tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38403997803803754482024-03-05T08:44:32.594-05:00L.C. Evans, AuthorAuthor of Jobless Recovery Second Edition, Talented Horsewoman, Night Camp, and We Interrupt This Date
Join me at "The Moose," otherwise known as A Moose Walked Into a Bar - Sit Down Comedy. Three funny lady writers and blog on the humorous things in life. http://amoosewalkedintoabar.blogspot.com/L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-47397254669091328452011-10-02T07:45:00.001-04:002011-10-02T07:45:11.569-04:00#SampleSunday Are they really vampires?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-n04ZDHLjm1pqutG603WBwgamgt-EGCeq1nFegqsCxNxLYyqADT4WiYDk8yf1AWVlSIisodgCIOE-0PASYHefteBv9lNA6hjQUIT0dzdjmHjKMM6lOappe_3syazBLhyphenhyphenNqcZIjULPw6U/s1600/NightCamp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-n04ZDHLjm1pqutG603WBwgamgt-EGCeq1nFegqsCxNxLYyqADT4WiYDk8yf1AWVlSIisodgCIOE-0PASYHefteBv9lNA6hjQUIT0dzdjmHjKMM6lOappe_3syazBLhyphenhyphenNqcZIjULPw6U/s320/NightCamp.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Since this is October, Halloween month, I decided to post a short sample of my children's book. Night Camp is for middle grade readers ages 9 to 12. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">About the book: A spooky graveyard. A creepy basement. A pair of coffins. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thirteen-year-old Shane Andrews hates summer camp. When his parents allow him to choose, Shane decides to pick the worst camp he can find. Night Camp must be terrible. For one thing, activities take place at night and campers sleep during the day. That can’t be good, Shane reasons. His parents will realize Night Camp is even worse than they thought and they’ll come back to get him. Then Shane’s plans for summer freedom fall apart. His cousin Brad, a boy with a huge collection of tabloid magazines, convinces Shane that two of the camp counselors are vampires. Shane enlists the help of Brad and a girl camper named Nicole. The three set out to save themselves and the other campers. Then Shane uncovers the secret of Night Camp… </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The setup: The campers are having a midnight picnic. Shane still doesn't believe the counselors are vampires. But Brad won't let up trying to convince him. Since the cousins ate at separate tables during breakfast, this is their first opportunity to compare notes. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I bent my head
closer to Brad's and, remembering to keep my voice down, described breakfast.
"Just one thing, Brad. If they’re real vampires, how come Trevor and Colin
ate tomatoes and drank tomato juice?" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;">
<span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brad
snorted. "What do you expect? You figure they should call for a couple of
volunteers?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;">
<span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
felt my face turn warm. "I didn't mean <u>that</u>. I meant, how can they
survive on tomato juice?" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"So who says it's tomatoes? And is
it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> tomato juice?" Brad's
face seemed ten shades paler in the moonlight. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;">
<span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
throat closed up as though someone squeezed it and I choked on my drink.
Lemonade boiled up and squirted out of my nose and my mouth at the same time.
Half the campers turned around to stare. I felt like crawling away when I saw
that one of the curious campers was Nicole. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> "What
did you have to say <i>that</i> for?" I
asked when I finally managed to stop doing my lemonade fountain imitation.
"And if you're looking for a volunteer to sneak some of their tomato juice
for a taste test, don't count on me!" </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Night-Camp-ebook/dp/B001YQF0OK/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1317555529&sr=8-2">Night Camp </a></span></span></div>
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L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-28524109805566406542011-09-24T20:57:00.001-04:002011-09-24T20:57:13.895-04:00#SampleSunday Do Blind Dates Mean Failure?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiumKdywcy0RnIEVXhX_8RRwX3vxkFaTUWUJGPUT6ifr-3VUdZ5xQj1GFPVQ7F0dZrKO8s3Ec5LSq9tl5MYsFvgBB9AamlVV8RfUHpAHuogMViUeGQbTpJ4K2Cj4a9-815ANCEqws25SgY/s1600/P1010190.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiumKdywcy0RnIEVXhX_8RRwX3vxkFaTUWUJGPUT6ifr-3VUdZ5xQj1GFPVQ7F0dZrKO8s3Ec5LSq9tl5MYsFvgBB9AamlVV8RfUHpAHuogMViUeGQbTpJ4K2Cj4a9-815ANCEqws25SgY/s320/P1010190.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charleston Harbor at Sunrise</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 120%;">About We Interrupt This Date:</span><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;">Since her divorce a year ago, Susan Caraway has gone through the motions of life. Now she is finally coming out of her shell. Just when she decides on a makeover and a new career, her family members decide she's crisis central. First there’s her sister DeLorean who has come back from California with a baby, a designer dog, and no prospects for child support or a job. As soon as DeLorean settles in at Susan’s home, Susan’s son Christian returns from college trailing what Susan’s mama refers to as “an androgynous little tart.” Then there’s Mama herself, a southern lady who wrote the book on bossy. A secret from Mama’s past threatens to unravel her own peace. But not before Mama hurts her ankle and has to move into Susan’s home with her babies—two Chihuahuas with attitude. Susan would like to start her new job as a ghost tour operator. She would like to renew her relationship with Jack Maxwell, a man from her past. But Jack isn’t going to stand in line behind her needy family. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;">This excerpt is from Chapter Two where Susan has lunch with her friend Veronica and announces she's decided to start dating again. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“It’s a blind date, isn’t it?” Veronica said this in tones she might
use to announce that the earth was in the path of an asteroid the size of the
sun.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="line-height: 120%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My casual shoulder shrug and my sudden interest in watching a couple
of restaurant patrons stroll by were admission enough. Veronica knew I hadn’t
been anywhere lately except to yoga. It wasn’t like I was going to arrange a
date with a stranger I crashed my cart into at the Publix grocery. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="line-height: 120%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Wait, don’t tell me. That New Age person you work with is the one
who’s hooking you up. That can’t be good. I imagine her taste in men runs to
long-haired, ascetic types with dark, soulful eyes. They all read tarot and
teach meditation classes, go to Nepal on vacation, and wear necklaces made of
healing crystals.” Veronica sighed from the bottom of her soul. “Susan, Susan,
Susan.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="line-height: 120%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“It’s true that Patty got me the date with her boyfriend’s cousin,” I
said reluctantly, “but he’s not a meditation teacher, he’s an insurance
salesman.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="line-height: 120%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Patty and Veronica had only crossed paths once, months ago, when
Veronica stopped by my office to leave off an invitation to her niece’s baby
shower. Patty was wearing gold hoop earrings and was dressed in her usual
style--floor-length crepe, rainbow-colored skirt and matching blouse. Her jet-black
hair hung to her waist in ropy coils, so she looked like one of those carnival
fortunetellers. She’d made the mistake of offering Veronica a half-priced tarot
reading because she looked like she was “having man problems.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="line-height: 120%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I suppose she consulted the pagan gods first. I’ve never had a blind
date in my life and I certainly wouldn’t let someone like Patty arrange one for
me.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="line-height: 120%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She’d told me once that needing to have someone fix you up was an
admission of failure and God knew I didn’t need something else to make me feel
like a loser. I love Veronica dearly, but even she admits she tends to view the
world in black and white and she can be less than tolerant of viewpoints that
differ from her own. Not for the first time I pondered the whimsy of fate that had
brought me a best friend who had so much in common with my mother. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">No, I’d chosen Veronica and
fate had nothing to do with it. </span><!--EndFragment-->
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/We-Interrupt-This-Date-ebook/dp/B002CQU14U/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1316911783&sr=8-2">We Interrupt This Date</a></span></div>
L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-74812979198233492562011-09-17T18:58:00.000-04:002011-09-17T18:58:13.028-04:00#SampleSunday The Witness Wore Blood Bay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglB_mx7Ji-QbY8LUJCDA299kMZtZS5DiSi-ZoQtvmS2sdQaIle433DQAOHkbF6xXQ5J-cK5kqdP8MUcckjLh_MH9O8-Yp_2aChkuY_T7KlkuGdCm9i5GESL-ShChjSeVEobzs0vPvXrAg/s1600/Amazon2BB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglB_mx7Ji-QbY8LUJCDA299kMZtZS5DiSi-ZoQtvmS2sdQaIle433DQAOHkbF6xXQ5J-cK5kqdP8MUcckjLh_MH9O8-Yp_2aChkuY_T7KlkuGdCm9i5GESL-ShChjSeVEobzs0vPvXrAg/s320/Amazon2BB.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
The Witness Wore Blood Bay is the second in my Leigh McRae horse mystery series.<br />
<br />
In this excerpt, Leigh goes undercover to help her cousin Sammi find out who's poisoning the neighborhood dogs. Leigh pretends to be a former resident of the home occupied by suspect Eloise Barker. <br />
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“Hi,
I’m Sarah Goddard.” I smiled so big my mouth hurt.</div>
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Sammi
had used her usual stunning logic to select my faux name. She thought Sarah
sounded sweet and Goddard reminded her of God. And “no one would ever suspect
God of lying and tricking people, would they, babe?” </div>
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“Is
there something I can help you with?” Her narrowed eyes showed her total
suspicion. </div>
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Okay,
Sammi had warned me the Barkers weren’t the most sociable of people. If I were
lucky, Mrs. Barker would be too cautious to fall for my story and I could
leave. I was already regretting my part in Sammi’s scheme to get into the
Barker home. The theory had sounded a lot better than the actuality.</div>
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“Goodness,
I hope I don’t sound silly or anything.” All unbidden my voice had morphed into
the squeaky, overly-optimistic tones of a junior high cheerleader. “My family
used to live here years ago when I was a child. I wondered if you’d mind
terribly showing me the house. You know how it is, you can’t help but get
nostalgic about old times.”</div>
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“Do
you live here in Del Canto?” Her expression would have done credit to a stone.</div>
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“No,
ma’am. I mean, not yet, we’re just visiting, but we might relocate from
Georgia. We’re thinking of moving over there.” I waved my hand to include the
whole western side of town, which would include the harbor and yacht basin as
well as a number of quaint shoppes. </div>
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“Goddard,
you said your name is? Is that your married name, because I don’t recall seeing
that name on any of the paperwork for the house. There were two owners before
us.” By now her eyes were so narrowed down they looked like coin slits in a
piggy bank.</div>
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“Married
name. Yes, I’m a Goddard now.” I hid my ringless left hand in a fold of my
dress and grinned like I was auditioning for a teeth-whitening commercial. I
hoped like mad she wouldn’t ask my maiden name because I did not know either of
the previous two owners. </div>
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“And
your maiden name was...”</div>
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Damn
it. What a suspicious b–I mean, woman. </div>
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“Harper,”
I blurted. Dummy. Why did I choose Brenda’s name?</div>
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Eloise’s
mouth twisted sideways. “I don’t recognize the name Harper.”</div>
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“I
was raised by relatives and my last name was different from theirs.” I was
tempted to pile on details, maybe claim my parents had been lost at sea or sent
to prison for grand theft auto. Sammi had told me once she read in a psychology
book that people would be more likely to believe lies if the liar added lots of
realistic-sounding detail to their tall tales. But I didn’t think the bit about
the parents was all that realistic, so I stifled the impulse and tried to look
honest, yet somewhat traumatized by my difficult childhood. “I understand if
it’s not convenient for me have a look inside.” I took a step backward and
almost fell off the porch. “I’m so sorry I bothered you.”</div>
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<a href="http://amzn.to/hvksEn">The Witness Wore Blood Bay</a></div>
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L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-76857140573258907272011-09-10T19:12:00.000-04:002011-09-10T19:12:53.873-04:00#SampleSunday How do you survive a Jobless Recovery?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Of course, there's no such thing as a jobless recovery because if you're jobless, there is no recovery. Try telling that to the people who run our government. Or talk to former FBI agent Joe Tremaine, one of the main characters in my novel, Jobless Recovery. In this excerpt from Chapter Five, Joe tries to make ends meet by doing odd jobs. As he works on repairing a deck, he contemplates other ways to earn money. These other ways might not be legal, but they sure would bring in money a lot faster.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Chapter Five</div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">The deck repair job wouldn’t take more than half a day. Joe figured he’d clear maybe a hundred bucks for his trouble, not nearly enough to pay for his new prescription. There was too much competition out there from men who’d lost their jobs and were willing to take on any kind of handyman work. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">The glass door in front of him slid open. Joe’s customer, a smug-faced man wearing plaid slacks and a lime colored golf shirt pulled tight over his gut, walked out and stood over him with his hands on his hips like a guard watching a chain gang bust rocks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">“I’ve got to leave to pick up a few things at Office Max. You going to drag the job out to take me for a few more dollars?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Joe straightened up and put down his hammer. “Being that you’re paying me so God-awful much money, I’m going to finish by noon so I can still have time to get down to the bar and hoist a few with my low-life friends.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">The customer had deducted fifty bucks from his bid, knowing Joe would be forced to take the offer. He picked up another nail and touched it to the wood. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. We already agreed on a price.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">The man’s wife sashayed out of the house wearing a microscopic tube top, flesh-eating slacks, and gold-colored high heels. She tugged at her husband’s arm. “Herb, don’t be so rude. Mr. Tremaine’s got only a few more boards to nail on. You go to the store, and I’ll pay him when he’s done.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Joe slid his glance sideways, letting his gaze roam from her face down to her hips and back up. She was a lot younger than her husband. Probably a second wife, or even a third. Let Herb think he was interested, maybe even give him cause to wonder if it was safe to leave his young wife alone with Joe. Serve him right. It was a shame, though, that he couldn’t let the idiot know who he was really dealing with. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">A few minutes later Joe banged in the last nail. His thoughts raced through his mind seeking a way out for him and coming up against a million dead ends. More than once since he landed in poverty he’d thought about making money, a lot of money, by robbing banks or committing any of dozens of other kinds of crimes. He certainly knew enough about crime to be able to put a good plan together and he already had the knack of ignoring his conscience when it was convenient. He’d always thought he’d make a good con man. The main problem, though, and one he hadn’t yet been able to get past, was that he stood out like a giraffe in a pen full of cattle.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Any mark would be able to describe him to the police. “Yes, officer, the thief was six feet tall and he walked with a limp. Dark hair, going gray at the temples. Small scar on his face near his left eye. Big scar on the back of his head. Looked kind of desperate.” Most of the people in his neighborhood would shove each other out of the way to collect the reward money. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Before he left, he pulled his cigarettes out of the glovebox and smoked one while he flipped through his appointment book. It was blank for all the days after today, except for the phone number of a woman who wanted her porch repaired because of termite damage. He tossed the book down on the seat next to his binoculars, still lying where he’d left them after the last time he’d driven down to the river on surveillance.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">His mouth twisted into a grimace. Surveillance--as if he was still worth a damn and still had a job to do. A million times he’d driven past the house and down as close as he could get to the river without trespassing or being seen. He’d hidden among the trees, watching Senator Drake, so motionless even the insects didn’t know he was there. Pathetic, that he had to pretend he was still in the FBI.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Jobless-Recovery-ebook/dp/B0041KL5C2/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1315696325&sr=8-2">Jobless Recovery</a> </span></div><!--EndFragment--></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-5173753688979888172011-09-04T08:24:00.000-04:002011-09-04T08:24:25.118-04:00#SampleSunday Jobless Recovery<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Jobless Recovery is a term we've all come to know. We've read about it in the news, heard about it on TV, and a lot of us are experiencing the jobless recovery. Now here's Jobless Recovery, the novel. Here's a short scene where main character, Dave Griffin, a computer programmer, has just lost his job to cheaper imported labor. Ken is his supervisor, who doesn't know quite how to smooth things over.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8SkwbetHTS9Z9_jHXfKt4BU4rqjkBNe9W1WNf4cTArVepxKXzO2a3YINwRVaWsTlN4km7km6W-XGk4ek0wP6TXmT1zpkxbr8RH62vdUZLSOey8bBxBabmSOgA5SBXyOUz3qalJoR5fYM/s1600/1453792716_front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8SkwbetHTS9Z9_jHXfKt4BU4rqjkBNe9W1WNf4cTArVepxKXzO2a3YINwRVaWsTlN4km7km6W-XGk4ek0wP6TXmT1zpkxbr8RH62vdUZLSOey8bBxBabmSOgA5SBXyOUz3qalJoR5fYM/s320/1453792716_front.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><br />
