Tamlyn Washington, intelligence analyst down in the New Orleans field office.

“Shoot.”

“May tenth, Ilene Grant reported her sister Kelli Stevens missing. This is the last girl working at Bayou Lights Casino who went missing. And you’ll love this. Four days ago, Michael Grant reported his wife Ilene missing as well.”

Sisters, he thought. “Is Ilene linked to Bayou Lights?”

A service officer set a box of supplies near the detective. Trey hadn’t seen him before, but there was no mistaking the family resemblance. Straight, dark hair. Gray eyes. Large dimples. Patrician nose. He was a damned Boudreaux.

“Nothing suggests that,” Tamlyn said.

He refocused, pulled out a notepad and pen. “I’m ready.”

Tamlyn described Ilene Grant and as much of the particulars as she’d found.

“Much obliged.”

“Is it fun to work a case in a casino? I’ve heard things about Bayou Lights. Hopkins said it was probably a pain in the butt.” Tamlyn giggled.

“Cute. Tell Hopkins...Never mind. I’ll tell him myself.” Bobby Hopkins had been his partner for a little while and there was nothing he loved more than to razz Trey about getting shot in the butt.

“Hey, Trey...How’s Ace doing?” Tamlyn asked.

He bit the inside of his lip. “Just as expected. She’s the rising star. Thanks for asking how I’m doing.”

“Oh...Hey—”

He pressed the END button. Tamlyn had only been with the Bureau for a year, but she was a good analyst. One day when he was feeling more generous, he’d have to take the time out to warn her about his partner. Bobby Hopkins was a bad influence on young women.

The service officer walked away before homicide detective Russ Coleman could introduce them. “A Boudreaux on the force?”

“Yeah.” Russ worked the camera. “Near about a deputy. Hope I’m out to pasture by then. The youngest boy. Has a year to go but he’s on it. How’s Georgia?”

Trey stepped back. “Mom left town for a conference before I got here. She’ll be in Baton Rouge until Monday. Then she’s going on a cruise with a friend.” A sigh of relief managed to escape his lips and Russ chuckled. He offered a faint smile. Russ knew him too well. “Brother-in-law of one of the missing girls filed a missing persons report on his wife.” He gave Russ the rest of the details. Unless an I.D. proved the body to be of one of the missing women linked to Bayou Lights, he had no business here. Hell, he had no business here anyway.

Trey wouldn’t have gotten the call if any other detective were in charge of the scene. It pays to be an agent in your home state. It’s even better if your godfather is a senior detective for the Sheriff’s Department.

The camera clicked away in Russ’s mocha-colored hands as he took interior shots of the outbuilding. Below the camera, Trey noticed the gray in Russ’s goatee. He’s getting old, Trey thought.

When the flashes stopped, the body became barely visible through the dimness within.

The portable light had just been hung and strung. The generator kicked on. Trey flipped the switch. The sight made his heart thump against his ribs. Bile burned the back of his throat and he swallowed hard. He’d seen hundreds of bodies and had smelled worse things than this. Maybe he should have taken a little more time off after the shooting. Maybe being wounded had affected his mind. No. That’s not it. My mind is fine. He took a breath, lifted the camera hanging from his neck, and limped back a few steps to get an overview shot.

He had intended to keep his hand in his pocket like a good observer. It wasn’t his damned case, but he was antsy, ready to do something, not just stand around being useless. Besides, doing something would give him an excuse to stay at the scene.

Since the shooting, he’d been given nothing but scut work. And now he was Ace’s babysitter. While she went undercover on a potentially huge case, he played boyfriend, a perfect position for collecting info from her and updating her on any new evidence. It wasn’t a perfect position for Trey.

The last nine years with the Bureau had taken him across the country, though he worked out of the New Orleans field office. The bad guys had taken to traveling, forcing agents to pursue. But he’d never had to pursue one to Raven Bayou. He only remembered one murder in this town in all of his childhood. This town was an oasis, so different from the big cities. And now his safe oasis was the scene of an ugly murder, a place where young women were disappearing.

Squatting near the door of the shed, he winced as the half-healed wound in his butt sent a shot of pain up his hip. He returned to his standing position, eyes glued to the child-like body of a woman.

Could be either of the sisters. Or not. With her back to him and her skin stippled, he couldn’t tell much about her, other than her hair was dark brown and relatively straight, though neither of those things could be relied upon in determining ethnicity anymore. People colored, straightened, or permed their hair on a whim these days.

He slid the button on the digital camera hanging from his neck and snapped a few shots. It would be easier to see the truth when the pictures were printed in black and white. His mind filtered through the thousands of photos and textbook descriptions of decomposition and its many manifestations, calculating how long this body might have lain here.

