Jenna Bennett / Jennie Bentley

Eye halve a spelling chequer

2011-12-27T08:32:00.000-08:00

This arrived in my email box today, and I couldn't resist:

Eye halve a spelling chequer

It came with my pea sea.
It plane lee marks four my revue
Miss steaks aye can knot sea.

Eye ran this poem threw it,
Your sure reel glad two no.
Its vary polished in it's weigh.
My checker tolled me sew.

A checker is a bless sing,
It freeze yew lodes of thyme.
It helps me right awl stiles two reed,
And aides me when I rime.

Each frays come posed up on my screen
eye trussed too bee a joule.
The checker pours o'er every word
To cheque sum spelling rule.

Bee fore a veiling checker's Hour
spelling mite decline,
And if we're lacks oar have a laps,
We wood bee maid too wine.

Butt now bee cause my spelling
Is checked with such grate flair,
Their are no fault's with in my cite,
Of nun eye am a ware.

Now spelling does knot phase me,
It does knot bring a tier.
My pay purrs awl due glad den
With wrapped word's fare as hear.

To rite with care is quite a feet
Of witch won should be proud,
And wee mussed dew the best wee can,
Sew flaw's are knot aloud.

Sow ewe can sea why aye dew prays,
Such soft wear four pea seas,
And why eye brake in two averse
Buy righting too pleas.

-- Sauce Unknown

A Done Deal

2011-12-14T12:37:00.000-08:00

It's official: A Done Deal, the last - at least so far - book in the Cutthroat Business romantic mystery series, has entered the world.

You can find it for sale from these fine etailers:

AMAZON

BARNES and NOBLE

SMASHWORDS

The iBook version, along with Kobo and Sony and Diesel and a few others, goes through Smashwords, so it'll be a week or so until it's available there, but in the meantime, if you have an ereader that isn't a Kindle or a Nook, Smashwords should have a format you can use.

Here's a taste of Chapter 1:

Todd looked coy.“What would you like Santa to bring you, Savannah?”

Rafe, I though, and immediately chastised myself. He was gone, he wasn’t coming back, he didn’t want me. I smiled. “Nothing. I have everything I need.”

“Diamonds?” Todd suggested.

“God, no.” That brought to mind engagement rings, and I couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to turn down another proposal in front of my entire family on Christmas Eve.

“A puppy?”

From his expression, it was almost as if he thought a puppy would make up for the baby I’d lost. My baby had been barely bigger than a blueberry when I miscarried, but after all the agonizing I’d done over whether or not to keep it, it had become very real to me. And as much as I like puppies, it wasn’t the same.

“I live in an apartment,”I said. “With a no-pets policy.”

“I guess a kitten is out of the question too, then.”

“You could get me a goldfish. I’m allowed to have those.”

Todd’s expression lightened. “Do you want a goldfish?”

“Not really,” I said apologetically. “I was joking. I don’t really need a Christmas present.”There was nothing anyone could give me that I wanted. Especially Todd.

I wondered if I ought to ask him what he wanted for Christmas, but I was afraid of what the answer would be. And I’d bought him a sweater in any case.

I speared a mushroom with my fork and lifted it to my mouth.

“Isn’t that Collier?” Todd said, looking over my shoulder.

For a second, my heart skipped a beat and I almost choked. Then I realized two things: 1) he’d probably only said it to get a reaction from me—Todd was suspicious of my feelings for Rafe long before there were any feelings to speak of—and 2) there was no way he could be right.

I swallowed the mushroom and made sure my voice was steady. “I doubt it. If he were back in town, I’m sure someone would have told me.”

And it probably wouldn’t have been Rafe himself. If he hadn’t stuck around when I lost the baby, and he didn’t get in touch after I was shot, he wouldn’t bother to call to tell me he was back in Nashville, either.

I had, however, become friendly with Tamara Grimaldi, homicide detective with the Nashville PD, and she knew Rafe too, and kept tabs on him through her contact in the Tennessee Bureau of Investigations. I trusted her to let me know if anything important happened. Like, if he died. Or if he’d been shot or hospitalized.

Or if he’d come back to Nashville.

Todd nodded, reassured by my lack of interest, and forked up another piece of veal.

