#SampleSunday Jobless Recovery

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.

From Chapter Three

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.

“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.

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.”

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.

“You don’t have to feel guilty because you didn’t get fired, Ken.”

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.

“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.”

“In this economy, I’ll be lucky to get a ticket to ride a match, let alone a rocket.”

“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.

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.”

“Try to see things from Markham-Hook’s point of view.” Ken couldn’t meet his eyes.

“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?”

“Dave, keep your voice down.”

“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?”

“Bitter, bitter.” Michael pressed into the cubicle. 

 Ken took the opportunity to slink past him into the hallway and scurry toward his office. Dave shot him a one-finger salute.

Jobless Recovery

#SampleSunday The Witness Wore Blood Bay

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. 

       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.”

            “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?”

            “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.

            “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.

            “As far as I’m concerned, babe, the only self-help book those two need is something called Cooling Off, For Dummies. 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.

            “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.”

            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.”

            “I’m just saying.”

            “I’ll bet you are. But what’s the rule about you getting involved in murder cases? Tell me, babe, what’s the rule?”

            “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.

            “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.” 

The Witness Wore Blood Bay

#SampleSunday In Which Susan Finally Confronts Philip

Pier at Charleston's Folly Beach

     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.

     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?”

     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.”

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.

    Philip’s face twisted into a reptilian sneer. I wanted to slap some respect into him.

“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.”

We Interrupt This Date

#SampleSunday I predicted this economic mess in Jobless Recovery

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.

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.

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:

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."

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.

“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.

“The cash for clunkers program and the economic stimulus will create jobs,” said another phone voice in soothing tones.

“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.”

“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.”

“What did you just say?” His voice cracked like that of a teenager. “That’s insane.”

“Sir-er,” the nasal voice said, making sir into a two-syllable word, “contact your local Employment Security Commission.”

Click.

Dave sighed. He’d exhausted all his options. If there was a book called The New Economy for the Completely Clueless, he hadn’t read it. But all evidence indicated no one in Washington had either.

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."

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.

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.

Jobless Recovery

#SampleSunday My Planet or Yours

   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.         

            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.

            The crew on the Sheloni 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.

         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.           

            He flipped it open. "Pilot, what is my whereabouts?"

            "Earth, Commander."

            "I have told you before. I am not a Commander. My rank is Lieutenant."

            A brief hesitation and then the pilot's voice replied. "You are my commander, sir."

            "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."

            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.

            "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."

            Triskam blew his breath out sharply. Not good. He hoped the pilot was otherwise undamaged. He'd need it to survive.

            "Sorry. The crushing with my posterior region was unintentional. Where on Earth have we landed?"

            "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."

            "We will discuss that later. Right now I have to think."

            "Violations of Space Service directives are very serious and should be discussed now."

            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. 

#SampleSunday We Interrupt This Date

Charleston's Folly Beach

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.

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.

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 very large mistake.”

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

“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.”

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.

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.

“Mama?” I got up and started filling the dishwasher. “I hope you’re not still upset about my phone call last night.”

“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?”

“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.

“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.” 

“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.

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.

“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.”

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.

“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.

“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.

“It’s a done deal and I am not changing my mind.”

“I hope she hasn’t spent any money yet. Because it’s just a matter of a few days before you realize what a fatal 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.

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.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“I promise I’ll stay out of the streets. And I wouldn’t quit the ghost tours until I found something else.”

“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.

“The carts aren’t that full,” I said in clipped tones.

“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.”

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.”

“You will crash and burn, Susan. Mark my words, you will wish you never lowered yourself to being a ghost walker.”

“Ghost tour operator.”

“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.

We Interrupt This Date

The Witness Wore Blood Bay

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. 

            “Dang. What’s that woman doing out this way?”

            “What woman?” I hefted a trash bag and decided it was light enough for me to carry to the guesthouse.

            “Rebecca. That was her car. I hope she ain’t following me.”

            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.            

            “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.”

            “Yeah?” He frowned. “Hope Rebecca don’t hold it against you.”

            “Good lord, Doug, you sure are scared of her. For heavens sake, what could she possibly do?”

