Murder at the Met
(Penelope Harris Mysteries #2)
Publication date: April 8th 2021
Genres: Adult, Historical, Mystery
November 1928, New York City. No one can keep a secret like high society – especially when that secret is murder.
There are two things Penelope Harris would rather do than get involved with another murder—sing opera and flirt with Thom Lund. When two tickets ensure Penelope and Thom get some precious time together at the Metropolitan opera, neither believes another murder will interrupt their romantic evening.
Fate has a different plan. Before the night is over a failed manufacturing tycoon is found dead at the bottom of a staircase, his poisoned and dying daughter nearby. Is it an accident? Suicide? Or murder? When a fellow soprano pleads for help, Penelope just can’t help her inquisitive nature.
As Penelope pulls back the cover on a diabolical crime, Lund rushes to complete the investigation of a suicide on the Gold Coast of Long Island. What they find will uncover the sordid underbelly of high society and put Penelope on the wrong side of her own gun.
Author of the Penelope Harris Mysteries, E.W. Cooper was ecstatic to learn her debut in the series, The Jade Tiger, was the 2020 Booklife Prize Finalist in Mystery/Thriller. A lifelong fan of classic mysteries and Grand Opera, Ms. Cooper is hard at work on the second book in the Penelope Harris Mystery series, Murder at the Met (April 2021). She lives quietly with her partner, children, three dogs, and one cat in a very noisy house in South Texas.
To learn more about Penelope Harris Mysteries (and the author) go to http://www.ewcooper.com and snoop around.
Crime Fiction Mystery Thriller (with some Romance)
Date Published: April 11th 2018
What would you want the world to give you if you discovered the cure for cancer? Jeremy Ceremony thinks he’s done just that, and he wants cash. Some people are calling him ‘Jermy Cer-money’ because of it. Strangely, Melia has never heard of the man, but several people she does know, love, and care about are afflicted by the disease and she would really like it if none of them died. Well, some do and some don’t. Why that should be is a mystery. It’s also a mystery that Salford seems overrun by people with grudges, eager to settle scores and balance the books, maybe quickly, while they are still alive. If only Mickey was here to help her, but Melia is alone – not for the first time – facing a terrifying old adversary, someone whose feelings for her have only just been realised. What is she going to do, now and in the future? Some people say she needs to move on, and apply for that top job at the Unit. But for the life of her, Melia can’t seem to make up her mind about anything. Maybe Deputy Director Caulfield will have to do the thinking for her. (If only he would stop finding bombs in bags, life would be so much simpler – and last longer.)
The Vicar had been talking to Melia in her office, a small room near the front door. She was about to lead the younger girl out when the phone rang.
She had to pick it up. It could be an Emergency, she was thinking.
It was. Someone was dying.
Melia was still sitting in the chair across the desk from her interviewer. She didn’t know whether to stand, or wait. She had secured her first objective – getting accepted in the church – and was happy to move on, doing whatever was needed to feed and provide bed places for a dozen homeless people. It was a good cause. She was happy to help.
The Reverend Karney was growing increasingly agitated. Her voice was rising, in pitch and mood.
“No, he is NOT here,” she snapped. “I don’t know where he is. He should never have given you this number! It’s completely unacceptable. Yes, I know what you would have read online. Jeremy does that. He works online. No, he doesn’t work here. He comes to our Monday morning group, that’s all. I can’t tell you any more. Really.”
Melia found herself becoming concerned. She had only just met this older woman, but she felt confidence in her. She seemed to know what was right, what was needed. Why was she being harassed? It sounded awful.
“No, do NOT get on a plane!” the priest insisted. “He can’t help you. It’s not real. Yes, that is my opinion.”
She was shaking when she put down the phone. There seemed to be tears in her eyes.
Melia did the only thing she knew how to do – she walked round the desk and put her arms around the other’s shoulders. She held her tight, as she had held her colleagues when things went wrong and there was nothing else to do.
The priest, on the verge of tears, didn’t actually cry. If anything, she seemed to be getting angry.