After a breath, he stepped back and returned his right hand to its proper hiding place. The size of the body was a match for Ilene Grant. That wasn’t much. When all the evidence was in, he’d load it into his computer and make some calculations. Then he’d have something concrete to work with. If Russ needed his help, Trey would be ready.

Russ took a few more shots before putting his camera down and beginning a sketch.

“Any crime spree against females I don’t know about?” Trey shifted his weight.

“Naw.”

“Any similar crimes?”

His godfather gave him a quick look, jaw flexing. “Nothing leading to death. Had a rape and beating of a young woman, Endri Cheramie, a month or so ago. In the hospital two weeks.” He looked down at the body. “Guess we’ll know more after this autopsy. I suspect this one wasn’t raped, and the cases aren’t related.”

“I know, your famous gut.” Trey noted the name Cheramie on his pad.

“And nearly forty years doing this.”

Trey averted his gaze and kept his mouth shut. He scanned the site again and saw that Russ was the only detective there. “Where’s your partner?”

“On her way. Some people sleep in till five, sometimes even six.” Russ didn’t bother to look up.

“Her?”

“Taylor.”

“Taylor who?” Trey said.

“No, Gemini Taylor.”

“Gemini? Like in twenty years ago, Gemini.”

“That would be the one.” Russ raised his gaze. “You know her?”

“Everyone in Raven Bayou at least knows of her. I met her right before she left town.” He rubbed two fingers up the ridges between his eyebrows. “I can’t believe she came back here.”

“I think a coyote just run over your grave.”

Was it just a coincidence Taylor and Trey were in town at the same time? It had to be. There was no such thing as fate. Not that he meant anything to her. She probably didn’t even remember him. But he sure remembered her. The bad girl of Raven High.

“I’ll check with them.” He motioned toward the techs, heads down like hens after scratch.

Russ nodded and went back to work.

Trey limped, carefully avoiding possible evidence beside which sat bright yellow markers. Most of this shit’s probably just trash someone threw out a car window. Mud seeped above the soles of his black boots, staining the sides an ugly brown.

He pulled a small mint tin from his pocket, opened it, removed two Lortab, and tossed them past his tongue, dry-swallowing without so much as a flinch. A tingle ran up his spine and tickled his neck, and he took a quick peek behind him only to find his godfather’s eyes boring into him. Having an almost familial relationship with a detective was a dagger. And both edges were razor sharp.

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MURDER AT McMURDO by A.J. Walker

MURDER AT MCMURDO by A.J. Walker

Mark Collins came to McMurdo Antarctic Research Station to study ice cores, cut down on drinking, and patch up his marriage to his wife Rachel. He's failed on all counts. His equipment arrives broken, and he's having an affair with Svetlana, a coworker who drinks as much as he does.

When Mark and Svetlana witness a murder and the wrong man gets blamed, they must either solve the crime themselves, or reveal their affair to the entire camp in order to prove the suspect's innocence.

The only clue is an Alcoholics Anonymous token. Mark must infiltrate the station's AA group, where he faces not only danger, but hard truths about himself.

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~Excerpt~

SVETLANA’S ROOM was in a different dormitory than Mark and Rachel’s. Theirs was on the other side of McMurdo, Mark felt gratified to notice, while Svetlana’s stood right next to the observatory. A big minus. He’d have to keep track of Rachel’s observing schedule.

It was small and Spartan like the others, but Svetlana had decorated it with dried flowers she had painstakingly arranged, framed, and shipped down from Russia. Mark tried to examine them in the half light of the streetlamp filtering through the storm window. Svetlana had not turned on the light inside her room. Her slim figure was silhouetted by the window as she stood looking out. He went up behind her and gently put his arms around her. She trembled but didn’t pull away.

“You OK?” he asked.

She nodded.

“We don’t have to if…” Mark started.

“Shhh.”

They stood in silence, enjoying each other’s warmth. After a minute she stopped trembling.

They saw a lone figure walked down the street towards the observatory. Even from a distance they could see the big Caltech logo on the back of the jacket.

“It must be that awful drunk professor from the bar,” Svetlana said.

“Could be one of his students.”

“Victor and Elaine? No, they have no logos on their parkas. I know them. They live just down the hall. They got in a big fight last night and woke me up. I think Elaine slept with her adviser sometime in the past.”

“That’s kind of what I figured.”

Svetlana sighed. “Why cannot people just be happy?”

“They don’t try hard enough,” Mark hugged her tighter. She ran a hand up and down his forearm. She turned to him.

“But we can try,” she said, her eyes glittering in the yellow light of the streetlamp.

They kissed. Her body was warm and eager as his hands roved over it. They pulled at each other’s clothing hurriedly, desperately, falling to the bed interlocked and still half dressed. She took the initiative now, getting on top of him and discarding the rest of her clothes. He pulled her to him and the tension disappeared from his body for the first time in weeks as he felt the thrill of being close to another person. They made love hurriedly at first, but their second time went slow, as did the third, and Mark almost, just almost, caught that feeling he spent his life chasing.