<br />
From Chapter Three<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">Ken stopped at Dave’s cubicle shortly before lunch and dropped the envelope on his desk as if it were a bomb. Dave shot a rubber band across the cubicle and watched it bounce off a spare monitor he’d scavenged from the supply room and left in a corner in case he needed it one day. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">“Come to give me the tragic news? Don’t like being the bad guy, huh? Guess it hurts your image of yourself as the ever-popular leader of Team B. Hey, don’t worry, you’ll still be my favorite bald-headed boss in plaid.” He lounged in his seat, pretending he wasn’t suffering internal panic.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">Ken’s face went blotchy, spots of red fighting for space with pale beige. “They told me yesterday afternoon in the supervisor’s meeting. Who was riding the rocket and who wasn’t, I mean. I get to stay on and supervise.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">Ken lifted a Dollywood pencil sharpener off of Dave’s desk and turned it over and over in his hands until it popped open and shavings fell out all over the front of his shirt. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">“You don’t have to feel guilty because you didn’t get fired, Ken.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">Ken’s expression remained glum, so Dave added, “I’m glad you still have a job.” Ken might be a pain to work for, but Dave didn’t wish bad luck on him and his family. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">“Thanks. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that I’m not losing...look, don’t worry, Dave. You’re a great programmer and I’ll be glad to give you a recommendation. You’ll find something else.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">“In this economy, I’ll be lucky to get a ticket to ride a match, let alone a rocket.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">“Don’t take it like that. You do see, don’t you, that the company couldn’t afford to pass up this golden opportunity? These new people are sharp.” Ken snapped his fingers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">Dave jerked upright in his seat and banged his fist on his desk. “Shut up, Ken. I mean it, man, don’t insult me. It’s lies and you know it. They’re going to save a bundle of money on labor costs by shipping part of the work overseas and by bringing people here on work visas to undercut our wages. Ability has nothing to do with this whole rotten deal. It’s all about cheaper labor.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">“Try to see things from Markham-Hook’s point of view.” Ken couldn’t meet his eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">“Yeah, right. Markham-Hook just announced record profits and a pay raise for Harris that makes God look poor. Naturally they don’t have any spare change to spread among the workers who built this company to begin with. What about the eighty-hour weeks we put in to make deadlines and what about the error free conversions?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">“Dave, keep your voice down.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">“Keep my voice down? I just lost my job because some greedy CEO dumped me on the street like trash, so he can make a few million dollars more than the rest of the CEO’s in corporate America. I’m supposed to give him a high five?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;">“Bitter, bitter.” Michael pressed into the cubicle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ken took the opportunity to slink past him into the hallway and scurry toward his office. Dave shot him a one-finger salute.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond;"><a href="http://amzn.to/eVBkv5">Jobless Recovery</a></span></div><!--EndFragment--></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-38634440381752301162011-08-27T21:20:00.000-04:002011-08-27T21:20:16.117-04:00#SampleSunday The Witness Wore Blood Bay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>350</o:Words> <o:Characters>1998</o:Characters> <o:Company>Product Key: Product Key: J999F-WDFDT-7Q73X-W372R-3</o:Company> <o:Lines>16</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>2453</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Here's an excerpt from Chapter Two in which Leigh McRae has just learned that a friend from the horse club was arrested for murder. Leigh and her cousin Sammi have gone over to the friend's house to bring so food for the woman's husband. But they've discovered he's not alone. The victim's wife is with him and it doesn't look like the pair have been playing chess. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Sammi beat me to the car and yanked open the passenger side door. She turned to glare in the direction of the house. “I have half a mind to take back what’s left of my chocolate cake. Okay, so they’re both in shock, and from what little we know it looks like Candy did off Richard. But they don’t have to be so blatant about their relationship while the poor woman rots in jail.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Samantha Hollister, I’m perplexed by your attitude. Aren’t you the one who’s always telling people to read self-help books and stop judging others?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Cut it out. You thought the same thing I did.” She tossed her purse on the floor of the car and made a growling sound deep in her throat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, I did,” I admitted. I paused with my hand on my car door and stared in the direction of the stable. My mental machinery hummed, telling me there was more than one way to help the Lowells.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“As far as I’m concerned, babe, the only self-help book those two need is something called </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman Italic"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Cooling Off, For Dummies</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">. And Francine could benefit from a course in how to tame her inner bitch. Let’s get going. I’m hot, tired, and I still have to pick up Jeeves at Maggie’s.” Jeeves was Sammi’s Old English Sheepdog. Sammi took him to Maggie’s for regular grooming sessions to keep his coat under control.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“In a minute.” I felt my brow furrow and knew I was risking the permanent wrinkles all the face cream ads warned me about. “Mark doesn’t know much about horses. It wouldn’t be neighborly of me to race off into the sunset without checking to see that Candy’s mare is okay. After all, the poor horse did witness a murder today.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sammi put her hands to her head and pretended to rip clumps of her hair out of her scalp. “You are too much. So now you’re using the mare’s supposed trauma as an excuse to scope out the murder scene.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m just saying.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll bet you are. But what’s the rule about you getting involved in murder cases? Tell me, babe, what’s the rule?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s not exactly a rule, it’s more of a helpful guideline. Besides, seeing to a traumatized horse is not the same as getting involved.” I shot her a smile meant to convince her I was simply looking out for the mare. My initial reluctance to drive over to the Lowell place had turned into a wicked case of curious. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I ought to hog tie you and throw you in the trunk. Unfortunately, I know you won’t shut up until I give in. But you owe me one.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .3in .6in .9in 1.2in 1.5in 1.8in 2.1in 2.4in 2.7in 3.0in 3.3in 3.6in 3.9in 4.2in 4.5in 4.8in 5.1in 5.4in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><a href="http://amzn.to/hvksEn">The Witness Wore Blood Bay</a></span></div><!--EndFragment--></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-3700672192569218822011-08-21T07:38:00.000-04:002011-08-21T07:38:57.558-04:00#SampleSunday In Which Susan Finally Confronts Philip<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>314</o:Words> <o:Characters>1791</o:Characters> <o:Company>Product Key: Product Key: J999F-WDFDT-7Q73X-W372R-3</o:Company> <o:Lines>14</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>2199</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclhziwSmmrc6sZ06eCtRHEh89uUmuGURUyqvTkLZ_KgvN4tUQU-6u5yV6VQh2ZyX3TG_kLc7pZamoEgnGisU-UTR7vbC-otkhrrePdj4lO_OlSlohva58BbojP7B4-gwdb-j-jkgWKOo/s1600/P1010220.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclhziwSmmrc6sZ06eCtRHEh89uUmuGURUyqvTkLZ_KgvN4tUQU-6u5yV6VQh2ZyX3TG_kLc7pZamoEgnGisU-UTR7vbC-otkhrrePdj4lO_OlSlohva58BbojP7B4-gwdb-j-jkgWKOo/s320/P1010220.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pier at Charleston's Folly Beach</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 120%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> The door opened wider, enough for me to fit myself in the narrow space between the frame and the door edge. I slid inside and watched as he pushed the door shut, redid the lock and poked the chain into its slot. I glanced around, glad it wasn’t me living at the budget motel. The room smelled of mildew and old food wrappers. The rug was so worn I couldn’t be sure there was actually a rug or if I was just looking at random fibers glued to the concrete. The bedspread—ragged, mouse colored, stained—hung crookedly off the side of the bed. Motel issue lamp, phone, and nightstand completed the decor. No sign of a TV, though there was a broken piece of plastic that might have once been part of a TV stand bolted to the floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 120%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> Philip held out his hand like a kid expecting me to slap a chocolate bar onto his palm on Halloween Night. “What are you waiting for?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 120%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> I scowled. “You’re not going to get money from my mother or from anyone else in my family.” My voice trembled ever so slightly. Not what I’d hoped for, but I was doing okay, already feeling an adrenaline rush. “I know all about wife number—whatever. Could be twenty for all I know. The new one in a hotel across the river. I’m sure she’d love to teach you a lesson. I’m sure she’d love to know you’re already married to Lurlene, who is no doubt sharpening her knife back in Arkansas at this very moment. In fact, I’m sure Lurlene is wondering when you’re coming home. I have her number and I will call her right now if you don’t stop harassing my mother. What I really ought to do is call the police, but out of respect for Mama’s feelings, I’m going to hold off on that.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 120%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Patty would have been proud of me. The voice tremble had melted away to be replaced by the authoritative tone of someone in charge of a situation--a police officer or even a judge. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 120%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> Philip’s face twisted into a reptilian sneer. I wanted to slap some respect into him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 120%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’m not afraid of a bunch of stupid women. I happen to know that Regina, the stupid cow, would jump off the nearest bridge before she’d let me tell her new sweetheart about her past. Her reputation means the world to her, and that’s as good as money in my pocket.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 120%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 120%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><a href="http://amzn.to/hlATSv">We Interrupt This Date</a></span></div><!--EndFragment--></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-40395168263290369622011-08-07T08:44:00.001-04:002011-08-07T11:41:37.815-04:00#SampleSunday I predicted this economic mess in Jobless Recovery<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZovYKaTakKYum82fUlbbjgg79-929aoHxRy4DDn2SQVU9vDNlF_C5foETKjT1xx8Us0-3HIM3Xazpw41fULMquIkGVbT7bPa7mVnHjSNOWKWBlAWrzOusnsIRcmUdXPt64U_F7nWIP2k/s1600/Jobless-Recovery_front09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZovYKaTakKYum82fUlbbjgg79-929aoHxRy4DDn2SQVU9vDNlF_C5foETKjT1xx8Us0-3HIM3Xazpw41fULMquIkGVbT7bPa7mVnHjSNOWKWBlAWrzOusnsIRcmUdXPt64U_F7nWIP2k/s200/Jobless-Recovery_front09.jpg" width="128" /></a></div>In the year 2000 I first noticed the trend in the United States to outsource jobs overseas. It was all about cheaper labor and lax labor laws. In 2001 I realized that greedy corporations had started to misuse work visas to import cheaper labor to replace working Americans. These are the same corporations that expect Americans to fight and die in the U.S. military to protect their interests here and abroad.<br />
<br />
I wrote a novel, Jobless Recovery, and published in 2005. By 201009 many of the things I wrote about in the book had come true. I updated the book and republished in 2010. It doesn't take a psychic to predict an economic collapse in a country run by politicians who have sold their people out to corporate sponsors. I just didn't expect it to happen this fast.<br />
<br />
Excerpt from the book. Dave Griffin has just lost his computer programming job to cheaper imported labor and has decided to call Washington and complain:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">All the staffers responded as if reading from the same script and they spouted the same meaningless phrases, "education is the answer" and "trade creates jobs."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">The pigeons had gone away disappointed, and Dave’s jaw had clamped into an unhealthy tightness by the time he got around to calling the U.S. Department of Commerce.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">“What education? How exactly does trade create jobs when all the trade is only flowing one way?” He realized his voice did not sound like the calm, cool, Dave-in-command he’d wanted to project and instead had grown whiny and maybe a little desperate.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">“The cash for clunkers program and the economic stimulus will create jobs,” said another phone voice in soothing tones.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">“But I don’t have a clunker and the corporations getting all the stimulus money aren’t hiring. They aren’t even loaning money to people. I don’t want a handout, I want a job.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">“You simply don’t understand how the system works.” A disdainful snort sounded over the line. “Since workers have their retirement money in the stock market, anything companies do to increase profits is good for workers even if they lose their jobs.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">“What did you just say?” His voice cracked like that of a teenager. “That’s insane.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">“Sir-er,” the nasal voice said, making sir into a two-syllable word, “contact your local Employment Security Commission.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Click.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Dave sighed. He’d exhausted all his options. If there was a book called <i>The New Economy for the Completely Clueless</i>, he hadn’t read it. But all evidence indicated no one in Washington had either. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">He felt as if he’d been smacked in the teeth by robots spouting government double-talk. He tried to imagine a scenario where the fast-talking salesman who’d sold him the Behemoth had tried to woo him with statements such as, "Celebrate diversity and wage compression in your vehicle. Let no car be left behind in the race to global sourcing. The new free trade in vehicles—and clunkers--will spur economic growth through increased auto production and new low interest rates to stimulate consumer confidence. So don’t worry about downsizing, rightsizing, and offshoring of your current model. Education is the key to safe driving. Just call this toll-free number for training and the free health care plan for your car."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">He’d have peeled out of the Spectrum Motors lot like a scalded cat. Why, then, had he not reacted when his own government dealt the equivalent of that speech to the American people, not once, but many times over? As long as the trucks kept bringing goods to stock the shelves of the discount marts and the Foodarama, like everyone else, he’d allowed himself to become practically comatose. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">As an afterthought, he dialed the toll-free training number given him by U.S. Department of Labor Comment Line. The number connected him to a recruiting office for the United States Army.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><a href="http://amzn.to/eVBkv5">Jobless Recovery</a></div></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-6159678517329482642011-07-24T08:25:00.000-04:002011-07-24T08:25:06.421-04:00#SampleSunday My Planet or Yours<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> This week I'm giving readers a sneak preview of my new chick lit/sci fi romance book, My Planet or Yours. This excerpt is from Chapter One. Space traveler Triskam is from the planet Darvanius. He's just crash landed his pod on planet Earth. </span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Damn. Who would have thought an ordinary space traveler would end up flat on his back staring up at the sky of a world millions of light years from his own? With no way of returning, he might add. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The crew on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sheloni</i> would monitor transmissions and finally conclude the pod had crashed, but for now they were keeping on the other side of this planet called, he remembered now, Earth. They wouldn’t know he'd managed to safely land. There were those among them, primarily Garrick, the ship's second officer, who’d consider him a coward for pushing that stabilizer button. Technically he hadn’t pushed it. One of his limbs had hit the thing while he’d tumbled about the pod’s cabin. But, he admitted to himself, he'd made the decision to survive and would certainly have stabilized the craft and deployed the landing system on purpose if he could have. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eventually he pulled himself to a sitting position. He had no serious injuries, though he was banged up from the wild tumbling about in the pod. He pulled his Personal Pilot out of the pouch strapped around his waist and ran his fingers over its smooth, silver-colored surface. It appeared unharmed, thank goodness.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He flipped it open. "Pilot, what is my whereabouts?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Earth, Commander." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I have told you before. I am not a Commander. My rank is Lieutenant."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A brief hesitation and then the pilot's voice replied. "You are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> commander, sir."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Right." Pointless to argue with a machine. He wasn't the one who'd programmed the thing. "Why are you speaking in an Earth language? It is permissable to speak Darvanian. There are only the two of us here."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The pilot had understood what he'd said in Darvanian, but it had replied in English. Triskam had studied that language and, being that he was his ship's language specialist, had more or less mastered spoken English. His people had been monitoring this planet’s transmissions for as long as the planet had the technology to transmit.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"One of my circuits was damaged when you crushed me with your posterior region against a panel of the pod before stabilization. I cannot reach my other language boards."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Triskam blew his breath out sharply. Not good. He hoped the pilot was otherwise undamaged. He'd need it to survive. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Sorry. The crushing with my posterior region was unintentional. Where on Earth have we landed?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"United States. Arizona. Mostly an area of uninhabited desert. Why have you landed, the craft, Commander? Landing is a clear violation of Space Service directives. You have committed a grave crime." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"We will discuss that later. Right now I have to think."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Violations of Space Service directives are very serious and should be discussed now."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 443.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Triskam rolled his eyes. "What are you, my nanny? Get busy performing diagnostics on yourself." He snapped the pilot shut and returned it to his pouch. <o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment--> </div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-9613392471570173952011-05-29T07:35:00.000-04:002011-05-29T07:35:03.609-04:00#SampleSunday We Interrupt This Date<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ8zCgyG8bmWDDXJP34avgWVnfUorNsFSWvbRkW3fs0A9zGcB29kHGd3vtKpFONRV1MF4oN0-02wQZ7Dq7hyphenhyphenqVjiW67X2ZWX3D6LafNaJT7bT5Uot9BWpIFybGZhE7hCF5C1Zi2s65znw/s1600/P1010220.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ8zCgyG8bmWDDXJP34avgWVnfUorNsFSWvbRkW3fs0A9zGcB29kHGd3vtKpFONRV1MF4oN0-02wQZ7Dq7hyphenhyphenqVjiW67X2ZWX3D6LafNaJT7bT5Uot9BWpIFybGZhE7hCF5C1Zi2s65znw/s320/P1010220.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charleston's Folly Beach</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Here's an excerpt from Chapter Six of We Interrupt This Date. Main character Susan tells Mama she's going to operate a ghost tour business.<br />
<br />
Excerpt: Mama considered herself a gracious southern lady, a member of the club made up of women with accents that sounded as if the words were dipped in honey and stretched out into extra syllables. Like all of them, Mama was tough as old leather. She was a strong woman who’d survived widowhood—my father. And desertion—my sister’s father. She’d managed a career as an accountant’s secretary, raised two girls, and retired comfortably with her dignity intact.<br />
<!--StartFragment--> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I’d win the argument, though. Of course, me winning meant that Mama would finally throw up her hands in defeat and blink her eyes at warp speed, leading me to believe she wanted to frown, but didn’t dare risk the wrinkles. Then she’d say in that low, melodious voice of hers, “You mark my words, Susan Nicole Caraway, you are making a large mistake, bless your heart. A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very</i> large mistake.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;">She’d gather the Chihuahuas and dump them into the straw basket—woven by a Gullah woman—that she called her purse. Then she’d stagger out to her Cadillac leaning sideways from the weight of the little dogs.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I thought of this now as I changed from business casual into a pair of jeans and a tee shirt sporting the logo from some metal band Christian pretends to like. Mama never really gets angry, doesn’t raise her voice. Voice-raising isn’t ladylike. Even when she reminds me she said to mark her words—such as when the minivan I’d bought against her advice developed a problem with the radio—she is always ready to pitch in and help pick up the pieces. Mama is fond of saying, “There is no love greater than a mother’s love for her offspring.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve given up trying to get her to say children instead of offspring. Offspring always makes me think of a science experiment involving genetics and multiple generations of albino lab rats that specialize in running mazes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I ran my fingers through my hair and padded barefoot down the hall into the kitchen. I discovered that Mama had already fixed salad and garlic bread to go with the vegetarian lasagna she’d baked earlier.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The table was set and Mama had brought white carnations for a centerpiece. She’d arranged them in a bowl so they sat low between the salad and a pitcher of iced tea, all the better for her to see me from the opposite end of the table. A gracious lady always has flowers in the house, I’ve been told a million times, and plastic flowers don’t count. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Somehow I’ve never managed to become a gracious lady. Mama has to keep reminding me I’ve fallen short and my sister hasn’t even made the effort, and Mama doesn’t know why she keeps trying with two daughters who are simply doing their best to torment her into an early grave. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I waited until she locked the Chihuahuas on the back porch with a bowl of tiny kibble, a food recommended by Mama’s best friend, Lydia Freeman. Lydia is a Chihuahua breeder active with the local dog rescue organization. She has a Cadillac identical to Mama’s, except for a bumper sticker that reads, “If you don’t rescue, don’t breed.” Before I knew she raised dogs, I had no clue what the bumper sticker meant—I thought Lydia was simply anti-sex. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Mama carried the food to the table. We ate, chatting about the new gift shop near Calhoun Street, and how Ruthie Ames’ daughter Cindy, who was as flaky as her Aunt Lou’s pie crust, had dropped out of the College of Charleston to “go find herself in Idaho.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Can you imagine?” Mama said, dabbing her lips with her cloth napkin. “If she can’t figure out where she is right here in the city where she was born and raised, then there is no hope in Idaho where all the people are roughnecks. No hope at all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I knew Mama was thinking of my younger sister DeLorean as much as she was thinking about Cindy Ames. DeLorean had gone to LA a couple of years ago, not to find herself, but to let LA find her. So far, all she’d managed to do was move in with a stuck up movie producer and have a baby. There seemed slim chance of her ever being discovered, if that’s what she really expected. I doubted if even DeLorean knew what she wanted out of life. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">But then, I was one to talk. Married for nineteen years, divorced for one and I was finally getting around to figuring out I didn’t want to be stuck in a loan office answering phones and soothing the feelings of entitlement-minded customers. I wasn’t sure that running ghost tours was what I wanted to do either, but I’d been forced into the situation and maybe that was what Patty’s Universe had had in store for me all along. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Mama?” I got up and started filling the dishwasher. “I hope you’re not still upset about my phone call last night.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Your phone call?” She made phone into two-syllables. “You mean that nonsense about selling the house to live in a bed and breakfast and going off to hunt for ghosts like some common street person with pagan beliefs? I’ve raised you better, the good Lord knows I have, and by now you’ve surely to God realized you simply can’t do such a thing. I mean, people will think you’ve been mentally unhinged by the divorce, positively gone around the bend and that you need help before you ruin your life entirely. Though no one could blame you after T. Chandler dumped you for that gold digging home wrecker with the huge bosoms. I’m sure they were fake; pure silicon—or is it carbon they’re made of? What was her name?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Crystal,” I said. “Crystal Rose.” I gritted my teeth and hunted under the sink for the dishwashing powder. A year later and Mama still brought up the incident like it had happened an hour ago and, of course, it was my own fault and she wasn’t going to let me forget.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Whatever. Sounds like a made up name to me, like she’s one of those low women who take off their clothes in bars and fit themselves into all kinds of suggestive positions around metal poles. But didn’t I say to mark my words? I said, I don’t know how many times, I said, ‘Susan, when a man claims a best friend who’s a woman, and that woman isn’t his wife, then there’s trouble brewing.’ As sure as peach blossoms turn into peaches you can expect trouble.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah, Mama, you did all but spell it out. I still walked around oblivious, cooking and cleaning and taking care of my home while T. Chandler worked himself into a lather over a pair of size 40D faux breasts and an enhanced butt. Dumb me. No surprise when I eventually found myself in divorce court.” I made my voice deep and ominous when I said “divorce court” as if I were talking about the deepest pit of hell. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I should have been able to figure things out for myself without Mama’s warning—which I’d ignored. What forty-two-year-old man has a bubble-brained flirt for a best pal? To be fair, though, my sin was apathy more than cluelessness. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Don’t be flippant, dear. The point is, I believe, we were going to discuss this horrible plan of yours so I could advise you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I sighed. I was positive I hadn’t asked for either a discussion or her advice. And equally positive that no force on earth could prevent her from butting in. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“There’s nothing to discuss. I’ve already told Veronica I’ll do it.” I would not tell her Odell had fired me and Veronica’s offer was the only one on the table. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I must say, I am shocked.” Mama pulled a lavender spray bottle out of her purse and spritzed the air around her for about a three-foot radius. She sniffed delicately and sat back in her chair. I knew she was counting on the lavender aromatherapy to help her get over her shock while she thought up ways to influence me. Naturally she wanted me to continue to sit around and grow bitter, yet remain a true southern lady who holds her chin up and keeps a prominent display of her best wedding photos—with the lying skunk cut out of them—on the mantle.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“It’s a done deal and I am not changing my mind.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I hope she hasn’t spent any money yet. Because it’s just a matter of a few days before you realize what a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fatal</i> mistake you’ll be making.” Mama shivered. I half expected her to reach for the lavender again, but a yelp from the direction of the porch caused her to swivel to face the door. “That Tiny, he thinks he’s a Great Dane. Always beating up poor Sweetpea.” Sighing, she started to rise.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;">I waved her back down. “I’ll get them.” I marched out to the porch where a growling Tiny, his dark marble eyes bulging from his skull with the effort, stood over the cowering Sweetpea. He’d placed one nickel-sized paw on Sweetpea’s black and tan chest. </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;">“Stop that right now, you little beast,” I snarled. “If the Dog Whisperer didn’t live clear across the country, I’d haul you in for rehab.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">When my warning did no good, I squatted and cupped my hands around Tiny’s body. He sank his needle teeth into my wrist, but they hardly made a dent. I carried him back into the kitchen and dumped him on Mama’s lap, leaving the other dog on the porch.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Mama, I’ve made up my mind about the new job. I mean, look at me. For the first time in I don’t know how long—at least a year—I actually feel enthusiastic about something.” Sort of true. “I’m looking forward to living at the Seaside View. It’s beautiful, it’s close to the harbor. I’ll be able to walk all over the historic district enjoying the sights and the fresh air of one of the most beautiful cities in the country. I won’t have this huge house to work me to death. It’s a new beginning.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Four bedrooms isn’t exactly huge.” Mama sniffed and looked around as if she could peer through walls and see the rest of the house, mentally measuring the dimensions. “And you don’t look anywhere near death.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“That isn’t the point,” I ground out. “I’m ready to do something for me. Maybe I’ll like conducting ghost tours and maybe I won’t, but at least I’ll know I tried. I can always look for something else if it doesn’t work out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes, but you’ll be without a home, and you know you love this place and you love working in your garden. And you’ll have no job. Lack of a paycheck is the first step toward winding up in the streets.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I promise I’ll stay out of the streets. And I wouldn’t quit the ghost tours until I found something else.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes, no doubt you’ll end up at the reins of one of those poor horses that pull those overloaded carts—carts simply full to bursting with sightseers.” She grabbed Tiny’s rhinestone encrusted collar and pulled him back into her lap before he could climb on the table. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“The carts aren’t that full,” I said in clipped tones. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“And you’d have to empty those horse diaper things. I can just imagine the condition of your poor fingernails. I can almost smell the manure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">So could I. I rolled my eyes. The phone rang and I started to say I’d let the machine answer, but Mama threw up her hands in her patented “I give up” gesture that really meant “I’ll keep hounding you until you admit I was right, because you are going to land on your face.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“You will crash and burn, Susan. Mark my words, you will wish you never lowered yourself to being a ghost walker.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Ghost tour operator.