“Irresponsible!” she snapped. “Completely irresponsible. He has no right to be saying these things.”
Melia guessed it had nothing to do with the Homelessness Project. This was something completely different.
Perhaps that was why the Vicar was so upset. She needed to be focussing on the homeless and was being distracted.
“Maybe tonight,” the priest said unsteadily. “In the coldness and dark of the early hours, I’ll tell you the whole story. A parishioner, a member of the congregation, is a trained engineer. He believes he has found a device, a concoction of wires and probes, that has miraculous properties. It can do all sorts of magical things. It can heal and repair.”
Melia looked interested. Something new? An invention?
The Vicar explained: “Jeremy says it can cure cancer.”
They both looked at each other, weighing that up, thinking through the ramifications.
But the priest really was annoyed. “That call was from a man in Texas,” she stormed. “He said he had read Jeremy’s web page. He wanted to know if I could ‘verify’ the claims – if I could ‘guarantee’ a cure! I said I couldn’t. He said he was ‘prepared to get on the next plane’. I can’t have that. I can’t have invaders from all around the world – “
She was lost for words. Horror and concern flooded her face and she looked about to explode.
It was a poignant moment for Melia.
She could have told her new ’employer’, if they had known each other well enough, that yes, most people called her Melia, but her given name was Amelia Hartliss, and her friends, as well as a few enemies, liked to call her ‘Heartless’. It was a good joke, and mostly, quite appropriate. When she was busy, doing her job, Melia had no time for unnecessary emotions. She was a consummate professional, able to concentrate on the job in hand, doing what needed to be done.
But here, now, in this struggling, small church, in a suburb that was deprived and in need of regeneration, Melia felt herself overwhelmed by surges of unexpected doubt, fear and despair. People with cancer, facing death, were willing to fly half way across the planet in search of treatment? What a horrible position to be in.
Melia, ‘Heartless’ to the world, found herself strangely moved.
About The Author
that isn’t taught in schools already?
Well, he says he was born in absentia (the small town on the Bay of Biscay), beside the dock of the bay, but moved to England when young, and not yet able to navigate astutely. His family settled in the West Country of England, near a cross culture called Temp Chelney, where his father became a map maker and mushroom farmer.
When the borders were changed in the 1980s, Mike packed a service record and moved to an apartment in the nearby city of Bristol. This is where he first got involved in folking, flaking and faking. Later, he became disenchanted.
You can find Mike Scantlebury on the internet.
It’s @MikeScantlebury on Twitter and ‘mikescantlebury99’ on Facebook. And, surprise, ‘mikescantlebury’ on Linked In.
If all else fails, try him at home (he may not be in): http://www.Salford.me/
Anyone who buys the e-book in February at the specially reduced price of 99c will be entered into the Prize Draw to win a voucher for a free audiobook. 5 Available
Date Published: November 2020
Publisher: Raven South Publishing
Catherine “Tink” Mabrey, an up and coming attorney, is shocked by her recent inheritance from her estranged family on the bayou. After her mother died during childbirth, Tink’s father had quickly relocated them to the big city of Atlanta, Georgia. With no memory of her mother, she is determined to learn more about her lineage and decides to visit the bayou town of Kane, Louisiana. Candace, Tink’s co-worker and best friend, agrees to make the trip with her.
Before she has time to explore her family’s history, or decide what to do with the declining property, local murders plague Tink’s homecoming. She quickly finds herself caught in the middle of a multiple murder investigation – and quite possibly, the prime suspect. When Candace retreats back to Atlanta, Tink, with the support of an unlikely cast of characters, sets out to discover clues that have haunted and tormented her family for generations.
Could a concealed crime from the 1800’s, or the family’s estate itself, harbor keys to unlocking the past? The more they learn, the more they question whether some secrets are best left buried.
Other Books By Kim Carter:
Murder Among The Tombstones (2017)
No Second Chances (2017)
Deadly Odds (2018)
And The Forecast Called For Rain (2018)
When Dawn Never Comes (2018)
About The Author
Her other titles include: When Dawn Never Comes, Deadly Odds, No Second Chances, And The Forecast Called For Rain, and Sweet Dreams, Baby Belle.