After they finished, they lay silent for a while. Mark got up and looked out at the empty street, feeling spent, burnt out. The dome to the observatory was open. Cold stars shone over the little town. In the summer, Mark had read, McMurdo’s population numbered more than two thousand. Even tourists came here on safe, high-priced adventures with package tour companies. But in the winter the population dwindled to a couple hundred. By the end of the season he’d know everybody. It would be hard keeping this a secret. They couldn’t have many all-night drinking sessions at the Southern Exposure.

Mark watched a swaddled figure tromp through the snow towards their building. Just before reaching the door, it slipped and fell. The figure struggled to its feet and picked up something that had fallen from the pocket of its jacket. There was a gleam of metal and Mark saw an ice pick. The figure opened the door and entered the building.

Must be one of the maintenance guys coming to clean ice off from something. Odd time to be doing that, he thought.

“Come back to bed,” Svetlana whispered.

“I’ll have to leave soon,” he said.

“Just for a little while.”

They lay together in the nude, Mark holding her close as her soft breath tickled his chest. He nodded off, jerked awake once when he thought he heard a sound, and then nodded off again.

Svetlana’s movement woke him up.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Very late. You should get going. You will see me tomorrow, yes?”

“Of course.”

He kissed her and got dressed.





OUT IN THE STREET, all was snow and silence. In the sky the faint drapery of an aurora shimmered a pale green tinged with red, slowly coiling in on itself before expanding like a sail caught by the wind. Mark chuckled as he saw the big crater in the snow like a squashed snow angel. Good thing whoever it was who fell didn’t twist an ankle or something.

A spot in the snow made him look more closely. What was that? A coin?

He picked it up. It was a small plastic disk. He held it up to the streetlight and read the writing on it: One month clean and sober—to thine own self be true. An AA token. Mark snorted. Must be one of Victor’s. He may be “clean and sober” but he was still a klutz. Mark tossed it away into the night and immediately felt bad. It was a stupid little thing, but it was important to the guy. He set off to look for it.

Suddenly, the world spun upside down and he landed in the snow, creating a second crater next to the one he had been investigating.

Cursing to himself, he struggled to his feet. He must have slipped on the same patch of ice Victor had. Even cleated boots didn’t always help in this Godforsaken place. Mark realized he was still half asleep, way more than half drunk, and far from home on a frigid night. He gave up his search for the token. He needed to get to shelter.

He didn’t get more than twenty meters before he slipped again. He cursed louder than before and struggled back up. He moved carefully and got onto a shoveled path. The winds never kept them clear for long, but he could still see patches of concrete between the snow drifts. He made better time.

Mark stumbled along, getting colder. There seemed to be a breeze around his neck that soon turned into a biting cold. He reached back and realized his hood had slipped off. He’d been too drunk and tired to notice at first. He pulled it back over him and was adjusting the strings when he slipped on yet another patch of ice.

He pitched, skull-first, towards the pavement, sickeningly aware that he wasn’t going to get his hands out in front of him in time to break his fall.

Barely a foot away from the concrete, an arm caught him, his chest slamming into it like an iron beam, knocking the air out of him. Mark sucked in a breath as he felt himself being lifted up.

It was Victor. His uncovered face shone in the half light. The aurora sparkled in the sky above him.

“Careful, Mark. You wouldn’t want to die with a dirty heart.”

“Huh? Dude, get your balaclava on. It must be twenty below. You’ll get frostbite,” Mark’s words came out indistinct, mumbled.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. It’s three o’clock in the morning. Let’s get you home.”

Mark felt himself getting more and more tired, his eyelids heavy, his thoughts muddled. He let Victor carry most of his weight.

“I lost your token,” was the last thing he could remember saying.

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Sunday, July 10, 2011

ULTIMATE JUSTICE by Ryder Islington

ULTIMATE JUSTICE by Ryder Islington

A Trey Fontaine Mystery

Special Agent Trey Fontaine has his hands full as he tries to juggle three different sets of cases in his hometown. While healing from a bullet wound, and on limited duty, he is charged with helping find out what’s happening to young women who are disappearing without a trace. But that’s just the beginning. Someone is beating and raping women in town, women who are related to his godfather, Detective Russell Coleman. And then the bodies of men start showing up, eviscerated. Are the crimes related? Or are has the town become a haven for all sorts of criminals?

Wile, Rocky, and Drew, three children from a violent home, take matters into their own hands and soon the small town of Raven Bayou, Louisiana is brimming with dead bodies. But the only victims are those whose background proves them to be deserving of such justice.

Can Special Agent Trey Fontaine stop the violence? Or will he only figure out the truth after someone he loves is dead?