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Call it what you will. I won’t be able to hold my head up in church when my friends spot you parading around Charleston leading tourists looking for wisps of fog.” She sucked in air like she was taking her last breath, dropped Tiny into the purse, and went out on the porch to gather the other dog. I spared a moment of pity for Sweetpea who’d be forced to ride home in a confined space with the ferocious Tiny.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/We-Interrupt-This-Date-ebook/dp/B002CQU14U/ref=sr_1_1_title_1_ke?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1306668704&sr=1-1">We Interrupt This Date</a></span></div><!--EndFragment--> </div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-89770241607800905982011-05-22T08:03:00.000-04:002011-05-22T08:03:37.160-04:00The Witness Wore Blood Bay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Excerpt from a random chapter. Doug Reilly is moving into Leigh's guesthouse. As Leigh is helping Doug unload his car, Doug's ex girlfriend drives by. </span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dang. What’s that woman doing out this way?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What woman?” I hefted a trash bag and decided it was light enough for me to carry to the guesthouse.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Rebecca. That was her car. I hope she ain’t following me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I silently agreed with him. For some reason I really would rather she didn’t know Doug had moved out to my place, but I’d seen the driver turn and look directly at us, though I hadn’t been able to make out her features from that distance. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m sure she wasn’t stalking you or anything, Doug. I was at Brenda’s earlier and she said Rebecca was coming by to get a puppy she was giving away, so that has to be why she’s out here. Except I got the puppy for myself.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah?” He frowned. “Hope Rebecca don’t hold it against you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good lord, Doug, you sure are scared of her. For heavens sake, what could she possibly do?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Anything.” He shot me a dark look and slung one of the trash bags over his shoulder. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You might be right.” I shivered. Rebecca was younger and stronger than I was and fully capable of inflicting plenty of damage if she wanted to. I’d seen that when she went after Doug, who had probably deserved a little roughing up given his track record with women--date ‘em and dump ‘em. But of course, Rebecca wouldn’t hurt me. Sane people don’t go around hurting other people simply because they lost out on a puppy. Or because that person tricked their way her parents’ house. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Doug and I finished carrying bags to the guesthouse and came back to the car to wrestle a donated TV out of the trunk. I hoped he knew that cable didn’t come with the rent.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Got it?” I asked. From the way he was staring over my head, I figured he’d zoned out and was in danger of dropping the set on my feet. I took two steps back before I turned to follow the direction of his gaze. Damn. Rebecca was passing the house again, and this time her car was crawling along under the limit. When she got even with my driveway, she braked hard and flipped a bird at us before accelerating and disappearing around a curve in the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Guess she ain’t too happy about you getting that puppy.” Doug hitched the TV higher and took a tighter grip. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Guess not.” I wished I hadn’t seen her drive by.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>About ten minutes later, Brenda stopped to drop off Lorne--I still hadn’t thought of a better name--right after Adam pulled up behind Doug’s car. I didn’t like owing Brenda. On the other hand, I really did want to protect the puppy from a woman with a violent temper.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Here you go.” She pushed the puppy into my arms and, seeing that Adam had walked up beside me, she handed him a sample bag of puppy food. “Francine has his health record, so you’ll have to pick it up from her. Thanks. ‘Bye.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She zoomed off as if she were afraid I’d not only change my mind, but I’d load the back of her pickup with more animals for her to feed. Poor Brenda. She was struggling to sell off excess animals and not having all that much luck. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Adam held the dog food out in front of him and shook the bag, pretending to be shocked. “Another stray?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sort of. Brenda couldn’t keep him and I didn’t want Rebecca to get her hands on him. She’s evil.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Evil? You’re starting to sound like Sammi. Who’s Rebecca?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Doug’s ex girlfriend. Not Tina--the latest ex.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Doug’s girlfriend situation is way too complicated for me.” He rolled his eyes. “Let’s go fix dinner. I brought steaks. Uhmm, you don’t have to feed Doug, do you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 407.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Witness-Wore-Blood-Bay-ebook/dp/B004KNWHX6/ref=pd_sim_kinc_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2">The Witness Wore Blood Bay</a></span></div><!--EndFragment--> </div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-26901587855407916202011-05-08T07:39:00.000-04:002011-05-08T07:39:59.964-04:00#Sample Sunday We Interrupt This Date<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYXfg92quC0uJe6svV-pjKCWlRz86_MbE_wjiiC2GtOf-YKSrCPVCNAXFjpIWdLFnV289yCI-3vfcinwdvB6yDrQJ5ZzMxnX-F9EQnYWvCIz12Yp4ngJy1Kz34zVoFiIESiOqJfdj-h2Y/s1600/P1010286.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYXfg92quC0uJe6svV-pjKCWlRz86_MbE_wjiiC2GtOf-YKSrCPVCNAXFjpIWdLFnV289yCI-3vfcinwdvB6yDrQJ5ZzMxnX-F9EQnYWvCIz12Yp4ngJy1Kz34zVoFiIESiOqJfdj-h2Y/s320/P1010286.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Charleston</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Sample from Chapter Two of We Interrupt This Date. Susan is having lunch with her friend Veronica. Veronica is dismayed to learn that Susan is going on a blind date arranged by her flaky friend, Patty. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">My casual shoulder shrug and my sudden interest in watching a couple of restaurant patrons stroll by were admission enough. Veronica knew I hadn’t been anywhere lately except to yoga. It wasn’t like I was going to arrange a date with a stranger I crashed my cart into at the Publix grocery. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Wait, don’t tell me. That New Age person you work with is the one who’s hooking you up. That can’t be good. I imagine her taste in men runs to long-haired, ascetic types with dark, soulful eyes. They all read tarot and teach meditation classes, go to Nepal on vacation, and wear necklaces made of healing crystals.” Veronica sighed from the bottom of her soul. “Susan, Susan, Susan.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“It’s true that Patty got me the date with her boyfriend’s cousin,” I said reluctantly, “but he’s not a meditation teacher, he’s an insurance salesman.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Patty and Veronica had only crossed paths once, months ago, when Veronica stopped by my office to leave off an invitation to her niece’s baby shower. Patty was wearing gold hoop earrings and was dressed in her usual style--floor-length crepe, rainbow-colored skirt and matching blouse. Her jet-black hair hung to her waist in ropy coils, so she looked like one of those carnival fortunetellers. She’d made the mistake of offering Veronica a half-priced tarot reading because she looked like she was “having man problems.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I suppose she consulted the pagan gods first. I’ve never had a blind date in my life and I certainly wouldn’t let someone like Patty arrange one for me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">She’d told me once that needing to have someone fix you up was an admission of failure and God knew I didn’t need something else to make me feel like a loser. I love Veronica dearly, but even she admits she tends to view the world in black and white and she can be less than tolerant of viewpoints that differ from her own. Not for the first time I pondered the whimsy of fate that had brought me a best friend who had so much in common with my mother. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">No, I’d chosen Veronica and fate had nothing to do with it. The answer to the question of why I’d made that choice drifted out of my grasp.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 120%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Veronica put her cup down and signaled the waiter. “You know you’re wasting your time going on a blind date when you’ve already found someone on your own.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 120%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mama couldn’t have put it better herself. But if Jack Maxwell were sitting here, he’d have said, “Go for it. You can’t win if you don’t enter the race.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 120%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I shook my head. I knew I was thinking about Jack only because Mama had tried to fix me up with a man this morning. There’s something about coming out of a year long fog that causes a lot of random thoughts and buried memories to pop up when you least expect or want them to. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You never know how things will work out, Veronica. Besides, like you said, I need a starter date to get me off and running.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We parted at the door. I wished she hadn’t been so negative about my date, so willing to believe it would be a waste of time. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I allowed my imagination to wander. Patty’s boyfriend’s cousin might turn out to be my soul mate, even though I hadn’t really wanted to go out and only agreed to shut Patty up. And because Everybody Loves Raymond reruns had lost their appeal. And because—just because I was tired of being predictable, soft touch Susan, who wasn’t special to anyone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><a href="http://amzn.to/hlATSv">We Interrupt This Date</a></span></div><!--EndFragment--> </div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-30929839388684159092011-04-17T07:34:00.001-04:002011-04-17T07:35:42.660-04:00#Sample Sunday We Interrupt This Date<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgL3zipVmkurn1hmEG3G1TLFLz2HAPGSe47ubpfkxah-iVFT3LO6m_xrTgkDGAk9raxhckOVU8Z99uYej_iU1mupz2JxqnjLOtn9vHgNWusU1kLdoJnmHktKWozkGwZ0K0ld8bYs2myx0/s1600/P1010278.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgL3zipVmkurn1hmEG3G1TLFLz2HAPGSe47ubpfkxah-iVFT3LO6m_xrTgkDGAk9raxhckOVU8Z99uYej_iU1mupz2JxqnjLOtn9vHgNWusU1kLdoJnmHktKWozkGwZ0K0ld8bYs2myx0/s320/P1010278.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charleston Harbor at Sunrise view from Battery Park</td></tr>
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<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right; text-indent: 28px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 47px; line-height: 41px;"><br />
</span></span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;"> I rushed into SNOB—Slightly North of Broad-ten minutes late. Veronica was leaning casually against the wall near the door. She was wearing an ordinary silk dress in a sage color that exactly matched the contact lenses she’d chosen to wear over her light gray eyes. Her short hair framed her face in wispy blonde curls that set off her features. Not for the first time I wished I were petite and had a perfect figure like hers. Instead I’m tall, pushing five feet ten, and too much comfort food since my divorce had glommed fat onto my hips like a pair lumpy parasites, one on each side. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">At least my face hadn’t gained weight. Veronica has assured me my face is heart-shaped, with lovely cheekbones, and that I’m lucky my large brown eyes have no need of color enhancing contacts. I have so many style options, she insists, unlike herself. Veronica always complains bitterly that her jaw is too square, something I think is hardly noticeable except when she gets angry or bossy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">Veronica isn’t one for air kisses or for beating around the bush. She peeked once at her watch and allowed her eyes to widen the slightest bit. It’s one of her signature moves. “Susan, we have so much to discuss.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">“Sorry, the parking was--”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">She patted my arm. “I know. Never mind. I have good news. After I give you every last detail, and you realize how fantastic your life is going to be, we’ll have a nice catch-up chat.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">“What good news?” I glanced around to orient myself. I hadn’t been to SNOB since my divorce. Everything was the same, though. It’s in a nineteenth century brick building. Lots of atmosphere and fantastic food.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">Veronica was already following the hostess to our designated table, the stylish heels of her designer shoes barely making a sound as she seemed to float an inch or so above the floor. “How long has it been since we’ve made time for each other?” she called back over her shoulder, ignoring my question. “Other than quick phone calls which hardly count.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">“At least two months.” I frowned, wondering why my shoes clumped when I walked instead of tapping gently like hers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">Maybe longer than two months. Veronica had been my roommate in college until I married T. Chandler halfway through. But we’d kept up our friendship over the years, helped by the fact that we live in the same town. She’s originally from Newberry, a picturesque little town west of Columbia, but Newberry hadn’t been big enough for her ambition—Veronica’s words, not mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">She hadn’t given me a clue of any kind when she’d called a couple of days ago. I wondered if she’d decided to marry Walter, her latest relationship. I remembered, though, the last time she’d mentioned him she’d complained he was too clingy in a sad, orphaned gorilla kind of way. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">Veronica eyed me over the top of her menu. “I don’t know what to say.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">“About what?” Had something happened to my hair in the few minutes since I’d run a comb through it before I left my car? Wind-blown? A bald patch? Pigeon droppings? Maybe I should have applied new golden highlights last night instead of deciding to postpone for a week.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">“You look different. Have you changed your makeup? No, that isn’t it. It’s something intangible.” She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head to one side to focus on my face. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">“Same old me.” I turned my attention to the lunch special and tried to decide if I wanted the southern crab salad, a favorite of mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;">But my thoughts drifted. Though I’d told Veronica I hadn’t changed, I admitted to myself that wasn’t one hundred percent the truth. I’d moped around for months feeling like the world’s biggest failure after my divorce, but recently I’d caught myself showing sparks of life. I was no longer spending every weekend raiding my refrigerator and vegetating in front of home decorating reruns on HGTV hoping Mama wouldn’t call to give me advice.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 120%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/We-Interrupt-This-Date-ebook/dp/B002CQU14U/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1303040115&sr=8-5">We interrupt This Date</a></span></div></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-66823911944561124522011-04-03T08:03:00.000-04:002011-04-03T08:03:09.455-04:00#SampleSunday The Witness Wore Blood Bay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">The Witness Wore Blood Bay is the second book in my Leigh McRae mystery series. You don't have to read the first book to enjoy the second one as a standalone. In the following scene, Leigh and her cousin Sammi have just learned that Candy Lowell has been arrested for murdering Richard Swale. They have gone to Candy's home to deliver some food to Candy's husband, Mark, and are discussing events with him in his living room. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Sammi’s right about the lawyer, Mark. Whatever happened in that stable, Candy deserves a chance to defend herself in court.” I would have suggested my ex sister-in-law, Kendra, the only attorney I knew, except that A) she wasn’t a criminal defense attorney and B) I didn’t like her.</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“I don’t agree. That bitch killed my husband and I want her to fry!” </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Sammi stifled a yelp and I jumped to my feet, almost spilling what was left of my tea. Francine Swale stood in the doorway between the living room and the dining room, her hands on her curvy hips. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">I couldn't help staring at what I judged to be a surgically enhanced chest. The woman could have modeled for Playboy if she were fifteen years younger, and if her face weren’t all blotchy from rage. Or from crying—I couldn’t tell which.</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Ladies, this is Francine Swale. She works with me selling cars.” Mark cleared his throat a couple of times. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Yeah, and she was also the murder victim's widow. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he’d much rather we hadn't found out she was in the house and had obviously been there the whole time, lurking out of sight and probably listening. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Francine, ah, didn’t feel well enough to go home, so she’s been resting in the guest room. Francine, Leigh McRae and her cousin, Sammi Hollister.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Hello, Francine.” I didn’t bother to remind her I’d met her before and I’d seen her last night at the horse club meeting—arguing with her husband, who was now dead. “Sorry for your loss.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Francine’s dark eyes snapped. “So am I. But the police know Candy did it and she’s going to pay one way or the other. I hope she fries like breakfast bacon.” She strode across the room and dropped onto the couch next to Mark, crossing her long legs and not bothering to tug her micro skirt down over her shapely thighs. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">I pasted on the stupidest of smiles for lack of anything useful to say or do. I mean, how do you agree with a remark like that without coming across like a vigilante? </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There, there, Francine. If the justice system doesn’t do its job, we’ll bring the firewood and some lighter fluid and help you take care of the problem.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">And if I didn’t agree, I might send this woman into orbit. Judging by the way she’d spoken and the look in her eyes, I definitely didn’t want to be on Francine Swale’s “People Not to Like List.” </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">And what was up with Mark? Shock or no shock, you would have thought he'd want to defend his wife. I couldn’t help noticing that Francine’s skirt, as well as her blouse, were splotched with what I took to be blood. Brenda had said Mark had to pull her away from trying to give her husband CPR, but you would have thought she would have wanted to change into something a little less gory. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Rib nudge from Sammi. My sides were really getting a workout today and I made a mental note to look into buying a flak jacket. I nudged back to show we were on the same page—wondering if Francine really cared about her husband or if she was putting on an act. Funny how murder can bring out cynical thoughts, even in people who normally are pretty tame. But if Francine was as in love with Richard as her comments about wanting revenge would indicate, why was she sitting so close to Mark they could have been conjoined twins? If their body language meant what it said, those two had something going on. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><a href="http://amzn.to/hvksEn">The Witness Wore Blood Bay</a></div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><br />
</div></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-82980594877556876842011-03-21T08:37:00.001-04:002011-03-21T08:43:09.488-04:00Foxy's Tale<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1kmqZNJES83syimAdbioFLkfeoWDJaepI_LRgOzG-JNLlVlgsMHH7Cseo8QxqZyMfJTGSORkyOPcKI6Gw_sxP7CxIz3RgNe2ENnm88TT_l4uyJn2yJUdIqzwKxSPTQi_LXgX0Dcwaeyk/s1600/Foxy280correctedeyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1kmqZNJES83syimAdbioFLkfeoWDJaepI_LRgOzG-JNLlVlgsMHH7Cseo8QxqZyMfJTGSORkyOPcKI6Gw_sxP7CxIz3RgNe2ENnm88TT_l4uyJn2yJUdIqzwKxSPTQi_LXgX0Dcwaeyk/s320/Foxy280correctedeyes.jpg" width="204" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Today I'm pleased to introduce readers to a newly released book by two great authors. I recently read and enjoyed Foxy's Tale. The story is fast paced and fun and the characters are likable and real. Grab it now before the price goes up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Authors Karen Cantwell <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Monkeys-Barbara-Murder-Mystery-ebook/dp/B003SE7O40%E2%80%9D%3ETake%20the%20Monkeys%20and%20Run">Take the Monkeys and Run</a> and LB Gschwandtner <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Naked-Gardener-ebook/dp/B003WQBD82/%E2%80%9D%3EThe%20Naked%20Gardener">The Naked Gardener</a> decided they would like to collaborate on a project. They wanted it to be a book for and about women, but it had to be fun and they really wanted to throw a vampire into the mix. But their vampire would be . . . different. The result, now available for readers on Amazon’s Kindle, is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Foxy’s Tale</i>:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Foxy Anders has a list of problems as long as a shopping spree receipt from Neiman Marcus. She’s a retail spender with no money to spare and a former beauty queen with no man in her life. After a nightmare divorce she’s left with one asset, a building off Washington, D.C.’s classy DuPont Circle. By turning the ground floor into an antique shop, Foxy figures she has an excuse to spend money … that she doesn’t have.<br />
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Foxy also has a teenaged daughter, Amanda, who likes to blog secretly about her biggest problem – Foxy. At least, she thinks Foxy is her biggest problem. But that’s all about to change when she hooks up with Nick, a cute guy at school who evidently has a gift for attracting older women. Amanda just doesn’t know HOW much older they really are.<br />
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When Foxy rents the garden apartment to stylish, shoe-fettishista Knot, who turns out to have a knack for talking wealthy Washington A-listers into Foxy’s antiques, it looks as if Foxy will make it on her own after all. Except that Knot is also a genius at creating problems … in his love life.<br />
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They’re a quirky threesome to be sure, but when mysterious, bumbling, Myron Standlish arrives on the scene with a suitcase full of Yiddish-isms, he brings along his own set of problems, larger and stranger than all of theirs put together. Oy vey. How will Myron’s personal journey affect their lives? Well … that’s Foxy’s Tale.<br />
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A comic, chick lit, coming-of-age, vampire tale (sort of) where family triumphs over adversity and mother and daughter learn how to face the world as grownups – together.<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Here’s a little excerpt:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Myron has put a small kettle on the electric stove to boil water. He opens a cabinet and pulls out a tin of tea and a tea strainer.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“You like lemon in your cuppa? Sugar? Honey? Milk? Vaht?” Myron asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Amanda shrugs. “I don’t know really. I never had tea before.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Ach,” Myron sniffs, “a child who never had tea. Vaht a country. I think sugar and milk for you then.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">As he goes to the refrigerator, Amanda walks to the kitchen entryway. It’s just an open space at the end of the short counter. Myron doesn’t seem to know she’s followed him over and, as he opens the refrigerator door and bends down slightly to take a carton of milk from inside the door, Amanda has a clear view of the inside shelves.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“What are all those?” she asks and comes right up behind him to peer over his back at box upon box of vials of blood each set in its own hole row upon row in the boxes, as if some lab had dropped off blood drawn from dozens and dozens of patients. Amanda points at the vials and then sees, on the bottom shelf, flat bags of blood. The kind she’s seen at blood drives at school. “Wow,” she says. “That’s a whole lot of blood.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Myron snaps up, the carton of milk in his hands. He almost collides with Amanda as he tries to hurriedly shut the refrigerator door. “”Nothing. That is nothing,” he mouths but it comes out dry as if he has a cough in his throat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“But it’s a lot of blood,” Amanda insists. “What’s it all for?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Come, ve have some tea, now, and ve talk about things of interest.” He pours hot water into a tea pitcher and drops the strainer inside. He bustles over to get two mugs and brings out a bowl of sugar.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“But that is interesting. You have no food except milk and sugar and tea and all that blood?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“An old man like me, what do I need but tea and a little milk now and then? You’ll see. Vehn you are getting old like me. So many disappointments in life.” He shakes his small, bald head. “You are young. Your disappointments are ahead of you. Come, ve drink tea, ve talk about life’s disappointments, eh?” Myron pours the tea and shoves the sugar bowl over to Amanda. They sit on bar stools at the counter facing the kitchen. Amanda glances warily at the refrigerator. She’s not about to let this go. But she’ll think about another way to find out what’s going on later. She sips at the tea. It’s sweet and milky and a little spicy. She likes it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">_______<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextFirstIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What people are saying about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Foxy’s Tale</i> …<br />
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“Full of snappy characters, laughs, and mystery, peppered with lively details of Washington, DC., and brimming with enough shoe shopping to satisfy any fashionista. This new joint effort from Karen Cantwell and L B Gschwandtner is guaranteed to please! Can't wait for the next installment in this lively new series!”<br />
– Misha Crews, Author of Her Secret Bodyguard<br />
<br />
"Foxy’s Tale is irresistible fun – full of lively characters with a knack for trouble, laugh-out-loud dialogue, and story twists that will keep you reading deep into the night."<br />
– Kim Wright Wiley, Author of Love in Mid Air</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From now until April 25<sup>th</sup>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Foxys-Tale-Reluctant-Vampire-ebook/dp/B004R1Q4JE/%3EFoxy%E2%80%99s%20Tale">Foxy's Tale</a> is available for just .99 cents, so if you’re looking for a light, fun read, give it a try today!<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-17284545736745781682011-03-12T21:20:00.000-05:002011-03-12T21:20:32.116-05:00#SampleSunday Night Camp<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLjbVdLW6Op-6jARggJi7uCHbYwFpb7v3xSJxLMwF12ohFAen35tlAAwqH8bk1O0fjB_ASVsbYPNOi34-h_UP7XySPs472vHBCa3vl1IN8K0hcWunfrb7aBdoClfQS3VNARgLwE-8XUdA/s1600/NightCamp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLjbVdLW6Op-6jARggJi7uCHbYwFpb7v3xSJxLMwF12ohFAen35tlAAwqH8bk1O0fjB_ASVsbYPNOi34-h_UP7XySPs472vHBCa3vl1IN8K0hcWunfrb7aBdoClfQS3VNARgLwE-8XUdA/s320/NightCamp.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="productDescriptionWrapper" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div class="productDescriptionWrapper" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Night Camp is my children's book for middle grade readers. More and more children are getting Kindles and parents who are looking for affordable books might want to consider Night Camp.</div><div class="productDescriptionWrapper" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">About the book:</div><div class="productDescriptionWrapper" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">A spooky graveyard. A creepy basement. A pair of coffins.<br />
Thirteen-year-old Shane Andrews hates summer camp. When his parents allow him to choose, Shane decides to pick the worst camp he can find. Night Camp must be terrible. For one thing, activities take place at night and campers sleep during the day. That can’t be good, Shane reasons. His parents will realize Night Camp is even worse than they thought and they’ll come back to get him. Then Shane’s plans for summer freedom fall apart. His cousin Brad, a boy with a huge collection of tabloid magazines, convinces Shane that two of the camp counselors are vampires. Shane enlists the help of Brad and a girl camper named Nicole. The three set out to save themselves and the other campers. Then Shane uncovers the secret of Night Camp…<br />
<div class="emptyClear" style="clear: both; font-size: 0px; height: 0px;"></div></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;">Here's an excerpt from the middle of the book. Shane has concluded that the Talbot brothers, camp counselors are vampires. The counselors take the campers out to explore some local caverns. Shane likes to collect rocks and he manages to get separated from the group and get thoroughly lost.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"> I dashed through the entrance and down a wide passageway. I didn't remember passing this way earlier, but I kept going. After all, one part of the cave looked pretty much like another. As long as I kept going in the right direction, I'd eventually find the others. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ten minutes later I had to admit to myself that I was lost. None of the passages or rooms looked even a tiny bit familiar. I had no idea if I was heading toward the opening or ever deeper into the cavern. At one point I'd followed the sound of trickling water and nearly toppled into a wide stream. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Have to save the light," I said out loud. It felt good to hear a human voice, even if it was my own. I switched off my flashlight and sat down with my back against the cave wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as I stopped moving, cold seeped into me, and I pulled my knees up to my chest. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I won't panic. Wow, I must be freaking already, talking to myself. I could be lost in here for weeks or even forever. Boy, am I stupid for not paying attention." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The thought of maybe starving to death made me hungry. I took my lunch out of my backpack and rationed myself to two bites of my squashed sandwich and one bite of my apple. My teeth were chattering so hard I could barely chew. I didn't open my orange juice. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The light from the flashlight grew even dimmer, and I was forced to turn it off again. "I need a plan," I said. I didn't care anymore that I'd made a habit of speaking to myself out loud. "I guess the best thing to do is sit still and hope that someone finds me. Bloodhounds or something." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Wait," I said. "I didn't mean to say 'or something.'" Or something could mean vampires. I knew vampires could find me in the dark cave better than any bloodhound on earth. Starving to death had to be better than being attacked by hungry vampires. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I sat shivering in the dark for what seemed like hours. Every once in a while I'd get up and stomp around in a small circle to warm myself. My feet went numb. They felt like blocks of wood glued to my legs. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Probably just a few minutes have passed, like in school when I can't wait for the bell to ring," I said finally, my teeth clicking with every word. I switched the light on again to check my watch. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I gulped in surprise. Hours had passed. It was nearly morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stood and stomped my feet and rubbed my hands together for warmth. That seemed about as effective as massaging an ice cube. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: .4in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Help," I called half‑heartedly in case anyone was listening. My voice echoed off the cave walls, and then a minute later I heard a sound. At least, I thought I heard a sound. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn't dare to breathe as I listened. There it was again. The faint squeaking that somehow seemed familiar. Only now it was closer. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All at once I recognized that squeaking. I wanted to scream, only that would let the bat know exactly where I was. No point in handing out "Listen up, vampires, here's Shane" announcements. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I couldn't just stand here and be killed without trying to escape. That would be even stupider than getting lost to begin with. I whirled and struck out blindly toward the opposite wall. I didn't even take time to switch on my flashlight. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoEndnoteText" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Somehow I managed to find the opening in the rock wall that led to another chamber. I groped my way through. This was the<span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;"> </span>way I'd come in. I remembered that the next opening was directly opposite. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The squeaking sounded as though it were only a few feet behind me now. I put on a burst of speed, taking off like a racehorse heading for the finish line. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I took three giant strides and then the ground fell away. I felt myself tumbling into a space that turned into ice cold water. My entire body seemed to quick freeze as the water closed over my head. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This isn't supposed to be here</i>, I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I could swim, but now the rocks in my backpack pulled me down like a giant hand gripping me from behind. I gasped automatically and sucked in about a gallon of water. I flailed around under the water, but that only made me sink faster. Then everything went black.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: -.15pt;"><a href="http://amzn.to/gqtoeF">Night Camp</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: .4in;"><a href="http://amzn.to/dRVDGb">Night Camp UK</a></div><!--EndFragment--> </div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-39952927670996352282011-03-06T07:05:00.000-05:002011-03-06T07:05:05.092-05:00#SampleSunday The Witness Wore Blood Bay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In Talented Horsewoman, the first book of the Leigh McRae horse mystery series, main character Leigh McRae discovers a body. She also ends up solving a murder. Along the way she helps her cousin Sammi, who is dating a burglar, and she manages to get out from under the control of her overbearing ex-husband.<br />