Kim’s writing career started after she suffered an illness that made her housebound for a couple of years. An avid reader of mystery novels, she embarked on writing as a means of filling her time. Kim shared those early writings with friends and family who encouraged her to pursue writing professionally. Her health struggles and successes have been chronicled on The Lifetime Television in early 2000, The Atlanta-Journal Constitution, Women’s Day Magazine, and Guideposts.
Prior to her illness, Kim worked in many different capacities in county government ranging from Park Director with Parks and Recreation to the Grant Department with Human Services. But, ultimately, it was her job as a correctional officer that provided her the opportunity to interact with a variety of people from all walks of life. Her experiences ran the gamete of inspiring success stories to tragic endings, much like her mysteries.
She self-published her first book No Second Chances. One of the guest speakers at the launch party she had at the Performing Arts Center in Newnan, Georgia included her close friend retired Atlanta Police chief Eldrin Bell. This connection would become helpful as she started doing more research for other books, this time working with a small publishing house.
Kim started networking and made connections with the Fulton County Medical Examiner’s Office. Her research has taken her many places including morgues, death row and the occasional midnight visit to cemeteries.
She is a college graduate of Saint Leo University, has a Bachelor Degree of Arts in Sociology. Kim and her husband have three grown children and live just outside of Atlanta, Georgia.
Published: August 2020
Favor Bosworth, a reporter for the Baltimore Sun Paper, investigates murders in the Loch Raven reservoir and the Las Vegas wash feeding Lake Mead. The murdered girls went to Law School at UNLV along with Dan Brock who left school early to pursue a career in investing. Favor interviewed many of the girl’s classmates but only a few seemed to have the means, opportunity, and motive for murder.
Favor is also tasked to evaluate Brock Investments for reporting false investment returns. She is assisted by two Private Investigators, Flint Osborne and Lauren Scott. The investigators and the reporter are led around Big Bear Lake, and through Long Beach, and Orange County looking for evidence. Favor finds that, in the end, no one is who they appear to be.
About The Author
R.N. Crane lives in Orange, California. He is a retired engineering consultant writing romantic suspense and detective crime novels. The Journalist is his newest novel. He is a member of Orange County Writers, Romance Writers of America, and Mystery Writers of America.
(A Diana Hawthorne Supernatural Mystery, #3)
Publication date: TBD
Genres: Adult, Mystery, Urban Fantasy
“An author emerges from the depths of Minnesotan waters. Sci-fi/Fantasy is my pen of choice.”
Carissa Andrews is a Minnesota-based genre-bending author who writes a combination of science fiction, fantasy, and dystopia. When not writing her own books, she’s busy reading them.
Carissa’s internationally bestselling trilogy, The Pendomus Chronicles, is now in digital, print, and audiobook formats. She has hit the scene as an up and coming speculative fiction author who uses a mix of scifi and fantasy, twisted in modern mythology and alternative history. Check out The Final Five, Oracle, Awakening, and Love is a Merciless God!
Carissa has big plans for 2020. Check out her upcoming series, The Windhaven Witches.
For more information on their release, visit Carissa Andrews’ author website: http://www.carissaandrews.com and sign up for her newsletter notifications.
She lives in central Minnesota with her husband and brood of five kids. Not to mention, her insane husky puppies, Aztec and Pharaoh.
Carissa is also a freelance graphic designer, writer and content creator, social media manager, and marketing professional. She writes consistently on topics of science, technology, art, writing, photography, graphic design, health, self-improvement, and more. Her articles can be found published across the interwebs. Carissa is also a Top-Rated Freelancer on Upwork, and can be contacted for freelancing opportunities: http://bit.ly/UpworkCarissaAndrews
(In Midsummer #5)
Publication date: January 8th 2021
Genres: Adult, LGBTQ+, Mystery, Romance
One big day. One missing groom. One answer. One life-changing event. One life-threatening disaster. Multiple targets.
