Jill Hughey

Killing Jenna Crane on First Sight Saturday

Jill Hughey — Sat, 08 Feb 2014 07:00:00 +0000

Each week a guest author shares a first meeting excerpt on a feature I call First Sight Saturday. Today we are joined by Lynette Sofras with her romantic mystery Killing Jenna Crane. Lynette’s fun fact is one I don’t think will every be repeated: she once won her baby’s weight in gold in a national caption-writing competition! Maybe she will tell us in the comments who the caption was for and what she wrote?

Take it away, Lynette!

SETUP OF THE SCENE: I’ve chosen an excerpt from my foray into the darker side of romance, but please don’t be misled by the cover or title. Killing Jenna Crane is a romantic mystery about a successful and rather arrogant male writer (Ellis) who is torn between the heroine of his popular fictional series and two other women in his life. The first is his former girlfriend—the sweet, adoring Chloe, and the second the feisty sex goddess Emily, who appears to be his ideal woman. Both women run rings around him, and neither is quite what she seems. Only his fictional heroine (Jenna Crane) behaves as he wishes— and Emily believes she should be killed off, allowing him to focus on more serious writing. When Ellis allows love to dictate his actions, his life begins to spiral out of control.

EXCERPT:

He first saw Emily walking down Waterloo Terrace late on a Wednesday afternoon the following March, just over a month ago now. It had been a bitterly cold day at the end of a seemingly endless winter. The snow lay banked up against his front wall and most of the trees in the garden had worn a naked twig-like appearance for so long that he’d forgotten what they looked like clothed in leaves. He had an unobstructed view of the road from his study window. It glistened with early frost in the pale afternoon light and in the gutters frozen slush had taken on a depressing look of permanence.

The muse had escaped him momentarily, dancing around his brain before skipping out of reach and, as he glanced up as if to pursue its flirty escape, he saw a vision of loveliness that he later discovered to be Emily. She was all bundled up in in some silvery grey fake fur coat that fell to below her knees, the rest of her legs covered in long, pale grey boots with small heels. A pale blue and pink striped scarf wound itself twice around her neck but still left long tails that bounced against her coat as she walked. The scarf held her light honey-coloured curls captive to her neck, though naughty wisps of these escaped and teased her pretty face, glowing from the chill of the air and the brisk exercise.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment as he watched her, so full of life and secret energy, gliding through that frozen day. She had some sort of soft leather bag, the same colour as her boots, slung over her shoulder and her hands burrowed deep into her pockets as she tripped lightly along the pavement. Had he held his breath or somehow caused time to pause around him?

She walked almost to the boundary wall of his house and glanced for a fleeting fraction of a moment towards him, or so it seemed, before darting a glance to her left, then right and crossing the road. Ellis gave a little gasp of happy surprise when he saw her head toward number 17 Waterloo Terrace, the house directly opposite, in which Chloe used to live.

His excitement mounted as he sipped his coffee, his eyes glued on the house opposite, waiting, hoping to catch another glimpse of the lovely vision. Who was she visiting and how might he secure an introduction? She could be a girlfriend of Dill or Rowan—not a good thought—or a friend or relative of Poppy. For the next hour he stared at the house opposite, his computer forgotten and his coffee grown cold. When darkness fell, he eventually shook himself out of the strange trance-like state induced by his intent staring at the same spot for so long.

Just when he was about to give up hope, the door opened and the three housemates tumbled out, with the lovely girl huddled between them. They headed off in the direction of The Cottager, the pub across the green on the far side of Waterloo Terrace. Ellis didn’t stop to think twice. He pulled on his warmest overcoat and stepped out into the icy night air.

When he pushed open the doors of the pub, to be greeted by a welcoming blast of hot beery air, he spied them immediately. They sat around one of the dark oak, circular tables in the far corner, already deep in animated conversation, although Emily seemed slightly aloof from the huddle. She glanced up, almost imperceptibly, as he entered, dropping her eyes again immediately. None of the others looked up and Emily immediately pretended she hadn’t seen him either. Not wanting to seem over-eager, he wandered over to the bar where Gareth, the barman, acknowledged him with a nod.

“Ah, the bard of Bermondsey,” Gareth said in his usual jovial manner, his Welsh accent giving a lyrical lilt to his words. “Bugger of a night, eh? Usual, squire?”