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Now Leigh's friend Candy, a fellow horsewoman, finds herself accused of murder. Who else would she turn to for help except Leigh? After all, everyone in small town Del Canto knows Leigh has body-discovering experience. Never mind that Leigh is busy finding out who's poisoning dogs in Sammi's neighborhood and she's trying to renovate her home without going broke. Or that her ex-husband Kenneth and former ranchhand Doug Reilly have become roommates in Leigh's guest house.<br />
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There's a murder to solve. And her friend won't take no for an answer.</span></div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The set up: Leigh and cousin Sammi are returning from a horse club picnic. They're stopping to pick up Sammi's dog from the groomer and Sammi reveals that she needs for Leigh to do her a favor. </span></div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d known when Sammi showed up at my house claiming she was dying to picnic with the horse club, that she had something on her mind. But in all the excitement about the murder, I’d completely forgotten. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Do I need to guess? You’ve got a hot date and you need a dog sitter so Jeeves won’t scare the guy off before you can have your way with him.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Wrong, totally wrong. Unfortunately, I am dateless these days. But I do need you to watch Jeeves for a while. Please?” </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Define ‘a while,’” I said cautiously. Sammi’s sense of time differed radically from mine. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“I couldn’t say, but it’s an emergency. A week, maybe?”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Way too vague. “You know I love the big lug even if he does shed about ten pounds of hair a day and he likes to snack on furniture. I’ll agree to dog sit since it’s an emergency. But you have to tell me. Come on, what’s the mystery? Cruise?” I wiggled my eyebrows. “Romance on the high seas?”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“It’s not a mystery and I’m not going anywhere. It’s all because of my new neighbors, the Barkers. You know that house on the corner, the one that’s been vacant since forever?” </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Yep. The cute Craftsman with the neat lawn and a plastic flamingo family standing around looking tacky next to a palm tree. A couple of gigantic mango trees out back.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“That’s the one, except the flamingos are gone, replaced by a couple of the ugliest garden gnomes you ever saw in your life. Some people finally bought the place and they moved in a couple of weeks ago. I went over to take them a cake and welcome them to the neighborhood—you know, the way I always do. I think neighbors should get to know each other, especially now when it seems you have more friends on Facebook than you do in real life. And then you’re not sure they’re really who they say they are, but they seem nice and you laugh at their Youtube videos, so you keep posting on their wall.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">I waved my hand in front of her face. “Sammi, you’re way off topic.” </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Yeah, okay. Well, at first I thought the Barkers were nice, a typical middle-aged couple who moved down from some typical state in the midwest to downsize their lives now that their kids are grown. You know how people do. Sell out in Ohio and head to sunny Florida for their golden years. But it turned out they're from Fort Myers and they're not retired yet. They just wanted to move to a smaller place. Next thing I know they’re at my door complaining about Jeeves.” She said this last as though the Barkers had talked dirt about Jesus. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“What exactly is the nature of their complaint?” I pulled into Maggie’s driveway. Surely Jeeves hadn’t gone over to their house and shed all over their porch or peed on their ugly gnomes.</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“They claim he dug up their marigolds the last time he got out. They think he barks too much and disturbs their peace and quiet. They even implied he makes their lives a living hell. But I swear, he hardly ever barks and I had the fence fixed so he can’t escape again. Very often.” </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">I started laughing and couldn’t stop until Sammi grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “Cut it out. This isn’t the least bit funny.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“I know, I know, but it’s so ironic about their name—the Barkers. And they’re complaining about a barking dog.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Right, babe, it’s hysterical.” She folded her arms across her chest. “You know I wouldn’t worry one bit about them and their stupid complaints—except they threatened to report Jeeves to the police for being a public nuisance. They did the same thing to that nice Mrs. Abrams who lives on the other side of them, and then two days later her sweet little dachshund turned up dead in her back yard. The vet thinks he was poisoned. After that the people at the end of the block found their beagle dead. He was fine when they brought him in for the night, but when they got up, he was stiff as a board in his doggie bed, legs poking up in the air like a dead roach. Another suspected poisoning. It’s so tragic.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“What?” I yelped, staring at her, hardly able to believe someone was killing dogs. “A dog poisoner?”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“I know, right? I can’t imagine someone could be so vicious. But please keep Jeeves until I have a chance to get to the bottom of this. I mean, I’d die if they assassinated him while I was at work. I can’t keep him inside all the time. I have to leave him out in the yard at least part of the day. You know how he is.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Did I ever. Jeeves could last only a few hours alone in the house before he got neurotic. He’d once eaten Sammi’s couch and then had her draperies for dessert while she was on a date that lasted longer than she’d planned. The new procedure when she wasn’t home was that he stayed either in the garage or in the fenced yard, though he’d been known to escape from the yard. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Of course I’ll dog sit.” I would never forgive myself if Jeeves were murdered because I refused to help.</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Thanks, babe.” Sammi jumped out of the car and blew me a kiss. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">She scurried inside the grooming shop. Since Maggie Cameron had inherited money from her sister Rita and expanded her boarding kennel, she’d relocated the grooming shop and renamed her business Maggie’s Pet Spa. And raised her prices.</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Sammi disappeared inside the shop and reappeared a moment later with Jeeves leaping up and down beside her as if he were on a pogo stick. Maggie had put a red bandanna around his neck, and I wondered how long it would take for him to find a way to eat it.</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Jeeves, settle!” Sammi shook her finger at him and opened the back door of the car. Jeeves rocketed inside, knocking Benji’s toy tractor off the seat. Then he leaned forward to rest his head on my shoulder. A haze of doggie cologne drifted in front of me and I waved my hand to disperse it. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Hey, I don't need a co-driver, Jeeves. Back off.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Jeeves, you know better.” Sammi pushed her dog down on the back seat. “He doesn’t recognize his boundaries yet. I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon and give you a few pointers.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">I raised both eyebrows. Somehow I suspected that a few pointers on Jeeves-wrangling weren’t going to be all that effective, especially since he didn’t seem to mind Sammi terribly well, either. I’d never kept him for more than a day or so and wasn’t exactly looking forward to the mess from his shedding or the possibility of him turning my furniture into sawdust. Still, I did owe Sammi and I didn’t want her dog to be in danger any more than she did. I had a fenced yard where he could stay while I was at work. I didn’t know what she intended as far as sleuthing to find out if the Barkers were dog murderers, though. I mean it wasn’t as if she could search their house for poison or follow them around to make a citizen’s arrest if she caught them feeding arsenic-laced hamburger to the neighborhood canines.</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“So how well did you know him?” Sammi asked as I pulled back onto the highway.</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Jeeves?” I glanced at her sideways. I thought we’d covered the topic of his behavior. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“No, silly. I mean, Richard—the murdered guy.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Wow, that was random. I thought you said we weren’t interested in the murder.” A vulture flopped to a landing on a dead armadillo about a hundred yards in front of my car and then, looking up and seeing how close I was, ponderously took off again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“I never said we weren’t interested in the murder. I said you were not going to get involved.” </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Yeah, I said the same thing. So what do you mean? Like what he was like and what he did for a living?”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“I was only curious.” Sammi tossed her hair back over her shoulders and stared straight ahead through my grimy windshield. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Note to self. Wash the car. And remember to ask Sammi why she was “only curious,” while I was “nosy.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“I didn't know him that well, but I heard he was a womanizer and after he had a couple of affairs, Francine was going to leave him, but he promised to go straight. I heard all this second-hand from Nancy."</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">"Hmm. So maybe one of his exes killed him for revenge."</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">"I thought of that, but then why would whoever killed him frame Candy Lowell?" It made no sense. "Richard manages—managed—that seafood restaurant in town near the harbor. The Fin and Claw.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Really?” She sounded impressed. “I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it’s fabulous.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“I heard the same, but I think fabulous means expensive.” I wondered if I should try it. Not that I could afford the prices. Still, now that Richard was dead, his job was opening up. Someone might get promoted. In this economy a job or even a promotion might be motive enough for a murder. My forehead muscles pulled into a frown so tight it's a miracle they didn't cramp up.</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Oh, no, you are not,” Sammi shrieked, slapping my shoulder with the back of her hand.</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Ow. Don’t hit the driver. What are you talking about?”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“I can so read your mind, babe. You think one of Richard’s co-workers might have killed him and you’re planning to go snooping around the Fin and Claw.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“I admit the thought crossed my mind for the briefest of seconds. But it’s too farfetched.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Of course it is. And you are not going anywhere near that place unless you have me for backup.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Don’t worry. I'm not going near the Fin and Claw.” I rolled my eyes. It had only been a stray thought, not an actual plan. Thoughts couldn't hurt, could they?</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Witness-Wore-Blood-Bay-ebook/dp/B004KNWHX6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1299413023&sr=1-1">The Witness Wore Blood Bay</a></div><!--EndFragment--> </div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-8047363091862730922011-02-26T20:20:00.002-05:002011-02-26T20:26:20.862-05:00#Sample Sunday We Interrupt This Date<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN93qBJKyqpPILW7JJitl5slwZhyphenhyphenORWpp6vq5MNm_AmwVcuBby7IKrhVfclppbMF7k18aO-MIYNBy17odQMshWW5ZzhGaIqAlenrPrZXxphIlY-o-2R0-0FbXNSGsadSWqDu8V16WqxrA/s1600/We-Interrupt-This-Date_Kindle_Cover_Final-1-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN93qBJKyqpPILW7JJitl5slwZhyphenhyphenORWpp6vq5MNm_AmwVcuBby7IKrhVfclppbMF7k18aO-MIYNBy17odQMshWW5ZzhGaIqAlenrPrZXxphIlY-o-2R0-0FbXNSGsadSWqDu8V16WqxrA/s1600/We-Interrupt-This-Date_Kindle_Cover_Final-1-8.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;">Excerpt from a random chapter of We Interrupt This Date. Susan has just lost her job and desperately needs another.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;">I logged on to the Internet and started my job search with the online newspaper ads. I found only three positions to apply for, and two of those asked for legal office experience, which I did not have. The other said someone with a good phone voice was needed immediately in a vet’s office. I supposed my phone voice was as good as anyone’s. My fingers shaking, I punched in the number.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I’m calling about the receptionist position you advertised in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Post and Courier</i>.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;">“Right, that ad is pulling a ton of responses. Before I decide if I should have you come in to fill out an application and talk to the doctor, tell me a little bit about yourself. Do you have receptionist experience?” The female voice on the other end of the line sounded like it belonged to someone who was pursing her lips between each sentence.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I glanced at my desk searching for inspiration. Once a customer had come into my office and paid in person. Another time, someone had stood in the doorway and asked if Odell was around.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Sort of,” I replied. “In my current position I’m responsible for answering the phone and doing the billing as well as dealing with customers who drop by.” Both of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, you work in an office; good for you. But do you have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">veterinary</i> office experience? Dr. Turnbill specializes in reptiles and he likes to hire people who are used to handling animals.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“No, but I love animals and I learn fast.” I could even learn to love snakes and lizards if it got me a job. “My mother has two Chihuahuas,” I added, then clamped my mouth shut so I couldn’t say anything else stupid.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I’m sorry, but I don’t see any point in letting you come in. We have a number of better qualified applicants.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Better qualified applicants? Somehow I doubted the streets of Charleston were overrun with reptile handlers who had office experience. But unless I decided to stake out Dr. Turnbill’s office and speak to him when the dragon manning the front desk left for the day, I wasn’t going to get the job.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I sat back with a sigh. It had taken me six weeks to find this job and that was back when the paper carried three times as many ads as it did now. I could apply for the two legal office positions--assuming the gatekeepers who controlled access to the applications would let me--and hope for a miracle. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">If there was only me to consider that’s what I might have done. But I couldn’t forget my son. Even with his scholarship, money from his father, and a part-time job, Christian needed my help. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I turned sideways to face the phone. I glared at it like it was my mortal enemy. When it didn’t burst into flames or melt into a wad of gooey black plastic, I gave up and dialed Veronica’s number. Her voice mail answered with a cheery, “Veronica is unavailable. Please leave a message.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“It’s me. Susan. I, uh, had second thoughts about the job.” And third and fourth thoughts. “If you still want me, I’m ready to go ghost hunting. In fact, I guess I really need the work.” There, I’d committed, even if Veronica’s offer wasn’t my first choice. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I felt curiously employed now, even though I worried that Veronica might have offered the position to someone else. Once she makes up her mind to do something, she forges ahead like a bull on its way to a willing cow. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</span></div></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-88291270722916342302011-02-19T19:54:00.002-05:002011-02-19T19:57:38.822-05:00#Sample Sunday: Talented Horsewoman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Talented Horsewoman is the first book in my Leigh McRae horse mystery series. </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">About the book: Leigh McRae leads a quiet life in a small Florida town, surrounded by horse farms and alligators. For the sake of her daughter, she has traded her own happiness for job security and a truce with her ex-husband Kenneth, a poster boy for control freaks. But her peaceful existence is shattered when she discovers the body of her friend and fellow horsewoman, Rita Cameron. The police conclude Rita died in an accidental fall from a hayloft. Leigh is sure the death was a murder and she sets out to convince the police to investigate so her friend can rest in peace.