I never pictured myself getting married, but then I met Rocky and knew I found my perfect match. So, why are so many people determined to ruin our happiness? Why can’t we just have some peace and quiet? And why has Rocky disappeared on our wedding day?
I never thought I would get married again, but that was because I never knew what true love really was until Conner. I never had a true partner who was always there for me. And now I can’t wait to be married to him. I can’t wait to start the rest of our lives together. But, just like our entire relationship has had hurdles, why should this event run smoothly for us?
Between sabotage, grabby fans, exes, and an unwanted wedding planner, our wedding is looking more impossible by the minute. However, we’re both determined enough to get down that aisle and say I do. We will be married, and not even a crazed killer will stop us.
I hope. Hell, are we going to survive this wedding?
“Rocky.” Conner moves onto his knees and faces me, cupping my face. I instantly rest my hands on his hips to prevent him from losing his balance and painfully knocking our heads together. “I love you so much that anyone can come through that door and say they want me, and I won’t even think about the offer for a second. You’re the one I want now, the one I’ll always want. None of my exes even begin to come close to how amazing you are. Henry Prince is someone universally considered to be the full package and even he didn’t compare to you. You’re perfect to me, and I will never want anyone else. You believe that, right?” His tone is pleading, as is his gaze.
I do see what he’s saying. I know how truthful it is. And while I’ve always known Conner would never cheat on me and that he loves me, there is something that clicks into place for me. A final piece that solidifies that we’re so solid that nothing that comes at us during this wedding or after it is going to rock us.
I lean forward and rest our foreheads together, our noses brushing. Then I wrap my arms around him so he’s forced to rest his body over mine. “I believe you, Conner, and I love you so damn much. You’re all I want, too. I cannot wait to call you my husband. Let’s do this tomorrow.”
Conner snorts out a laugh, but when I don’t break into so much as a grin, his smile fades and he pulls back just as much as my arms around him will allow.
“You’re serious? Tomorrow?”
“Yes. I don’t want to wait any longer. And I don’t want the charade that June Fuller is planning to be our day. I want it to be on our own terms. I want you to myself. I don’t want to share you on our wedding day.”
“But … tomorrow is Wednesday!”
“You call Love and, under oath of secrecy, she can come. I’ll call Reed and Bell, and they can come, too. We’ll pull River out of school. Then Bell can take River back to hers, Love can take Ryder back to her parents’ for the night, and we have one night to ourselves.”
“What about work?”
“I’ll get Abby to cover for me. Or, hell, I’ll just call in sick. I’ve got hundreds of those days I’ve never used.”
Conner gasps, but I get the feeling it’s slightly mocking. “You didn’t even call in sick when you were shot!”
“Just marry me tomorrow,” I plead, knowing I can’t bear to wait any longer now that I put it out there.
Jessica lives in Adelaide, South Australia. When she is not writing, you can find her reading, napping or watching excessive amounts of TV. Connect with her on Facebook and Goodreads.
Date Published: 11/10/2020
Kelly Jenks knows the dead boy is going to show him something awful. Jonathan is seven. He never wears shoes, and his feet are always clean. He cruises between this world and the next in a 1967 Cougar XR7. Jonathan has a message for Kelly: There is a faceless man preying on the city’s homeless.
Jackie Carmichael hires Kelly to find an employee who has vanished. The case appears simple at first, but Kelly soon discovers that the missing girl is not who she seems. As Kelly attempts to separate the facts from the lies, Jonathan brings him another message: Jackie Carmichael is hiding something.
With the beaches, mansions, and dive bars of Orange County, CA as the backdrop, Caffeine & Nicotine is a dark and brutal look at what happens when the dead pass sentence.
Oliver Trunk: the proverbial rock in my shoe.
I had spent the last week looking under every overpass and dumpster I could think of. I talked to a bunch of people who said, “Yeah, I saw Oliver last night down at . . .” Insert the name of some bar, or strip club, or parking lot. I was a step behind from the word go. It was making me cranky.