Ellis nodded and lounged at the bar, making small talk as Gareth pulled his half pint and graciously accepted the invitation to join him in the same. Ellis didn’t want to turn around too quickly and appear too eager to join his neighbours, like some desperate, lonely outsider. It would be better if they saw him first, took him by surprise so to speak, and invited him over to join them; introduced him to their lovely new friend in their own way. He kept his back turned and continued to chat to Gareth about the weather and little else of consequence.

After a while the door opened again, letting out the warm air and hustling in another freezing blast as Mac, another local, stamped his way to the bar.

“Brass bleeding monkeys out there,” the old man said cheerfully and to no one in particular, as he hopped from one foot to the other to restore his frozen circulation. “Wouldn’t be surprised if we get more snow tonight.”

Ellis took advantage of the diversion to glance around. The little group sat huddled together, heads close as they appeared to pour over some sort of map or document. Irritated, he turned back to the bar, drained his half pint, waited for Gareth to serve Mac and then ordered another, which he gazed at gloomily, half listening to Mac and Gareth discussing some match or other. Football bored him rigid, but he found it easier to feign interest than defend his aversion to the game. That invariably provoked boisterous debate and worse, much worse, attempts to convert him to its dubious delights.

As Mac wandered off on one of his frequent excursions to the gents, Ellis, aware of a little flutter to his right, glanced around and found himself looking straight into the exquisite blue eyes of the girl from the street.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Emily. I gather we’re going to be neighbors.”

END OF EXCERPT

Hmmm, will Ellis and Emily hit it off? To find out the answer, read Killing Jenna Crane, available at the following websites:

Amazon – http://amzn.com/B00AVWGMM2
Amazon UK – http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00AVWGMM2
Smashwords – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/330031

To keep in touch with Lynette, visit her website at http://www.lynettesofras.com/.

Lynette and I both invite your questions and comments, and I hope you will come back every week for a First Sight Saturday excerpt from a new guest author!

A Gift For Murder on First Sight Saturday

Jill Hughey — Sat, 07 Dec 2013 13:00:00 +0000

Each Saturday, I welcome a guest author to share a first meeting between two characters. I suppose Karen McCullough’s is a good choice for the first Saturday in December since the word gift is in the title, though the murder part doesn’t make it entirely festive. Karen shares with us her mystery with romantic elements, A Gift for Murder.

A fun fact about Karen: “I worked in trade publishing for ten years and attended numerous trade shows. At one of the very first ones I went to, I realized that it would make a great setting for a murder mystery. The gossip and stories I heard about some of the things exhibitors and attendees were doing was astonishing. Great material for a novelist!”

EXCERPT

By nine-thirty, blizzards of paper covered my desk, my cell phone hadn’t quit buzzing, and the land-line phone rang continuously. The computer constantly chimed the arrival of new email messages. A strange man stopped at the office door and stood there watching me.

The triple-shot latte was already struggling to keep my sanity in place.

I recognized the number on the cell phone display and reached for it first.

“Heather?” Janelle, the Show Center’s director and my boss, sounded disturbed. Unflappable Janelle sounding disturbed was worse than most people shouting or having hysterics.

“Problem?” I asked, trying not to stare at the stranger, who lingered near the doorway. A quick glance said he was worth a look.

Until Janelle said, “Find Mark and tell him aisles three to five don’t have power. He’s not answering his pager. Then call Truffant Shipping and ask them to fax copies of the manifests for their deliveries to Brent-Cooper. A couple of their boxes are missing. Once you’ve done that, can you get down here? Lots of ruffled feathers over the power. Oh, and Grantwood & Bethel is missing one of their key people. They think he may be lost somewhere in the city. And Sue Savotsky of Trimstates doesn’t like her location—the carpet’s not clean, and the people across the way are playing loud music.”

“Her again?”

“ ’Fraid so. But she likes you, so if you wouldn’t mind—What’s that?” The last two words were directed at someone else. “Gotta go. Need you ASAP.” Janelle ended the call.

I reached for the latte getting cold on a corner of my desk.

Someone else yelled, “Heather!”

Jo startled me so badly I almost splashed coffee on my white silk blouse. That would make a really good impression on the clients down on the showroom floor. Or the hunk in the doorway.

I turned toward her office. “What?”

“I can’t find the latest press accreditations list.”