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Meanwhile she has to deal with escalating demands from Kenneth, demands that may cost her her horses as well as her home. And on top of everything else, she has to help her cousin Sammi, who's dating a burglar. But Leigh doesn't let personal problems stop her from sleuthing, even though she admits she is not the world's greatest detective. While digging for evidence, she discovers a secret in Rita's past. Now Leigh and her daughter are in danger, and only Leigh's actions can save them.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here's short excerpt from Chapter Two. Leigh has gone home after discovering her friend's body. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was in the middle of slicing a tomato when a familiar, older model, black Buick rattled up the driveway and coughed to a stop near the garage. Sammi hadn’t wasted any time.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I watched her get out of the car. Like me, Sammi had inherited her height from her father. Our fathers were brothers and we referred to them—along with my brother Chad--as the Hollister men. Sammi had three inches on me, though. She was six feet tall. I was fortunate enough to get my mother’s slender figure. But Sammi was solidly built like a Hollister man--she weighed close to two hundred pounds.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She flung herself across the yard in the direction of the house, her waist length hair flying loose behind her like a silk, golden cape. At least she hadn’t brought along Jeeves, her Old English sheepdog, known for his world class drooling and shedding.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She’d dressed as if she were ready to conduct a séance. Her loose, purple crepe top flowed down over her arms to her wrists and her matching skirt reached almost to the tops of her shoes. That much material could have made drapes for my entire house, but the outfit suited her, somehow managing to impart an air of grace that she didn’t normally have.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She let herself in through the sliding glass door into the kitchen and stopped short when she saw me. “Leigh, your eyes are as red as those tomatoes. Tension headache, right?” </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She took the knife out of my hand. “Let me do that before you cut off something important. You should be resting in bed.”</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> “I can’t.” I knew by now to refrain from shaking my head and aggravating the throbbing in my temples. “Wait until we sit down and I’ll tell you about it.”</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I already heard," she said in her husky, ex-smoker’s voice. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"You heard about Rita Cameron?"</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Lead story on the radio. I figured I better detour on over here and offer you a shoulder to lean on. They didn't identify the victim, but of course, everyone knows who it is; you know the gossip line in Del Canto. I stopped at the grocery and the head cashier—she’s Paris Winslow’s aunt--told me it was Rita and that you found her. Is it true she's dead?”</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I'm afraid so. Sorry I didn’t return your call earlier, but this has been one hell of a morning.”</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I hear ya, hon.”</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sammi finished slicing the tomato and arranged the pieces neatly on top of the salad. With a final dash of artistry, she dropped five black olives in the center of the bowl and squirted a dollop of French dressing on top.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Lunch, Sammi?"</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I’d confuse my body if I ate this early, but you go ahead."</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A queasy feeling rose suddenly in my stomach, and I knew food would only make me sick. "Let's skip it then." I waved at her to follow me down the hall. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We settled ourselves in the living room, me draped sideways in my faithful recliner, and Sammi taking up most of the love seat. She pushed her hair out of her face two or three times and finally gave up, letting it slide down over her eyes. Sammi had a long face, a long straight nose, and almond shaped brown eyes, so with her hair parted in the middle she reminded me of an Afghan hound.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“So Rita was dead when you found her?” She sounded half out of breath.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Isn’t that what it said on the radio?”</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Yep. Horrible, isn’t it? One minute she's tossing hay bales around and the next she's on her way to a slab at the morgue.”</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Without warning Sammi hauled herself to her feet and strode over to peer out through the front curtains. As suddenly as she’d gotten up she was back in her seat, perched on the edge of the cushion and swinging the gold chain of her necklace in front of her like a tiny lasso. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 34.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">“The police are sure it was a freak accident?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> “I think so. I mean, I wasn’t there watching in helpless fascination as she fell. Millie Destin, Rita’s neighbor, was there before I was and she didn’t see it happen, either. Then there was a guy, Jared Beaumont I think he said his name was, who got there after me, so he knows less than I do.” I didn’t mention that I had a nagging doubts about Rita’s death because Sammi would expect me to know exactly what was bothering me and I didn’t have a clue. “Are you okay, Sammi?”</span></span></div><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><a href="http://amzn.to/h43ZQ2">Talented Horsewoman</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-78178172952630646222011-02-12T20:12:00.001-05:002011-02-12T20:14:48.725-05:00#SampleSunday The Witness Wore Blood Bay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuHg8IZegU_jLX84T_QYFnjx8K9CF9HsrnH5FhTkkcAd8kUTGcT307YQMgjVfId0DF5kUUFcJl3UzdEMpxDvMLI8dJMiiT3o_k3S41-Q4mzCkV71qWWztLEagfpl8CB7sBJ57vj-BXYI/s1600/Amazon2BB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuHg8IZegU_jLX84T_QYFnjx8K9CF9HsrnH5FhTkkcAd8kUTGcT307YQMgjVfId0DF5kUUFcJl3UzdEMpxDvMLI8dJMiiT3o_k3S41-Q4mzCkV71qWWztLEagfpl8CB7sBJ57vj-BXYI/s320/Amazon2BB.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In Talented Horsewoman, the first book of the Leigh McRae horse mystery series, main character Leigh McRae discovers a body. She also ends up solving a murder. Along the way she helps her cousin Sammi, who is dating a burglar, and she manages to get out from under the control of her overbearing ex-husband.<br />
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Now Leigh's friend Candy, a fellow horsewoman, finds herself accused of murder. Who else would she turn to for help except Leigh? After all, everyone in small town Del Canto knows Leigh has body-discovering experience. Never mind that Leigh is busy finding out who's poisoning dogs in Sammi's neighborhood and she's trying to renovate her home without going broke. Or that her ex-husband Kenneth and former ranchhand Doug Reilly have become roommates in Leigh's guest house.<br />
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<div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There's a murder to solve. And her friend won't take no for an answer.</span></div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><a href="http://amzn.to/hvksEn">The Witness Wore Blood Bay</a></div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span>Short excerpt from Chapter Two:</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Sammi stifled a yelp and I jumped to my feet, almost spilling what was left of my tea. Francine Swale stood in the doorway between the living room and the dining room, her hands on her curvy hips. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">I couldn't help staring at what I judged to be a surgically enhanced chest. The woman could have modeled for Playboy if she were fifteen years younger, and if her face weren’t all blotchy from rage. Or from crying—I couldn’t tell which.</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Ladies, this is Francine Swale. She works with me selling cars.” Mark cleared his throat a couple of times. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Yeah, and she was also the murder victim's widow. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he’d much rather we hadn't found out she was in the house and had obviously been there the whole time, lurking out of sight and probably listening. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Francine, ah, didn’t feel well enough to go home, so she’s been resting in the guest room. Francine, Leigh McRae and her cousin, Sammi Hollister.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Hello, Francine.” I didn’t bother to remind her I’d met her before and I’d seen her last night at the horse club meeting—arguing with her husband, who was now dead. “Sorry for your loss.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Francine’s dark eyes snapped. “So am I. But the police know Candy did it and she’s going to pay one way or the other. I hope she fries like breakfast bacon.” She strode across the room and dropped onto the couch next to Mark, crossing her long legs and not bothering to tug her micro skirt down over her shapely thighs. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">I pasted on the stupidest of smiles for lack of anything useful to say or do. I mean, how do you agree with a remark like that without coming across like a vigilante? </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There, there, Francine. If the justice system doesn’t do its job, we’ll bring the firewood and some lighter fluid and help you take care of the problem.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">And if I didn’t agree, I might send this woman into orbit. Judging by the way she’d spoken and the look in her eyes, I definitely didn’t want to be on Francine Swale’s “People Not to Like List.” </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">And what was up with Mark? Shock or no shock, you would have thought he'd want to defend his wife. I couldn’t help noticing that Francine’s skirt, as well as her blouse, were splotched with what I took to be blood. Brenda had said Mark had to pull her away from trying to give her husband CPR, but you would have thought she would have wanted to change into something a little less gory. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Rib nudge from Sammi. My sides were really getting a workout today and I made a mental note to look into buying a flak jacket. I nudged back to show we were on the same page—wondering if Francine really cared about her husband or if she was putting on an act. Funny how murder can bring out cynical thoughts, even in people who normally are pretty tame. But if Francine was as in love with Richard as her comments about wanting revenge would indicate, why was she sitting so close to Mark they could have been conjoined twins? If their body language meant what it said, those two had something going on. </div></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-68674698300657379212011-02-05T19:27:00.001-05:002011-02-05T19:29:36.176-05:00#SampleSunday Meet Ned and LaRue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimjRx8UBCYso_bwU0eapm40UT5xKMjh7xWZb5NL-4ahpffZwtmn2lBITU2fJ79xbLuMuNLBXjtlobFIGesdjBS58NvaxmuBfSVzMKRaY8VzTC5c1gE_ZO7sjBDILT5saUyBBrf4SC4Tas/s1600/P1020258.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimjRx8UBCYso_bwU0eapm40UT5xKMjh7xWZb5NL-4ahpffZwtmn2lBITU2fJ79xbLuMuNLBXjtlobFIGesdjBS58NvaxmuBfSVzMKRaY8VzTC5c1gE_ZO7sjBDILT5saUyBBrf4SC4Tas/s320/P1020258.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="Body" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="Body" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px;">Chihuahua Edie sitting on recliner Old Mama with blankets Candy Cane and LaRue</span></div><div class="Body"><br />
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</span></div><div class="Body"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.6px;">I name inanimate objects. Well, doesn't everyone? I mean, if you have more than one of something, such as blankets, doesn't it make sense to name them rather than having to waste a lot of time with descriptions?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Example: Me (shivering on the couch) to one of my offspring, "While you're upstairs would you please get me a blanket? I want the soft, white one I keep on the end of my bed."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ten minutes later offspring says, "Here you go, Mom."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me (after a brief pause to curl my lip in disgust), "No, not the little white one with the fringe. That's only for decoration. Get me the big one. It's soft and plush feeling like a teddy bear."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Offspring, looking blank, "I have no idea which blanket you mean."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me, "Your sister gave it to me for Christmas last year."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Offspring, acting all too casual for someone whose mother is in the throes of hypothermia, "Which sister?"</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me, lips turning blue and now unable to curl successfully, "Does it matter? Fetch me the stinking blanket before I freeze, okay? It's on the end of my bed and it's big and white and plush."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Offspring, rolling eyes so far heavenward they nearly become dislocated, "OMG, will you chill?"</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me, teeth chattering, "I AM chilled and I want my blanket <i>now, </i>you little sadist."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Personally, I find that kind of exchange annoying and a waste of effort. How much simpler it is to simply give names to your possessions.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Example: Me, wearing a pleasant smile, "While you're upstairs will you please get Ned off the end of my bed and bring him to me."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Offspring, looking at me with fondness, "Ah, soft, fluffy Ned. He's one of your favorites, isn't he? Consider it done, Mother."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now isn't that better? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So if you happen to be in my neighborhood drop by for a cup of coffee brewed in Mrs. Nell. Join me at one of my computers--Lester, Delta, or Riker, your choice. Sit in my recliner, Old Mama, under one of my blankets. I have many, but may I suggest Candy Cane, Bucky, Scottie, or LaRue? If you want to enjoy some music I have a selection of iPods for your listening pleasure. Just let me know whether you prefer Thor, Sheldon, Leonard, or Archer. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course I've named our cars. They are Darken Ess Red and Greenie.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My life is now simplified. Why don't you try naming stuff and see for yourself? Your family wouldn't go for it, you insist? I say, drop the defeatist attitude. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hey, if I was able to train my crew, then you can consider yourself the family whisperer.</div></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-209250410090223272011-01-28T13:56:00.000-05:002011-01-28T13:56:14.153-05:00There Is No Such Thing As An Amateur Sleuth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="Writing2"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6byBhBzVmanR_DAmAv1WFMFiIw3Zule-HjFRN8_nd_xtz-awzBBHzF6XXh-KFm7_LNawKn6yRKY104WyNjbAap5Jm2BT5W3OQn1pXJl1tmsLcURfjJRumc0V7rsbbvflkoO9Nduo39io/s1600/WitnessBBSM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6byBhBzVmanR_DAmAv1WFMFiIw3Zule-HjFRN8_nd_xtz-awzBBHzF6XXh-KFm7_LNawKn6yRKY104WyNjbAap5Jm2BT5W3OQn1pXJl1tmsLcURfjJRumc0V7rsbbvflkoO9Nduo39io/s1600/WitnessBBSM.jpg" /></a>Cozy mysteries are a subgenre of mysteries in which there is little or no sex or violence, the crime is usually solved by an amateur sleuth, and quite often the books are humorous. I read cozy mysteries. I talk about cozy mysteries. I write cozy mysteries. And that's absurd because there's really no such thing as an amateur sleuth. </div><div class="Writing"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2">Think about it. How many amateur sleuths have you met in your lifetime? Probably as many as I've met, which is none. I'm saying if they existed, you'd have seen one by now. Seems to me they're as scarce as unicorns. </div><div class="Writing"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2">Seriously, do you know people who would deliberately meddle in a police investigation? Or put themselves or the families in the sights of a killer? Because that's what amateur sleuths do. </div><div class="Writing"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2">That's one thing that makes them so much fun. I can read a cozy, and no matter how many victims fall to a killer, I can rest easy, knowing the book isn't even close to reality and there's going to be a happy ending. Cozies are pure escape fiction and the funnier and more over the top, the better I like them. </div><div class="Writing2"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2">Sometimes I read the other kind of mystery, the ones where all the gory details are spelled out in the goriest of detail and the suspense ratchets up until people would have to resuscitate me if the phone rang. Too much of that kind of reading and I can't relax enough to go to sleep. Time to switch back to reading a good cozy. </div><div class="Writing2"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2">Now we're talking. The main character is an ordinary person, usually someone with a strong sense of justice and who's nosy. The cast of supporting characters can be as real or as quirky as the author wants them to be and the same goes for the plot, which is often over the top. </div><div class="Writing"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2">I like to laugh, I like light reading, and I love cozies. In my book, amateur sleuths rule. </div><div class="Writing"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2">My amateur sleuth is Leigh McRae, a horsewoman who lives in a small Florida town with her daughter and her fiancé. She's nosy, she likes to help people, and she can't stand it when a wrong goes un-righted. Leigh and her sidekick, her wacky cousin Sammi, get themselves in a lot of trouble. Leigh is the first to admit she's a terrible detective. But somehow she manages to bumble her way to the truth. </div><div class="Writing2"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2">I've just published the second of my Leigh McRae horse mystery books, The Witness Wore Blood Bay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For now it's available at the introductory price of just $ .99. Draumr Publishing, publisher of Talented Horsewoman, has temporarily lowered the price of Talented Horsewoman from $6.99 to $2.99 to help promote the series. If you want to read both of these, now is the time to buy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="Writing"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Very short excerpt from a scene where Leigh and Sammi are watching a movie while they discuss criminal activity in their town: </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">Sammi was too busy oohing and aahing at the vision in front of her to notice anything such as popcorn. The first scene featured one of her favorite actors stepping into the shower. They showed him from the back only, but it was enough to keep Sammi’s eyes glued to the set. </div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Can you believe it? Isn’t that the most gorgeous rear end you ever saw in your life?” She leaned forward to get a better look, and I knew she was wishing I had a sixty-inch high def instead of my plain old nineteen inch, circa 1980, hand-me-down from Aunt Dorothy.