            “Anything.” He shot me a dark look and slung one of the trash bags over his shoulder.

            “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.

            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.

            “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. 

            “Guess she ain’t too happy about you getting that puppy.” Doug hitched the TV higher and took a tighter grip.

            “Guess not.” I wished I hadn’t seen her drive by.

            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.

            “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.”

            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.

            Adam held the dog food out in front of him and shook the bag, pretending to be shocked. “Another stray?”

            “Sort of. Brenda couldn’t keep him and I didn’t want Rebecca to get her hands on him. She’s evil.”

            “Evil? You’re starting to sound like Sammi. Who’s Rebecca?”

            “Doug’s ex girlfriend. Not Tina--the latest ex.”

            “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?”

The Witness Wore Blood Bay

#Sample Sunday We Interrupt This Date

Downtown Charleston

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. 

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.

“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.”

“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.”

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.”

“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.”

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.

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.

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.”

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.”

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.

“You never know how things will work out, Veronica. Besides, like you said, I need a starter date to get me off and running.”

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.

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.

We Interrupt This Date

#SampleSunday Night Camp

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.

About the book:

A spooky graveyard. A creepy basement. A pair of coffins.
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…

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.

            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.

            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.

            "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.  As soon as I stopped moving, cold seeped into me, and I pulled my knees up to my chest.

            "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."

            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.

            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."

            "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.

            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.

                "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.

            I gulped in surprise. Hours had passed. It was nearly morning.  

               I stood and stomped my feet and rubbed my hands together for warmth. That seemed about as effective as massaging an ice cube.

            "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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            Somehow I managed to find the opening in the rock wall that led to another chamber. I groped my way through. This was the way I'd come in. I remembered that the next opening was directly opposite.

            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.

                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.

            This isn't supposed to be here, I thought. 

            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.

Night Camp

Night Camp UK

#SampleSunday The Witness Wore Blood Bay

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.

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.

There's a murder to solve. And her friend won't take no for an answer.

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. 

 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.

“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.”

“Wrong, totally wrong. Unfortunately, I am dateless these days. But I do need you to watch Jeeves for a while. Please?”

“Define ‘a while,’” I said cautiously. Sammi’s sense of time differed radically from mine.

“I couldn’t say, but it’s an emergency. A week, maybe?”

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?”

“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?”

“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.”

“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.”

I waved my hand in front of her face. “Sammi, you’re way off topic.”

“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.

“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.

“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.”

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.”

“I know, I know, but it’s so ironic about their name—the Barkers. And they’re complaining about a barking dog.”

“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.”

“What?” I yelped, staring at her, hardly able to believe someone was killing dogs. “A dog poisoner?”

“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.”

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.

“Of course I’ll dog sit.” I would never forgive myself if Jeeves were murdered because I refused to help.

“Thanks, babe.” Sammi jumped out of the car and blew me a kiss.

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.

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.

“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.

“Hey, I don't need a co-driver, Jeeves. Back off.”

“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.”

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.

“So how well did you know him?” Sammi asked as I pulled back onto the highway.

“Jeeves?” I glanced at her sideways. I thought we’d covered the topic of his behavior.

“No, silly. I mean, Richard—the murdered guy.”

“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. 

“I never said we weren’t interested in the murder. I said you were not going to get involved.”

“Yeah, I said the same thing. So what do you mean? Like what he was like and what he did for a living?”

“I was only curious.” Sammi tossed her hair back over her shoulders and stared straight ahead through my grimy windshield.

Note to self. Wash the car. And remember to ask Sammi why she was “only curious,” while I was “nosy.”

“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."

"Hmm. So maybe one of his exes killed him for revenge."

"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.”

“Really?” She sounded impressed. “I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it’s fabulous.”

“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.

“Oh, no, you are not,” Sammi shrieked, slapping my shoulder with the back of her hand.

“Ow. Don’t hit the driver. What are you talking about?”

“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.”

“I admit the thought crossed my mind for the briefest of seconds. But it’s too farfetched.”

“Of course it is. And you are not going anywhere near that place unless you have me for backup.”

“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?

The Witness Wore Blood Bay