“I put a copy in your inbox this morning. Did you look there?”

“Yes. It’s not… oh, wait, here it is.”

How did our marketing director manage to get her shoes on the right feet in the morning? I rolled my eyes, momentarily forgetting I wasn’t alone.

A warm, masculine chuckle reminded me. “You must be the person who runs the place.” The voice was deep and rich, sexy as a Milky Way bar—the kind with dark chocolate.

I turned to face the stranger, who’d taken a couple of steps toward my desk. Tall, lean, around thirty, blond hair cut short, light eyes of indeterminate color.

“I’m Heather McNeil, the director’s assistant,” I answered. “I do my part. Can I help you?”

The right side of his mouth curled into the beginnings of a smile. For a moment there was a delightfully predatory gleam in his eye, but then the light went out, as if he’d shut it off. Damn!

“Scott Brandon. I had an appointment to apply for the security officer’s position you’re advertising,” he said.

“You need to see Craig Vincelli, down the hall. He’s the security chief.”

“He wasn’t in his office. Someone directed me up here. There wasn’t anyone at the receptionist’s desk, either.”

Jo came out of her office, shuffling an armload of papers. “Gotta take these down to the press room. Back shortly.” She paused to admire the newcomer, then raced down the hall when she heard the elevator bell ping.

“God knows where Tina is,” I said, as much to myself as to the man standing there. “Craig’s probably out running down the missing boxes. Or the missing executive. Just a minute.” I picked up the phone and dialed Craig’s cell number.

He answered on the third ring, breathless and in a hurry. “Yeah?”

When I explained, he said, “Crap, I forgot. I’ll be there in ten minutes. “Give Brandon the paperwork.”

I said I would and hung up.

“You’ve mislaid boxes and an executive?” Scott Brandon asked. “The boxes I can understand, but aren’t executives kind of hard to lose?”

“Not in D.C. They manage to lose themselves all the time. In traffic, in museums, in the Metro, in the halls of power…”

He frowned. “You’re too young to be so cynical.”

“There’s an age limit? No one told me.”

“Real cynicism takes bitter experience.”

“And you’re so ancient?”

Something flashed in his eyes, something dark and dangerous. “I’ve walked the walk and—”

“Turned the talk into a lecture. Come with me.” I stopped at Tina’s desk to get the application forms and led him to the small conference room. “Sit in here and fill these out. Bring them back to me when you’re done.”

I spent a few minutes on the phone trying to track down Mark, our resident electrician, but he didn’t answer pages or his cell phone. No one had seen him. I swore quietly to myself, then called the shipping company about the boxes. They promised to fax the manifest.

I needed to get down to the show floor but I couldn’t leave Scott Brandon up here alone, so I called a few more people around the building, trying to locate Mark. On a hunch I dialed down to the snack bar and nailed my target. I asked the manager to put him on the line and gave Mark an earful about turning off his pager and cell phone. Then I told him about the power problem. After a couple of insincere apologies, he promised to get right on it. As I was hanging up, Scott Brandon emerged from the conference room.

He brought the forms back to me. I had time for a quick glance at his date of birth before the elevator pinged again and disgorged Craig Vincelli into the lobby.

“Here’s the man you need to see,” I said.

Was that a flash of regret in Brandon’s eyes before he turned to face Vincelli? I hoped so.

END OF EXCERPT

You can find A Gift for Murder at the following vendors:

Buy links for A Gift For Murder (available in hardcover, mass market paperback and ebook):

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CGKYNT6

B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/gift-for-murder-karen-mccullough/1100204419?ean=2940016665269&isbn=2940016665269

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/308556

If you want to keep up with Karen’s activities, visit her website http://www.kmccullough.com
or her blog http://www.kmccullough.com/blog

For more information about the Market Center Mysteries go to http://www.marketcentermysteries.com

Karen and I welcome questions and comments, and I hope you stop back next week for a fresh new first meeting excerpt.

Murder Most Foul on First Sight Saturday

Jill Hughey — Sat, 19 Oct 2013 11:00:00 +0000

My thanks to Joanne Myers for stepping in at the last minute to replace an author who jilted me at the blog altar. Joanne is sharing a first meeting excerpt from her crime/mystery book Murder Most Foul. Joanne believes in family values and following your dreams.

The following scene takes place in the office of the Chief of Police.