</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">I snorted. “Drag your eyes back into their sockets, woman. That is soooo a stunt butt.”</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Is not.” She snatched the remote off the coffee table and hit pause. The picture froze and the well-tanned butt in question took up so much of the screen it looked like a ripe peach.</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="Writing2" style="text-indent: .25in;"><a href="http://amzn.to/h43ZQ2">Talented Horsewoman</a> <a href="http://amzn.to/hvksEn">The Witness Wore Blood Bay</a></div><div class="Writing2"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment--> </div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-67616368306041223492011-01-23T07:34:00.001-05:002011-01-23T12:40:15.973-05:00#Sample Sunday: Talented Horsewoman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfYHa1gl16pXpSxvfztqK6D1KLhJde2KoPo0nRbVQn0ReRfrx-TbFPmeYpIYRLSzkwlo-kWqnYsDr7yBtxxeb378IMYk7p2mzN5zJf7YrUmp_ukzusgx0BIs_3262cgaPbrvnli2uSfcU/s1600/th_TalentedHorsewoman-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfYHa1gl16pXpSxvfztqK6D1KLhJde2KoPo0nRbVQn0ReRfrx-TbFPmeYpIYRLSzkwlo-kWqnYsDr7yBtxxeb378IMYk7p2mzN5zJf7YrUmp_ukzusgx0BIs_3262cgaPbrvnli2uSfcU/s1600/th_TalentedHorsewoman-1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
As I announced yesterday, my publisher for Talented Horsewoman the first in my Leigh McRae horse mystery series has put it on sale to help me promote the upcoming indie publication of the second in the series. Talented Horsewoman is reduced from $6.99 to $2.99 for a short time only. If you love horse mysteries, now is the time to get the first book.<br />
<br />
Here's a sample from Chapter One:<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Chapter One</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">If only. Those two little words were to haunt me for weeks. If only I hadn’t put off getting my hair trimmed, I wouldn’t have had to spend so much time forcing the flyaway blond strands into a single neat braid. If only I hadn’t paused to answer the phone, I wouldn’t have wasted ten minutes, too polite to hang up on a telemarketer who said my name—Leigh McRae—in reverent tones that could have indicated she’d mistaken me for a movie star.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I finally cut her off and, still feeling no sense of urgency, sauntered out to my truck. Later I would wonder why I’d given in to a demon sweet tooth that had made me stop for coffee at Bo’s Diner and then linger stuffing my face with a chocolate donut.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It wasn’t until I’d licked the last bit of sugar from my fingers that I finally considered I’d be late if I didn’t hurry. I drove a few miles over the limit until I came to a construction zone where I lost all the minutes I’d gained.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Cursing under my breath, I inched my way past a mile of traffic cones and then sped the rest of the way down Brick House Road to whip the truck into Rita’s driveway. I bounced through a pothole, rounded a bend, and instantly registered a horse barreling toward me. In a microsecond I hit the brakes and jammed the shift lever into park, barely avoiding a nasty collision.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">A sorrel filly raced free as a mustang back down the driveway. She’d streaked toward the truck at dazzling speed before sliding to a stop that left grooves in the dirt. Without pause she rolled on her hocks and reversed direction. After a quick circuit of the corral, she finally slowed from a gallop to a prance, flying her flame-red tail like a banner and holding her head high as the prow of a sailing ship. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My breath whooshed out. The one horse stampede was over. Another second or two and the filly I knew as Sandstone Tinker Star would likely head for the patch of Bermuda grass near the hay barn and settle down to grazing—easy for me to catch her. But before I could act, a screaming woman brandishing a flimsy pine branch flashed into view from the left, and Tinker turned on the afterburners.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I leaped out of the truck and hit the ground running, my arms whirling like plane propellers. "Stop screaming and waving that stick around. You’re scaring her."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The branch-wielding woman showed no signs of having heard and, as Tinker raced past, she planted her legs wide apart and landed a solid blow on the filly’s rump. Without missing a beat, Tinker fired with both hind legs, just missing the woman’s shoulder. The filly’s tail swished and she swerved toward the training arena.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">By then I’d had time to conclude that the horse-chasing woman was Millie Destin, Rita’s neighbor from across the road. If she wasn’t careful she was going to end up with getting kicked or worse.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I turned to follow Tinker’s movement, hoping she wouldn’t head back to Millie. As I tracked the galloping form past the barn, a bundle of rags on the ground barely merited my attention—until an instant later when I realized the bundle wasn’t rags. With a jolt somewhere in the center of my chest I stumbled forward.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">"Oh, my God, it's Rita," Millie sang out, echoing my thoughts. She scurried over to grab my arm, her fingers digging in like pincers until I peeled her loose. I glanced sideways and noted her complexion was the color of an undercooked biscuit. Mine probably matched.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">We moved closer and I saw that the figure was indeed Rita Cameron. Holding on to each other for support, Millie and I stared down at Rita. She lay on her stomach, her face pressed against the concrete that formed a parking pad in front of the hay barn. Blood had pooled around her head.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I dropped to my knees and felt for a pulse in her neck. Nothing. I knew it might be dangerous to move her if she were still alive, but she wasn’t breathing. CPR might be her only chance, so with Millie’s help I rolled her over. Then I wished I hadn’t. Rita’s blue eyes were wide open and had taken on the blankness of dolls’ eyes. Her blood-caked face was tinged purple.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“She's dead, ain't she?" Millie stuck her hands in the pockets of her baggy overalls. She screwed up her mouth in an attempt at a smile as if we were simply discussing last night’s rain, but I couldn’t miss the wobble in her voice.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I nodded. I’d never seen a dead person up close, but there wasn’t a shade of doubt. Living people have light in their eyes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">"Must of fell out of the hay loft." Millie bobbed her head to reinforce her conclusion.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I swallowed hard, barely able to take in that Rita was gone. “Looks that way.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">A soft whicker drew my attention back to Rita’s filly. After ending her race at the edge of the woods, she'd ambled back as far as the training arena gate where she stopped and watched us, her head lowered and her ears flicking back and forth. For the first time I saw the bright smear of crimson on her right shoulder.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">If you like my samples and my books, please follow my blog! Thanks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-37333404672006024462011-01-22T10:49:00.000-05:002011-01-22T10:49:37.853-05:00Talented Horsewoman Is On Sale<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFnNALR6zbWBg0uv520S_liuqGLIckYg-v9zjKij-8eJJ3xsoPNBS2UN8v4St3KRmzwP5ijy_zFtst2A1x1bXeTz2uee26nuUDS6pgRj3vBH1RKOA9MfQVv-kXA9h8lsCc_s2zd3ABdI/s1600/TalentedHorsewoman-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFnNALR6zbWBg0uv520S_liuqGLIckYg-v9zjKij-8eJJ3xsoPNBS2UN8v4St3KRmzwP5ijy_zFtst2A1x1bXeTz2uee26nuUDS6pgRj3vBH1RKOA9MfQVv-kXA9h8lsCc_s2zd3ABdI/s1600/TalentedHorsewoman-1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Talented Horsewoman is the first in my Leigh McRae mystery series. This book was trad published. A lot of people have commented on the title and they think it's--well, a little weird. Enquiring minds want to know why I chose that particular name for my book, so here's the scoop: Talented Horsewoman was my working title and all along I intended to find something fresh, new, and exciting that would help my baby fly off the shelves and into the hands of eager readers. Then along came a publisher. You never saw such excitement on my part--excitement that was quickly followed by a lot of hard work and a million things to do. With all of that going on, I neglected to tell the publisher I was going to use a different title and the book was published. So there you have it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Now here's some exciting news. The publisher of Talented Horsewoman has temporarily reduced the price from $6.99 to $2.99. This price won't last, though I have no idea when it's going back up. I'm indie publishing The Witness Wore Blood Bay, the second in the series, so for those who love horse mysteries and humor, the Leigh McRae series is for you and you might want to grab book one while it's bargain priced. The book has 19 reviews: 17 are five star and 2 are four star.<br />
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About Talented Horsewoman: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Leigh McRae leads a quiet life in a small Florida town, surrounded by horse farms and alligators. For the sake of her daughter, she has traded her own happiness for job security and a truce with her ex-husband Kenneth, a poster boy for control freaks. But her peaceful existence is shattered when she discovers the body of her friend and fellow horsewoman, Rita Cameron. The police conclude Rita died in an accidental fall from a hayloft. Leigh is sure the death was a murder and she sets out to convince the police to investigate so her friend can rest in peace.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
Meanwhile she has to deal with escalating demands from Kenneth, demands that may cost her her horses as well as her home. And on top of everything else, she has to help her cousin Sammi, who's dating a burglar. But Leigh doesn't let personal problems stop her from sleuthing, even though she admits she is not the world's greatest detective. While digging for evidence, she discovers a secret in Rita's past. Now Leigh and her daughter are in danger, and only Leigh's desperate actions can save them.</span></div></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3840399780380375448.post-29349872812825312052011-01-16T08:24:00.001-05:002011-01-16T12:30:51.606-05:00Sample Sunday: The Witness Wore Blood Bay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjJosYDZAtBeq0JgHCfc_GQeiOmCAjfQpj7mDoiRyz3pzZEyhFC5G1oL10gMS8dUyjT2bZXdGwDSBQh92YY-53OYiED8dRZqYcjFg-SxonROFplCYaW2G3LSA_-_B5IsnxLBG72VkGwiI/s1600/The_Witness_Wore_Blood_Bay_Kindle_Cover_Final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjJosYDZAtBeq0JgHCfc_GQeiOmCAjfQpj7mDoiRyz3pzZEyhFC5G1oL10gMS8dUyjT2bZXdGwDSBQh92YY-53OYiED8dRZqYcjFg-SxonROFplCYaW2G3LSA_-_B5IsnxLBG72VkGwiI/s320/The_Witness_Wore_Blood_Bay_Kindle_Cover_Final.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Coming Soon: The Witness Wore Blood Bay</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; white-space: normal;"></span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Leigh McRae Has Body-Discovering Experience</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In Talented Horsewoman, the first book of my horse mystery series, main character Leigh McRae discovers a body. She also ends up solving a murder. Along the way she helps her cousin Sammi, who is dating a burglar, and she manages to get out from under the control of her overbearing ex-husband.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now Leigh's friend Candy, a fellow horsewoman, finds herself accused of murder. Who else would she turn to for help except Leigh? After all, everyone in small town Del Canto knows Leigh has body-discovering experience. Never mind that Leigh is busy finding out who's poisoning dogs in Sammi's neighborhood and she's trying to renovate her home without going broke. Or that her ex-husband Kenneth and former ranchhand Doug Reilly have become roommates in Leigh's guest house.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There's a murder to solve. And her friend won't take no for an answer.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Random excerpt from a chapter where Leigh and Sammi hunt for a dog killer</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Like me, Sammi was dressed entirely in black. Her outfit was a black dress that flowed to her ankles and mine was a black sweatsuit that didn’t flow anywhere, but had me--predictably--sweating rivers. It didn't help that I'd dabbed black mascara all over my face to disguise myself. Maybe we didn’t exactly know what we were doing, but I could see we didn’t intend to be seen doing whatever it was we were going to do.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Hurry.” She made quick little motions with her hands, signaling me to follow her toward the back of her property. I noted she’d put on a black hat and covered her face with a piece of black netting that made her look like a Goth beekeeper. </span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Why? You said they were gone."</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Yes, but there's one thing that’s kind of bothering me, babe.” She paused at her back gate. Her eyes looked like they were checkered because of the netting. “How will we explain ourselves if someone catches us lurking outside the Barker home?” </span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“That’s kind of bothering you, huh? I suppose we’ll tell them we were out ghost hunting. I brought along my digital camera so we can say we were trying to snap pictures of ectoplasm--or whatever it’s called--that was floating around the neighborhood. Maybe I’ll even make up a story about a jilted lover who haunts the street looking for his intended.” I patted the front pocket where I’d stashed the camera.</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Oh, wow, you really do have a knack for detecting. I never would have come up with that.” Sammi nodded her appreciation.</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I watch </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ghost Hunters</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> a lot. Have you seen the show? They’re plumbers by day, paranormal investigators by night.”</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Dope.” </span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I’m serious. They have a white van for plumbing and a black one for--”</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“The Barker place is that way.” She pointed down the block in the direction away from town. “The white house. You want to lead?” Her expression, what I could see of it under the veil and in the dim light, looked hopeful.</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I peered in the direction she indicated and made out a house that was lighter in color than the others. Could have been white. Looked blurry to me with no moon and the street light on the corner not working.</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“How come I always have to be the brave one?”</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“’Cause you’re braver than I am. Come on.” She slipped into the shadows and crept along the fence line, moving as stealthily as a woman her size could. Sammi's nearly six feet tall and big-boned.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I wondered if neighborhood dogs would hear us and bark an alert, but then I remembered there might not be any dogs left on her street thanks to the dog poisoner. </span></span></div>L.C. Evanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16079046991505167355noreply@blogger.com7