"The twists and turns of Islington's excellent plot and dialogue will keep you on the edge of your chair as you turn page after page to find out what happens next."
Bridget Gibson, Editor
The Times-Tribune - Grant City, Missouri

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Chapter One



SPECIAL AGENT TREY FONTAINE

Rural Neighborhood Crime Scene

Raven Bayou, LA

Friday Early Morning, 3 June 2005



Intermittent flashes of the camera gave Trey ugly glimpses of the scene—cobwebs—a broken shovel—a roll of rusty wire—

The body.

Quick flickers of light enhanced the details as the camera clicked—the petite body in a semi-fetal position on the bare dirt, back to the door. Click—naked and bruised, hair matted with blood.

Click—camouflage-mottled skin, swollen and distorted with gases.

“Shit,” he mumbled, forcing a smile, trying not to gag.

His reaction to the dead woman gnawed at him. He’d been on the job with the bureau nine years, long enough to become immune to grisly images of death, so what was it about this scene that affected him so deeply? He’d learned to distance himself from the carnage that came with his profession, or so he thought. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath as a disturbing thought crossed his mind. Maybe he was losing it. Maybe being shot had done something to his mind. No. That’s not it, he thought. It was just seeing such a scene in his own hometown.

Back when he was a boy, the population was about nine thousand. Now it was closer to fifteen thousand, with two casinos. He hadn’t spent more than a weekend here since going off to Quantico. He took another deep breath, lifted the camera hanging from his neck, and limped a few feet away to get an overview shot of the shed.

Turning away, he wiped rain from his clean-shaven face, swallowed hard, and focused on the small forest across the road, trees fighting for life against the choking kudzu and poison ivy thick as the set of a jungle movie. Rain ran down his forehead from his short-cropped hair.

His Hummer, called “Streak,” for the silver grey paint the color of a lightning bolt, sat at the edge of the dirt road not far from the deputies and crime scene techs who combed the weeds inside the splintered rail fence. They swarmed over the Louisiana mud, fire ants searching for a lost colony. A couple of officers tied off the ends of the overhead tarp and started stringing lights.

Right hand stuffed in the front pocket of his black jeans, Trey stood between a dilapidated tool shed and a shanty some poor Louisiana family had once called home. Paint peeling. Windows broken. The small porch sagging on one end.

He took a breath and turned back to the crime scene. His eyes adjusted from dark clouds and pouring rain to the even darker shadows beneath the canvas canopy. He stared into the maw of darkness, the open door to the outbuilding in question. The canopy gave the detective some relief from the rain and would allow the coroner to remove the body without washing away evidence.

Trey’s cell rang.

“Got answers for you.” It was the smooth Southern drawl of Tamlyn Washington, intelligence analyst down in the New Orleans field office.

“Shoot.”

“May tenth, Ilene Grant reported her sister Kelli Stevens missing. This is the last girl working at Bayou Lights Casino who went missing. And you’ll love this. Four days ago, Michael Grant reported his wife Ilene missing as well.”

Sisters, he thought. “Is Ilene linked to Bayou Lights?”

A service officer set a box of supplies near the detective. Trey hadn’t seen him before, but there was no mistaking the family resemblance. Straight, dark hair. Gray eyes. Large dimples. Patrician nose. He was a damned Boudreaux.

“Nothing suggests that,” Tamlyn said.

He refocused, pulled out a notepad and pen. “I’m ready.”

Tamlyn described Ilene Grant and as much of the particulars as she’d found.

“Much obliged.”

“Is it fun to work a case in a casino? I’ve heard things about Bayou Lights. Hopkins said it was probably a pain in the butt.” Tamlyn giggled.

“Cute. Tell Hopkins...Never mind. I’ll tell him myself.” Bobby Hopkins had been his partner for a little while and there was nothing he loved more than to razz Trey about getting shot in the butt.

“Hey, Trey...How’s Ace doing?” Tamlyn asked.

He bit the inside of his lip. “Just as expected. She’s the rising star. Thanks for asking how I’m doing.”

“Oh...Hey—”

He pressed the END button. Tamlyn had only been with the Bureau for a year, but she was a good analyst. One day when he was feeling more generous, he’d have to take the time out to warn her about his partner. Bobby Hopkins was a bad influence on young women.

The service officer walked away before homicide detective Russ Coleman could introduce them. “A Boudreaux on the force?”

“Yeah.” Russ worked the camera. “Near about a deputy. Hope I’m out to pasture by then. The youngest boy. Has a year to go but he’s on it. How’s Georgia?”