EXCERPT:

Undaunted and short on patience, the agent stared at the fat jerk sitting before him gleefully puffing on a cigar, most likely homegrown in Detroit, Michigan, not Cuba. “I attend the Kingdom Hall on occasion,” he said.

“Well most of us like Malloy. He’s helped rid this town of criminals. He was a volunteer firefighter, and his wife cooks for the annual policeman’s ball. Hell, Malloy even coached volleyball for the kids when he wuz younger. Now a person who does that ain’t all bad,” the chief declared.

Barstow’s sudden burst of energy to safeguard his fishy friend, picqued Harmon’s interest. What had Malloy done? He decided he wasn’t leaving until he had the full, sordid story.

“So you and Malloy are pals, and he did something he couldn’t get out of, and you tried to salvage his job, but the big shots said, ‘No!’ Is that how it went?” Harmon asked.

“Yeah, Malloy did somethin’ real stupid.”

“I’m listening,” Harmon replied.

“The rumors of Malloy allowin’ his friends and family members to snoop through the cornfield, and photograph the area after the victims were removed, was true. Everyone is curious about this crime. Nothin’ this big ever happened in this town before, and the pictures were for souvenirs, you know. Then after the limbs were removed, he brought in a back hoe, and tore up the whole damned crime scene, involving Thomas.” The chief growled in disgust.

“Yeah, that was stupid,” Harmon said. “So Malloy’s unethical conduct was the reason the disciplinary board was in session?”

“Yep, they made their decision this mornin’,” the chief said. “He’s out. There was nothin’ I could do for him.”

“You’d think a cop with over twenty years’ experience would demonstrate better reasoning then destroy evidence. Unless he’s covering his own tracks,” Harmon said realizing what he was implying. “Do you believe Malloy committed the murders?”

“Now, I didn’t say that. A lot of officers were on this case, so a lot of mistakes happened. We never dealt with this type crime before. Many might have made the same mistakes Malloy did.”
Dismissing the chief’s excuses for Malloy’s incompetence, Harmon demanded an answer. He was tired of being duped by the local cops and wanted the truth, and wanted it now. Standing and placing both palms on the chief’s shiny desk, the agent looked the chief square in his squinty brown eyes and said, “Cough it up, Chief! There’s more to it then that. If

there were numerous mistakes made by officers other then Malloy, why was he the only one kicked off the force? Now spit it out! What the hell did Malloy do?”
“All right, all right!” the chief whined, “Malloy screwed the dead girl three weeks before she was killed–and got caught!”
The Agent was speechless. Walking to the window overlooking Main Street, he stared vacantly. Hadn’t one of our witnesses suggested something like that? But–with the crisp wind howling, the citizens dining in the local cafés, others window shopping for Christmas or starting their shift at the town’s businesses–this seems unreal. How can such a seemingly sweet country town be so full of bad apples, savage murders, police misconduct and corruption, evidence tampering? This town is certainly no Mayberry, thought Harmon.

END OF EXCERPT:

Murder Most Foul can be found at Melange Books and Lulu.

Joanne can be visited as a writer and painter at her website, her blog, and her Smashwords page.

Thank you, Joanne, for stepping in to fill the void this week with your intriguing, small town mystery! We welcome readers to leave questions and comments, and hope you will all come back next week for a fresh new first meeting excerpt.

The Rhyme’s Library on First Sight Saturday

Jill Hughey — Sat, 14 Sep 2013 11:00:00 +0000

Every week on First Sight Saturday, a guest author shares an excerpt of a first meeting. Today I welcome author Kristy Tate with her lovely romantic mystery The Rhyme’s Library.
Kristy Tate is a mother of six, but now that her children are grown she would like to start a Schnauzer farm. Unfortunately, Grendal, her lone Schnauzer, doesn’t share Kristy’s passion for motherhood. Bereft of babies and puppies, Kristy now spends her time writing books.

The Rhyme’s Library

Crazy Aunt Charlotte is missing again. Blair Rhyme, Rose Arbor’s young librarian, doesn’t bother to check Charlotte’s regular haunts — the Veteran’s of Foreign Wars lodge, the Four H-Club, or the bins behind Milton’s Fish shop – because Charlotte is dead. Blair discovered her body amongst the boxes of what-nots and whatevers in the library’s basement. Unfortunately, when she returns to the library with the police Charlotte is missing. Again.