Oliver thought of himself as an entrepreneur, which meant he dealt a little meth and coke, and beat the shit out of his girlfriend if she held back any of her tips. Oliver’s girlfriend was a stripper at a low-level club. In the beginning, Tina Mullins had thought he was charming and kind of cute in a white-trash, Joe Dirt, kind of way. Those days passed quickly, however. Oliver’s newest business plan was to pimp her out on her nights off from the club.
Which is where I came in. Find Mr. Trunk and serve him a restraining order.
I had put out a number of feelers with my fellow down and outs. A hundred bucks for the guy or gal who got me a current line on Trunk. Not where he was yesterday or last week, but where he was that very minute.
The winner was Judy, an old gal who sang the blues at some of the seedier joints in the city. Judy was in her sixties. She only wore blue jeans, green T-shirts, jean jackets, and cowboy boots. I’m not sure about her choice of underwear or bras, but I’d bet she doesn’t wear either of them. She sounded like Janis Joplin when she sang. I’d caught her show a few times. They were generally free, and there was plenty of booze in the places she played, so it was a win-win.
Judy called around midnight and said, “Kelly, you owe me a hundred.” She sounded like Bob Hoskins.
I was kind of inebriated when she called. I had been experimenting with perfecting a Pink Vodka Lemonade all night. It had taken a few rounds before I had an epiphany about adding a little Malibu to the cocktail. Damn, I nailed it after that.
My ability to walk and talk might have been affected.
“Why tonight?” I felt like my enunciation was spot on.
“What? Totally mumbling, Kelly.”
I enunciated harder with a softer word. “Where?”
“Down at Spinnakers. I gotta go. We’re starting our next set.”
“Keep him there.” It came out as “ee im air,” or something close to that.
“Dude, I can’t understand you.”
I tried again. She hung up.
I weighed the pros and cons.
In true drunken fashion, the pros won out. I was over this rock in my shoe.
I made a pot of coffee with double the coffee. I hopped in the shower with water that was too hot. I was hoping the steam would do something. I’m not exactly sure what, but I was determined to erase the effects of the six Pink Vodka Lemonades I had ingested over the last three hours. I toweled off without falling over and counted it as a clear sign that I was no longer falling down drunk. I put on some cargo shorts and a T-shirt, then pulled on some ankle socks and a pair of Nikes. I filled two thermoses with coffee that was slightly thinner than tar. I added them to my trusty backpack, which contained all the tools of my trade: pack of cigarettes, lighter, .45 Beretta px4 Storm, couple Snickers bars, and a bottle of water.
Forty-five minutes after Judy hung up on me, I stepped out of my Airstream trailer and stumbled down the two steps. They’re tricky in the dark, even when I’m sober, so I didn’t count it against myself. My trailer is parked underneath a thirty-foot oak tree. Its trunk has a seven-foot radius. The tree is massive. I don’t know how old it is, or how it is still standing in the middle of the city, but it’s proof that the world isn’t completely screwed up. The leaves whispered in the late-night breeze blowing in from the Pacific: You can do this, Kelly.
My yard was surrounded by an eight-foot corrugated metal wall. I managed to get the latch open, and a five-foot section swung out and away from me. I stepped through the opening, promptly tripped on the bottom lip and went down face-first into the alley.
“Fuck.” I laid there for a few moments with my face pressed against the cool asphalt. I weighed the pros and cons again. The pros still won, although the cons had more of a say this time. I took it as further evidence that I was sobering up rapidly. I regained my feet.
My Cougar was waiting for me in its parking spot. I popped the lock, climbed in, and started her up.
“You got this, my magic car,” I whispered to her. She had never let me down in those types of moments. And there have been plenty. “OK, let’s go.” I dropped her into reverse, hit the gas, and ten minutes later, I was parked in the lot behind Spinnakers. I rubbed the steering wheel and told her I loved her. I fished out a thermos and took a long drink. The coffee bordered on undrinkable, but I choked it down. I lit a cigarette and put my right earbud in, started up the shuffle on my phone and waited.
The moon had taken the night off. I couldn’t see any stars because of the sodium-vapor lights in the parking lot. The handful of cars around me all looked black or white. A dirty white cinder block building squatted at the edge of the lot. The air was washed-out yellow. All in all, a very ugly place.