Trey stepped back. “Mom left town for a conference before I got here. She’ll be in Baton Rouge until Monday. Then she’s going on a cruise with a friend.” A sigh of relief managed to escape his lips and Russ chuckled. He offered a faint smile. Russ knew him too well. “Brother-in-law of one of the missing girls filed a missing persons report on his wife.” He gave Russ the rest of the details. Unless an I.D. proved the body to be of one of the missing women linked to Bayou Lights, he had no business here. Hell, he had no business here anyway.

Trey wouldn’t have gotten the call if any other detective were in charge of the scene. It pays to be an agent in your home state. It’s even better if your godfather is a senior detective for the Sheriff’s Department.

The camera clicked away in Russ’s mocha-colored hands as he took interior shots of the outbuilding. Below the camera, Trey noticed the gray in Russ’s goatee. He’s getting old, Trey thought.

When the flashes stopped, the body became barely visible through the dimness within.

The portable light had just been hung and strung. The generator kicked on. Trey flipped the switch. The sight made his heart thump against his ribs. Bile burned the back of his throat and he swallowed hard. He’d seen hundreds of bodies and had smelled worse things than this. Maybe he should have taken a little more time off after the shooting. Maybe being wounded had affected his mind. No. That’s not it. My mind is fine. He took a breath, lifted the camera hanging from his neck, and limped back a few steps to get an overview shot.

He had intended to keep his hand in his pocket like a good observer. It wasn’t his damned case, but he was antsy, ready to do something, not just stand around being useless. Besides, doing something would give him an excuse to stay at the scene.

Since the shooting, he’d been given nothing but scut work. And now he was Ace’s babysitter. While she went undercover on a potentially huge case, he played boyfriend, a perfect position for collecting info from her and updating her on any new evidence. It wasn’t a perfect position for Trey.

The last nine years with the Bureau had taken him across the country, though he worked out of the New Orleans field office. The bad guys had taken to traveling, forcing agents to pursue. But he’d never had to pursue one to Raven Bayou. He only remembered one murder in this town in all of his childhood. This town was an oasis, so different from the big cities. And now his safe oasis was the scene of an ugly murder, a place where young women were disappearing.

Squatting near the door of the shed, he winced as the half-healed wound in his butt sent a shot of pain up his hip. He returned to his standing position, eyes glued to the child-like body of a woman.

Could be either of the sisters. Or not. With her back to him and her skin stippled, he couldn’t tell much about her, other than her hair was dark brown and relatively straight, though neither of those things could be relied upon in determining ethnicity anymore. People colored, straightened, or permed their hair on a whim these days.

He slid the button on the digital camera hanging from his neck and snapped a few shots. It would be easier to see the truth when the pictures were printed in black and white. His mind filtered through the thousands of photos and textbook descriptions of decomposition and its many manifestations, calculating how long this body might have lain here.

After a breath, he stepped back and returned his right hand to its proper hiding place. The size of the body was a match for Ilene Grant. That wasn’t much. When all the evidence was in, he’d load it into his computer and make some calculations. Then he’d have something concrete to work with. If Russ needed his help, Trey would be ready.

Russ took a few more shots before putting his camera down and beginning a sketch.

“Any crime spree against females I don’t know about?” Trey shifted his weight.

“Naw.”

“Any similar crimes?”

His godfather gave him a quick look, jaw flexing. “Nothing leading to death. Had a rape and beating of a young woman, Endri Cheramie, a month or so ago. In the hospital two weeks.” He looked down at the body. “Guess we’ll know more after this autopsy. I suspect this one wasn’t raped, and the cases aren’t related.”

“I know, your famous gut.” Trey noted the name Cheramie on his pad.

“And nearly forty years doing this.”

Trey averted his gaze and kept his mouth shut. He scanned the site again and saw that Russ was the only detective there. “Where’s your partner?”

“On her way. Some people sleep in till five, sometimes even six.” Russ didn’t bother to look up.

“Her?”

“Taylor.”

“Taylor who?” Trey said.

“No, Gemini Taylor.”

“Gemini? Like in twenty years ago, Gemini.”

“That would be the one.” Russ raised his gaze. “You know her?”

“Everyone in Raven Bayou at least knows of her. I met her right before she left town.” He rubbed two fingers up the ridges between his eyebrows. “I can’t believe she came back here.”

“I think a coyote just run over your grave.”

Was it just a coincidence Taylor and Trey were in town at the same time? It had to be. There was no such thing as fate. Not that he meant anything to her. She probably didn’t even remember him. But he sure remembered her. The bad girl of Raven High.

“I’ll check with them.” He motioned toward the techs, heads down like hens after scratch.

Russ nodded and went back to work.

Trey limped, carefully avoiding possible evidence beside which sat bright yellow markers. Most of this shit’s probably just trash someone threw out a car window. Mud seeped above the soles of his black boots, staining the sides an ugly brown.