Desperate to prove that she doesn’t share her aunt’s mental illness and that Charlotte really has been murdered, Blair tangles with a former lover, a disturbingly handsome stranger and a wacky cast of Rose Arbor characters.

The Rhyme’s Library is a semi-finalist in the 2012 Kindle Book Awards, mystery category. For updates on Kristy’s books, please visit her blog http://kristystories.blogspot.com/ or her author page http://www.amazon.com/Kristy-Tate/e/B005YF4ODA

CHAPTER TWO Where Claire first meets Alec

At first Blair tries to dismiss the skin-pricking sensation of being watched, but as small disturbances grow increasingly threatening, she must confront the enemies, real or imagined, that drove her aunt to madness and death in the Rhyme’s Library.

Stumbling through the gloom and maze of boxes of debris, Blair tripped once over a viola case and tore a hole in her socks. Righting herself, she plunged through the clutter to the top of the stairs and finally reached the phone and caught her breath. Picking up the receiver, she knew immediately that it too was dead. She scrambled through her purse for her cell phone. Dead as well. She remembered that she hadn’t been able to pay her last bill and her service had been cut. She couldn’t call anyone for help. Heading out the door, she took about three steps into the storm before returning for her shoes. No shoes. Where were they? She had left them on the porch. Who would take them and why?

Inexpensive, dirty, size six shoes that no one could possibly want to steal.

Blair stared into the library, trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. Charlotte dead, a face in the window, her shoes missing. Was she alone? Somewhere from inside the library a door slammed. Just the wind, Blair told herself, but when the kitten cried, Blair darted down the library steps.

Staggering more than running in a straight skirt, Blair cast a backward glance at the library high on Olympic hill. Rain pelted her face and soaked her blouse as she ran toward Main Street and downtown. A streak of lightning cracked the gray sky. Thunder rolled with such intensity that it shook the sidewalk. Above her, wood cracked as a pine bough broke in the wind. It tumbled to land in a heap beside her. Fallen twigs and branches scattered on the sidewalk and poked through her socks. Clutching the kitten’s creel, she ran the quarter of a mile to the closest house.

Aside from her brief years in college, she had lived in Rose Arbor since Charlotte’s accident. Blair knew the streets well. The flags of the United States and the State of Washington had been left raised and they flapped, snapped in the wind. Tiny pulleys attached to the cords holding the flags pinged against the metal flag pole.

Blinded by fear mingled with rain, Blair ran into a large, warm expanse of flannel. For a small moment a slicker engulfed her, and then she tangled with an umbrella. She slipped on the wet pavement and fell hard on her hands and knees. The creel landed beside her and the cat cried in protest. Rain and embarrassment washed over her. She pulled the creel onto her lap and checked its strap.

“Are you all right?” A tall man with wavy, honey colored hair gazed at her with kind green eyes. Stooping to pull her upright, his large hand swallowed hers. “You’re shaking.”

Stepping out of the umbrella’s protective canopy, and back into the storm, Blair tried to rally her thoughts as large, wet maple leaves cart-wheeled by and attached themselves to her legs. She shook herself, managed to run a trembling hand through her hair and stammered at the man, “Excuse me.”

“Here, let me help you,” he said, holding the umbrella over her.

“No, thank you,” she murmured, stepping away from him.

“Don’t you have a coat, or anything?” He followed her, umbrella held high.

Blair shook her head as wind whipped through her hair, and tugged at her wet blouse.

“Wait!” he called, hurrying beside her. “Would you like a ride?”

“I’m not going far.” She pressed on.

“Let me come with you,” he said, easily overtaking her and blocking her path. He looked pointedly at her stocking feet. “Let me help you.” He bowed his umbrella toward her. His eyes traveled over her. “Have you been fishing?” he asked.

“What?”

He pointed at the fishing creel.

“Excuse me, please.” She pushed past him, but he easily kept pace. I don’t have time for this, she thought and the words became her internal mantra.

“Where are your shoes?”

Blair tried to match his face with the one at the window. It could have been him. Trying to ignore him, she stubbed her toe on an uneven bit of sidewalk and dropped the creel again. He caught her arm before she fell.

The kitten shot out of the creel. Blair, shook the stranger off, tripped toward the escaping kitten and stubbed another toe on another bump in the sidewalk. “Bugger that,” Blair swore.