I was parked next to a ‘95 Mustang. It could have been brown, purple, green, or blue, but it just looked black. That production model of Mustang is probably one of the worst cars ever manufactured, along with its distant cousin, the Pinto. This particular automotive tragedy belonged to Mr. Trunk.
Trunk was the last one out of the bar. He had some assistance from a none too happy bouncer who went by the handle of Axe. The man was a monster. He was six nine, and easily three hundred pounds. He had a spiderweb tattooed on his shaved head. He only worked the Spinnaker on Monday and Tuesday. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday he worked up in LA. He lived local. We’ve had a few friendly conversations over the years. He’s a nice enough guy if you can look past his numerous assault charges and the one attempted murder. I can, so we’re good. I gave myself a mental head slap for not reaching out to him about Trunk.
I checked my phone. 2:13 A.M. Sarah McLachlan was singing in my ear about monsters.
Axe shoved him into the parking lot, and said, “Don’t come back.”
“Fuck off, you overgrown piece of shit.”
Axe laughed, then went back into the bar. I imagine Zeus laughed the same way when mere mortals got snippy with him for bedding their wives.
“Fucking dick,” Trunk yelled, as he weaved over to his Mustang. I was parked next to him. Driver side to driver side. I watched him dig his keys out of his jeans. He dropped them. He bent to pick them up. He fell over. Things were looking up. Trunk was more intoxicated than I was.
He staggered back up, swore, and laughed to himself. Then he crossed the remaining space to our cars. He was an average idiot in an average idiot’s body. Beating up women didn’t require much of a workout. His drug clientele were mostly strung out junkies or high school rich kids. Trunk was trying to restart the white leather high-top fashion craze. I didn’t see it catching on too soon, but stranger things have happened.
He ignored me as I sat in my car smoking a cigarette. As he struggled to get the key into the car door, I said, “What’s up, Oliver?”
He turned around, and said, “I don’t know you, longhair.” He turned back around and began fighting with the keyhole again.
I popped my door open and climbed out. “Longhair? You say it like it’s a bad thing.”
He turned back around. I hit him with a straight right to the nose. It wasn’t my best punch, but he was drunk, and it did the job. He dropped his keys. He fell back against his car. As he started to right himself, I kicked him in the balls. I connected a lot better that time. Might have popped one of them. He was on the ground, moaning. I gave him a nice solid kick to the face.
I threw my hands up in the air and spun a circle. And the crowd goes wild! I felt so much better. The rock was out of my shoe.
I dragged him over to the back of the Cougar. I popped the trunk, then piled him in. I might have hit his head on the bumper a couple of times in the process. These things happen. I pulled his arms behind him and wrapped duct tape around them. I taped his ankles together. I slapped a piece of duct tape across his nose and mouth. He wouldn’t be able to scream or breathe, so it was a classic two-for-one.
I shut the trunk, found his keys on the ground, and took a moment to unlock his car and put the key into the ignition. I shut the door. The car wouldn’t have lasted the night in this neighborhood, but I didn’t want the thieves to break anything when they stole the car. I climbed back into the Cougar and sat there for a minute. I lit a cigarette and drank some coffee. I replayed it in my head. The people that had come out between my arrival and Trunk coming out hadn’t paid any attention to me. They were all your standard Tuesday night drinkers. I thought I was clean. I never saw Judy. I finished the cigarette, pulled two pieces of gum out of my backpack and popped them in my mouth.
I felt fairly sober. I was probably walking the legal line as far as blood alcohol content was concerned, but I’d have much bigger problems if I got pulled over for something. I started the Cougar up, then pulled out of the lot, and headed out to the desert.
I got to my disposal site a couple minutes before four A.M.
I took my time. Speed limit all the way. Windows down. Wind throwing my hair all over the place. I sipped my second thermos of sludge, smoked, and listened to music that bounced all over the musical genre map. I like the drive out the 15 in the middle of the night. It’s peaceful. I like the way the sodium-vapor lights look from the freeway. Everything is still that washed-out yellow, but you can see the stars and the mountains looming up in front of you.