I continued my internal monologue while I chased mushrooms around my plate. Even if Rafe was back in town and nobody had bothered to tell me, he wouldn’t be here at Fidelio’s. He despises the place. I’ve had dinner with him here twice, and both times he treated the fancy cuisine and snobbish waiters with irreverent amusement. He wouldn’t choose to come here unless it was with me. And since we were over and done, he had no business being here. It was probably just someone with a passing resemblance to Rafe. Todd was a little bit paranoid on the subject; he was probably just seeing things.

“Are you sure he’s not back in Nashville?”Todd said. “Because that really looks like him. Just the kind of woman I’d expect him to be with, too.”

Woman?

I twisted on my chair. “Where? I really don’t think...”

And then my breath went when I saw that yes, it was indeed Rafael Collier on the other side of the restaurant, just sitting down at a romantic table for two. A table I had once shared with him, as it happened. Behind a pygmy date palm. And the woman he was with was exactly the kind of woman I would expect him to be with, too.

A woman very much not like me, I might add.

Like Rafe, she looked like she might be of mixed race. Long, dark hair fell straight like a waterfall down her back, and she had exotic almond-shaped eyes in a stunning face with flawless caramel skin and red lacquered lips. She was shorter than me, and even in four inch heels she barely came up to his shoulder. Granted, he’s tall—six three, give or take—but she was still on the petite side. And she was poured into a short, tight, Christmas-red dress that clung to every curve she had, and his hand was right there, on the exposed skin of her back. That, more than anything else, hurt. He was touching her. In a sort of intimate way. Skin to skin. The same way he’d touched me.

I own a red dress too. I’d bought it to coax a proposal from Todd, back when I thought being engaged to Todd would make me less likely to indulge in my feelings for Rafe. Instead, it had been Rafe who peeled it off me at the end of the night.

My dress isn’t as short or as tight—hers looked like lycra; mine’s satin—but it’s also backless, and I could remember disconcertingly well the feeling of his hands on my back, warm and hard and a little rough. I could remember what happened afterwards too, and the thought that they’d be leaving Fidelio’s and going home to make love in his bed—the bed where he’d made love to me—was enough to turn the Chicken Marsala to sawdust in my mouth.

# # #

Space guys are hot

2011-12-07T17:27:00.000-08:00

A couple weeks ago was invited to contribute to an article someone was writing on - I quote - "the duality of Science Fiction and Romance that makes SFR such a great mixed genre."

Since I've started writing SFR - science fiction romance, what I've been calling my futuristic science fiction space opera romance thingy - I couldn't resist.

The article is HERE, including a quote from me - in the same paragraph as the fabulous Linnea Sinclair (who's so much more eloquent than me, and who's also been writing this thing called SFR for years).

But I had a lot more to say about the duality of SF & R than what made it into the article, and I thought I'd put it all here, since it makes me sound slightly less shallow than the reference to hot space guys may make you think I am.

Here's my quote - the entire thing - as sent to Heidi:

The way I see it, science fiction has traditionally been a male genre, with more male writers and more male readers. (Please note that I'm not saying "only," because there are certainly some fantastic female science fiction writers out there, and quite a few female science fiction readers too. But the genre is more heavily weighed toward men, I think, probably because of the science aspect. And the weapons. Boys like their weapons. )

By the same token, romance is traditionally a female genre. Some men write romance, and some men read it, but primarily, it appeals more to women.

SFR, then, becomes a fusion of the two, with - one hopes - appeal to both. It's equally balanced between the traditionally male interests - science, weapons, military - and the female - love and relationships. Science fiction is kind of like the old-fashioned western. SFR is the futuristic western romance, only without the horses. You have the traditional outlaw hero, larger than life, gun on his hip, chasing down the bad guys and able to - quite literally - change worlds.

Except the damsel in distress, tied to the railroad tracks, isn't always in distress in SFR; sometimes she's the hero. It's the future, after all, and women don't have to abide by 19th century rules for proper behavior. And let's face it: space guys are hot, you know? Han Solo? Mal Reynolds?

So what do you think? Do you see any similarities between science fiction and westerns, or for that matter between SFR and western romance? And most importantly, do you think space guys are hot?

Getting my feet wet

2011-12-05T19:14:00.000-08:00

As most of you probably know, I've signed a contract to write a series of science fiction romance for Entangled Publishing.

I had no plans of ever writing science fiction, and I can't really explain how it happened. The character was just there one day, insisting on having his story told, and that was it.