He pulled a small mint tin from his pocket, opened it, removed two Lortab, and tossed them past his tongue, dry-swallowing without so much as a flinch. A tingle ran up his spine and tickled his neck, and he took a quick peek behind him only to find his godfather’s eyes boring into him. Having an almost familial relationship with a detective was a dagger. And both edges were razor sharp.


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Wednesday, May 11, 2011

VALLEY OF OBSESSIONS by Betty Gordon

VALLEY OF OBSESSIONS by Betty Gordon

Desiree's passion for ancient Egyptian culture leads her on a dangerous trip down the Nile.

Can Desiree Roberts leave her law career in Texas and become a 1980's Egyptian?

Will the country that has captivated her since childhood embrace her, or will it lead her down dangerous paths fraught with deception and betrayal?

As Desiree follows her dreams and treks through shifting sands, she enters portals of pharaohs long since entombed. Her obsessions lure her into alien territory filled with suspicious characters - where someone wants to end her fantasies.

How far will he go?

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Excerpt:

Desiree’s dreams climaxed as she stood in front of her love, in spite of unnatural fears that played along her spine. Tension gripped her as she felt his hands cradling and caressing her head, threading his fingers through her hair. Gentle sensations drifted down her arms that she met with quick agility. She backed away, waving her hands in fan-like motions before rushing into open air.


In minutes, Sandy was by her side. “Have you lost your friggin’ mind, Desiree Roberts? What’s wrong with you?”

She whispered a weak apology, touching her palm to her heart. “You’re going to think I’m crazy, and maybe I am, but he touched me. He actually caressed me.”

“You’re certifiable. That’s absolutely impossible. Understand? Impossible. Now, relax a few minutes if you can in this horrendous heat—then we’re going back.”

“Don’t think so.”

“You may not think so, but you’ve waited a long time to see this man. Pull yourself together—we’re going back.”

Desiree felt Sandy squeeze her arm. She jerked free, watching tourists plod through the sand, exploring tombs in one of the most visited valleys in the world—the Valley of the Kings. In less than five minutes, she sensed Sandy pushing her toward the dark passageway, nudging her forward. The narrow path forced them to walk single file, but Sandy’s hand remained on her shoulder.

“You don’t have to hold me. I’m not going to run away.”

“Making sure. Go on—right behind you.”

When they were halfway down the tunnel, the women paused, laboring to breathe alien air. In minutes they once again faced the magnificence of Tutankhamen. Desiree’s eyes locked onto his black ones that promised nothing yet everything, eyes rimmed in cobalt, laid to rest in gold. Desiree whispered, “I can’t believe I’m finally looking into your face. You’re no longer just in my dreams.”

Her mother’s words echoed in her ears, “I swear, if I believed in other lives, which I don’t, you had to be an Egyptian princess.” Oh, mother, she thought, if I didn’t believe in other lives before, I would now.

She stole a glance at her friend. Sandy, who had agreed to come on this trip after a promise of her first and last child as well as anything else she wanted. When they were seven, they swore to be together forever and never refuse each other anything. Unfortunately, Sandy didn’t share her fondness for anything and everything Egyptian—in fact, quite the opposite. Desiree smiled, wondering how someone like Sandy, who thought mummies were spooky, felt now in the presence of this young king. If her friend were honest, as she stood looking at the sarcophagus, the magnificent sarcophagus of King Tutankhamen before her, she couldn’t deny the mysticism surrounding them. Even so, Desiree decided to handle her friend carefully. She knew she had experienced something supernatural, but she didn’t need to put this on her—at least not now.

Desiree whispered, “Thanks for making me come back, or maybe I should say forcing me to come back. I’m glad you did. It means so much that you’re sharing this dream with me. You know better than anyone how long I’ve fantasized about all this.”

“C’mon, don’t get sappy. Besides, you don’t have to thank me because this is one of the most inspiring sights I’ve ever seen.”

Des beamed, “I knew you’d come around.” Excitement quickened her voice. “Loosen up and think about how much time has passed since Tut died in, what was it? 1352 BC, I believe, yet this pharaoh continues to capture people’s imagination all over the world. Think how many make this journey to the Valley of the Kings every year to look at his golden image as we’re doing now. I don’t think the thirst for anything and everything new about his life will ever stop.”

Not waiting for a comment, Des continued. “I know you have to be impressed by the wall paintings. They are magnificent. Say, maybe you could paint something like that when we get home.”

Sandy chuckled. “That’s the spunky monkey I know and love. As for painting something like we’re looking at, I’m just a Sunday painter—you know that. It’s remarkable though these pigments have endured, or at least partially endured, for centuries.” Taking a breath, she went on, “I may not know a lot about all this, but it makes me mad as hell that people touch the tomb walls and leave their brands of destruction—not so different from the grave robbers if you ask me.” Not getting a response, she glanced at Desiree.

“Okay, I’ll get off my soapbox now.” Her comments went unanswered.