The man laughed. Blair looked into his good-natured face, and fought the temptation to smack him. With her throbbing toes, Blair limped after the cat now scrambling up a trunk of a maple.

“Kitty, kitty,” Blair called. The cat scampered out of reach, lost in a maze of branches.

Rain and tears trickled down Blair’s face.

“I’ll get her. What’s her name?” The man’s voice lost its teasing tone and softened.

“Mouchard.”

“Moose-what?”

“Mouchard.” Blair closed her eyes and a vision of Charlotte lying on the floor of the basement flashed in her mind. Her legs went weak she reached out to brace herself against the tree trunk.

An old Ford wagon splattered up the street, and stopped at the curb. “Blair?” Emily rolled down the window. The wind ruffled Emily’s gray curls and teased the batik scarf draped over her shoulders.

At the sight of a familiar, friendly face, Blair’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Can you take me to the police?”

“Of course, dear,” Emily said as she climbed from the car. “You look a fright.” She stood in the rain, a sixty year old with a teenage body in designer jeans and a hip T-shirt. Emily, who would have been older than Blair’s mother, always made Blair feel about as vogue as an old boot. In all the years she known her, Blair had never seen Emily looking “a fright.”

Blair glanced at the kitten and then at the man.

“I’ll save the cat,” he said.

“And we’ll get the police to find your shoes,” Emily said over the car roof.

END OF EXCERPT

The Rhyme’s Library is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble

Thank you, Kristy, for visiting on First Sight Saturday. We welcome comments from readers, and hope you will all come back next week to enjoy another first meeting.

Let Us Prey on First Sight Saturday

Jill Hughey — Sat, 15 Dec 2012 11:00:00 +0000

I’d like to welcome Jamie Lee Scott to First Sight Saturday. Jamie shares a first meeting scene from her book, Let Us Prey, one of her Gotcha Detective Agency Mysteries. I say that any man who can make you forget you are at a murder scene is a keeper!

THE SETUP: Mimi Capurro, owner of Gotcha Detective Agency, has found a dead body and called the cops. This is when the cops arrive.

EXCERPT: I couldn’t have imagined I’d ever see the man in front of me again. Nick Christianson, wow, a blast from the past. I didn’t know if I wanted him to be in my present.

Nick’s clean smell took me away from the murder scene and back to my college days. He always had a freshly showered smell, not weighed down by cologne. I love cologne on men, but in subtle amounts, and Nick didn’t even need that.

He’d been my on-again and off-again lover in college. He’d come from Ohio to play football for the junior college, and we’d turned to each other when our respective relationships went to hell. We talked, had sex (what I thought was great sex back then), and went on our merry way. We even ended up at the same university, San Jose State, where Nick was a star defensive back, and I was nobody after the school cancelled their track program. There went my scholarship. But Nick still had his.

I thought he was the most handsome guy I’d ever seen. A six-three Adonis in his football uniform. His olive skin and wavy black hair made his blue-grey eyes sizzle. And that wasn’t the only thing sizzling. He claimed his heritage to be Greek and Irish. Talk about hot. In the beginning I always wondered why he was with me, this guy who had every girl in the school ready to lift her skirts, was with me. At San Jose State, I didn’t have to wonder anymore, since he never spoke to me.

I studied Human Performance, with an emphasis on prevention and care of athletic injuries, so I saw him almost every day during football season and spring training. He didn’t ignore me as much as avoid me. I missed our talks. I knew more about him than anyone, and then I didn’t know him at all.

Looking at Nick now, he’d changed very little. He looked older; naturally, he’d had a rough fifteen years. From college, he’d gone on to play for two different NFL teams. After six years with the NFL, he’d violated their drug and alcohol policies, and they booted him. Can we say stupid? After that, I’d lost track of him. Not that I was keeping track exactly, but his name and face had been in the sports section almost daily while he tried to fight the charges.

I’d had a long day, and with the adrenaline hangover ensuing, I felt nauseated. If I had to see Nick again, I wanted to look my very best. Between the head on the table and Nick standing in front of me after all these years, I’d reached my daily limit. I turned and barfed into the potted palm. I hardly even noticed the liquid that had splattered onto the floor and my pants. My stomach roiled again before I even lifted my head.

This great mystery can be found at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Thank you for visiting today, Jamie.