I jumped on the 395 for thirty minutes. The lights of passing cars filled the interior of the Cougar for brief moments. A glance in the rear view during these moments revealed what might have been a beautiful young woman. Her blond hair did not move in the wind. She was smiling. Then the interior would go dark, and she would be no more. The sound of happy laughter drifted beneath the road noise. And a smell like a field of wildflowers in full bloom lingered all around me.
I left the last high desert city behind. I turned onto a dirt road with no marker. I cruised slowly. I knew the spots that would give the Cougar and her low-slung body trouble. It took about five minutes to cover the mile from the highway to the gate.
My headlights lit up the iron bars. It was a fancy gate out in the middle of the desert. The designer probably envisioned it blocking the end of a Beverly Hills driveway. There were ornate spikes all along the curved top. Two silhouettes of horses rearing up on their hind legs. It might work in the Texas wastelands, but there weren’t any horses around these parts. Scorpions, tarantulas, and rattlesnakes, but no wild stallions running free.
The gate was mostly decorative. Three lines of barbed wire ran to the north and south. The property was five hundred acres of useless scrub brush and the aforementioned poisonous things. If somebody wanted to get to the house beyond the gate, they wouldn’t have to try very hard.
I came to a stop, leaned out the window and punched in the code. The gate rolled away to my left. I drove through and the gate closed behind me.
Fifty yards in was a one-story log cabin. It was one of those kits you can buy online. They ship the materials to the building site along with all the nuts and bolts. An enthusiastic person could probably put one together in a couple weeks. The owner of the property had paid ten guys from the Home Depot parking lot to throw this one up in a day.
I liked it. There was a cozy bed inside. I wanted nothing more than to go climb into that bed and sleep. I had one more thing to do before I could call it a day.
I drove past the cabin another hundred yards. The road ended in a wide spot where I could flip the Cougar around. I turned the car off and climbed out. Big stretch. My body ached from the drive. My brain felt mushy because of the alcohol still in my system and a lack of sleep.
I popped the trunk. I don’t know if he ever regained consciousness. Don’t know if he struggled as his lungs ran out of oxygen. Didn’t much matter either way. He was dead.
I pulled the body out of the trunk. It hit the ground hard. I grabbed the feet and dragged the body into the desert for a few feet. There was a lid somewhere. I just had to find it. I felt like I was in the right spot, but I didn’t see it.
I relented and pulled my phone out, used the flashlight and searched the ground. I was about ten feet too far north. I pulled the bone bag over to a brown plastic lid set into the ground. I took a moment to light a cigarette in preparation. I filled my lungs with smoke and held it in as I pulled the lid upward. The smell that drifted up out of the hole was still godawful. I worked as quickly as I could. I got the feet into the hole, then lifted the body by the shoulders until it just kind of slid in. A second later, I was rewarded with a thick splash.
Restraining order served.
About The Author
Eric Weule is the author of several novels. He lives in Southern California. Caffeine & Nicotine is a stand-alone novel, which features Kelly Jenks from The Interview.
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Mystery, Historical Mystery
Release Date: January 5, 2021
Publisher: Level Best Books
Paris. 1917. Never underestimate the power of a good hat… or a sharp hatpin.
Sent by the War Office to follow the notorious Black Panther, file clerk turned secret agent Fiona Figg is under strict orders not to get too close and not to wear any of her usual “get-ups.” But what self-respecting British spy can resist a good disguise? Within hours of her arrival in Paris, Fiona is up to her fake eyebrows in missing maids, jewel thieves, double agents, and high treason. When Fiona is found dressed as a bellboy holding a bloody paperknife over the body of a dead countess, it’s not just her career that’s on the block.
Her next date might be with Madame Guillotine.
About the Author
Kelly Oliver is the award winning and bestselling author of three mystery series, including The Jessica James Mysteries, the Pet Detective Mysteries, and the Fiona Figg Mysteries. When she’s not writing mysteries, she is a philosophy professor at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, TN.