“What I’d give to see the tomb as Howard Carter saw it in 1922. Can you imagine his exhilaration?” Sandy started to reply, but Des held up her hand, “I know, I know. We can see the treasures in the Cairo Museum, but it’s not the same as actually seeing them in the original tomb.”

Sandy released a sigh. “What I was going to say, if you’d give me a chance, there’s something eerie about the dead confronting the living like this, or suppose you could say the living confronting the dead.”

“In a way, but if you had read more about the Egyptians’ beliefs before we came…”

“So I should have read more—too late now.”

Des finally managed to tear her eyes from the glorious vision before her and noticed she and Sandy were alone.

“Hey, we’re by our lonesome. How about that?”

“Didn’t notice—too caught up in this.”

They smiled, enjoying a special moment. Des whispered, “Absolutely wondrous! This is by far the most glorious sight I’ve ever seen.”

Sandy didn’t answer but rubbed her arm reassuringly. “Hey, your arm is cold as ice and you’re trembling. It’s hot as H-E-double L in here. What’s going on?”

Des returned her question with her own. “I don’t know. How could I be cold in a hundred plus degrees?” Her knuckles turned white from gripping the metal fence separating her from the regal coffin before a razor-like sharpness invaded her head.

“I don’t know what’s happening, but I have to get out of here.”

“Out? You want out? Not again.” Sandy’s words echoed in the burial chamber. “We’ve only been back a few minutes. You’ve waited all your life to get here, not to mention that we had to pay extra bucks to get in this tomb, little princess. The tour bus will leave before we get another chance. Calm down and look a little more.”

Des’ face paled. “I mean it. I have to leave.”

They rushed into open air once again.

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Friday, April 1, 2011

THE DEAD DETECTIVE AGENCY by Peg Herring

THE DEAD DETECTIVE AGENCY by Peg Herring

Young secretary Tori Van Camp wakes one morning on a luxurious ocean liner
where she is offered whatever a person might desire: food, clothes,
recreation, and the companionship of congenial people. But Tori has no
memory of booking a cruise. What she does have is a vivid recollection of
being shot point blank in the chest.

With the help of the stunningly handsome Mike and the unnervingly serene
Nancy, Tori soon learns the purpose of her voyage. Still, she is haunted
by the image of the gun, the crack of the shot, and the malevolent face of
the shooter. Who wanted her dead, and why?

Determined to find out, Tori enlists the help of Seamus, an eccentric but
shrewd detective. Together they embark on an investigation unlike anything
Tori ever thought possible. Death is all around, the future is uncertain, and if Tori does not act quickly, two people she cares about are prime candidates for murder.

The Dead Detective Agency marks the start of the new Dead Detective Mystery Series.

According to Leslie Brown, senior editor at LL-Publications, "Peg Herring navigates the twin worlds of life and death with all the skill of a master sailor, or in this case, a really awesome cruise ship director. The Dead Detective Agency is a light-hearted book about the journey of dying, the regrets of a half-lived life, and the guides who help us make sense of it all."

BUY THE BOOK *** BUY THE eBOOK *** READ THE EXCERPT


Chapter One

Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

Does dreaming you are dead mean that you really die? The question came to Tori slowly as she stirred from oblivious sleep, first stretching her feet downward between the smooth sheets, then twisting her hips to a more comfortable position, and finally opening her eyes enough to see that it was day. “Wake up, Van Camp,” she mumbled, but her dread did not dissipate as nightmares do when faced with sunlight.

As full memory returned, Tori’s eyes opened fully. She clutched her chest, dreading the warm, sticky blood certain to be there. A man had aimed a pistol directly at her. The gun had, a soda bottle duct-taped to the muzzle to make a homemade silencer... A twitch of the man’s hand was followed by an odd thumping noise, and she flew backward, disbelieving. After that was nothing.

The hand at her chest found nothing unusual. There was no blood, and she was perfectly whole. Still, the image of death did not recede. The memory became more vivid, not less, the feeling that it had really happened more intense. Tori could almost hear the doorbell, her footsteps as she went to answer it, the few words spoken, and the muted shot that followed.

It was not that she felt dead, and a glance at a mirror to her right revealed that she did not look dead, either. Was her impression of death a dream? It had to be, and yet, it was so clear. It was a Sunday, and she had been in her apartment. A man in some sort of delivery service jacket had rung the doorbell and asked in a sniffling, agitated manner if she was Tori Van Camp. Receiving a “yes,” he had pulled the gun with its makeshift silencer from a canvas bag he carried and, with a nervous twitch in his cheek that corresponded to the twitch of his index finger, shot her.

She remembered nothing else, no walking toward a light, no welcome from Grandma Mueller. Grandma was undoubtedly too busy toting an oversized cup of nickels around some afterlife casino to take time to greet new arrivals. But why the memory of dying? What sort of dream was that for someone who had just reached twenty-five?

Three crisp knocks on the door startled her out of her strange reverie, and Tori took note of her surroundings for the first time. That was unnerving, for the room was totally unfamiliar. Slightly institutional, the place was on the upscale side of hotel chic: a large room with attractive drapes that matched the coverlet as well as a border that circled the walls at ceiling height, a Monet-like iris pattern in blues and greens. A small walk-in closet stood open and empty except for wooden hangers of the type that disconnect from their handles. Beyond that, a good-sized bathroom showed through an open door, bright-white tiled walls with designs in Mediterranean blue scattered throughout.

On the dresser at bedside sat a telephone and a small tray with a coffee maker, Columbian coffee, both decaf and regular, and Earl Grey tea in two varieties. A large credenza opposite held a television, its remote resting on top. The whole added up to something like Holiday Inn. The problem was that Tori did not recall going on a vacation or even planning one. How had she gotten time off work? Who was watching the cats?

The distinctive three-knock pattern came again, and Tori tossed aside the thick, soft comforter and set her feet onto a carpet almost equally soft. A downward glance revealed familiar clothes: sweat pants and a T-shirt that read “Books, Cats: Life Is Good.”

On the other side of the door was a petite blond woman with darkly tanned skin and more makeup than a CNN anchor. Attractive in that expensively cared-for way that women on television have, she wore a blazer that was bluer than blue, a pleated white skirt that reached precisely to her knees, and natural leather pumps with three-inch heels. It was a uniform of sorts, the kind that is not supposed to look like one but invariably does. Expensive perfume radiated from her in a way that indicated, at least to Tori’s mind, overcompensation.

The woman’s champagne-colored hair had suffered a few too many dye-jobs, but it was attractively styled, pulled back into a curly little bun with a scrunchie that matched the blazer to perfection. She obviously had a thing for gold. There were three gold rings on each hand, gold hoops in each earlobe, a few bands that ran up the ear edges, and a gold chain with a heart-shaped pendant.

The woman must have been smiling even before the door opened, but the smile got bigger as she spoke. “Ms. Van Camp? I’m Cinda, your hostess, okay? How was your rest?” The words came in the professionally caring tone that people such as nurses and waitresses seem required under oath to adopt.

“Um, fine,” Tori replied uncertainly.

“Super!” Cinda exclaimed, more excited by the reply than was necessary. “Rest is the best thing, I say.”

Confused by the banal opening remarks, Tori tried to ignore the perfume’s heady effect and the woman’s over-the-top cheeriness. “I have some questions.” “Of course you do.” Cinda tilted her head coquettishly. She was definitely of the perky persuasion, and while the ability to be upbeat at all times might be admirable, Tori suspected it often came from a superficial understanding of circumstances. Still, Cinda was here, apparently charged with being helpful.

“Okay, let’s see. Your questions will be answered at...” she held a clipboard and, pulling a pencil with an abrupt rip from a little Velcro pad that secured it, used its point to make her way down a sheet of names. “...ten this morning, Office 112 D, if that’s convenient for you.” The reference to Tori’s convenience must have been pure diplomacy, since she did not wait for a reply. “Until then you’re free to explore, okay? Breakfast is here on Deck E, and the fitness center on D is open all the time. You might get a massage, take a sauna, or visit the gym.”

“But, I don’t understand what’s happened.”

“Of course you don’t.” Cinda put a hand on Tori&rsq uo;s arm in a gesture that could only be called rehearsed. “That’s why you’re meeting Nancy at ten. Until then, enjoy the facilities, okay?”

Tori thought of the least important thing at that moment. “I have no other clothes.” This was something Cinda was equipped to handle, and genuine enthusiasm shone through. “Okay. Down this corridor, third door on the right. They’ll fix you up.” With a business-like flourish, she replaced the pencil on the sticky pad. “Have a pleasant trip.”

“Trip?” Tori repeated.

Cinda’s smile got even wider, although Tori noticed that it did not warm her rather flat eyes. “Nancy will explain.” She shook a finger in mock sternness, tilted her perfectly coiffed head to one side, and cranked the wattage on her smile up to full. “You relax until then, okay?”

That last “okay” did it. A confused sort of anger overcame Tori’s usual politeness, and she felt her face heat up. Where in the world was she, who was this Cinda, who was the yet unseen Nancy, and how could anyone tell her to relax when she had no idea where she was or what was going on?

“But--” She glanced back at the room, empty of anything personal, any clue to why she was there. Turning again to the doorway, she raised her finger to wave it under Cinda’s pert little (probably bobbed) nose, but Cinda was no longer there. It seemed her smile hung behind her for a few seconds, like the Cheshire Cat, but otherwise Tori stood looking at an empty corridor.

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