Romance, though, is a genre I'm familiar with. Back in the late 1990s, when I first thought it might be fun to write, I joined the fabulous Music City Romance Writers, and even entered - and won - their annual contest, the Melody of Love, in what I think was its inaugural year, 1998. My entry was the first chapter of a story called A Fine Romance, which is lost in the ether, for which I think we should all be grateful.

No, it wasn't bad. It won, after all. But it's been twelve or thirteen years. I'm a better writer now.

Anyway, I started having kids after that, and five years later, when I went back to writing, murder mysteries came more easily to me. I'm not saying there's a correlation, just stating a fact.

Since 2005, I've written twelve mysteries. The fact that I now have to go back to writing romance, a very different discipline, is a little scary to me.

So to ease into things I posted a romantic short story on Smashwords last night. (I posted it on Amazon and B&N too, but I have to charge for it there. And since it's only 3,400 words, I'm not expecting anything big to happen. But on Smashwords it's free.) And so far, in just over 24 hours, it's had more than 130 downloads. Which may not amount to a hill of beans by some people's standards. I'm pretty sure I sell a lot more than that of the DIY mysteries, actually. But in just a day, it's my biggest "selling" title.

Which I guess bodes pretty well for the science fiction mysteries.

At any rate, if anyone is interested in reading a short, sexy story about a desk clerk in an upscale hotel, and the two guests who arrive and check into adjoining rooms, feel free to download a copy HERE.

Enjoy!

One star

2011-12-03T21:09:00.000-08:00

It happens to everyone sooner or later.

Everyone who's a writer, anyway.

Bad reviews. One star ratings. Feedback on your masterpiece, your baby, the people who live in your head, that makes you cringe.

So what do you about it?

Well, it happened to a friend of mine recently. She was kind of bummed about it. We all did our best to cheer her up, by sharing our own stories of crappy reviews and all the reasons she shouldn't take it personally.

Tonight, another colleague sent this by way of encouragement; I thought I'd share. (Thank you, Teresa Wilde!)

The following are real quotes from Amazon reviews:

"This was without question the worst book I've ever read in my life."

"a sort of nightmare that never ends."

"I passionately despise this novel."

"the characters are shallow and there is no story."

"it just goes on and on and on"

The book has 54 one star reviews.

It's called "Pride and Prejudice."

Sort of puts things in perspective, doesn't it? :-)

Mrs. White in the kitchen with the candlestick

2011-11-25T14:40:00.000-08:00

The game Cluedo - or Clue in America - was created in 1944 by Anthony Pratt, a solicitor's clerk in Birmingham, England. The first version of the game was published in 1949 by the Waddington company, based in Leeds. Hasbro eventually bought out Waddington, and now publishes Clue all over the world. Miss Scarlet, Mrs. Peacock, Colonel Mustard and Professor Plum have become household names.

Earlier this year, friend Jeannie Holmes, author of the Alexandra Sabian paranormal mysteries, very innocently asked me to do a guest blog for her on 7 Criminal Minds, since she was on deadline and couldn't do her own scheduled post.

"You'll really like the prompt," she said.

Blithely, I agreed. It was just around the time when Mortar and Murder was released, so the timing seemed fortuitous.

Until she sent me the prompt.

“The Clue characters are locked in a winter lodge. Mr. Boddy is found dead in a snowdrift with no visible signs of trauma. Who did it and how do you prove it using just the things in the lodge?”

Well, I wrote the blog, called The Boddy in the Snowbank. It worked out all right. And two nights ago, after a game of Clue with my kids, I decided to give it a cover and upload it to Smashwords.

Since then it's had - as of this writing - almost 70 downloads and a 5-star rating from everyone who's reviewed it.

Not bad for a silly little short story Jeannie roped me into writing!

If you'd like to check it out, feel free to click on the link and download a copy. It's free, since I couldn't in good conscience charge anything for a 1,600 word story. Enjoy!

Ode to the English Plural

2011-11-01T08:35:00.000-07:00

I didn't write this, and I don't know who did, but as a non-native English speaker, let me tell you, the English language is tricky:

We'll begin with a box, and the plural is boxes,
But the plural of ox becomes oxen, not oxes.
One fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose should never be meese.
You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice,
Yet the plural of house is houses, not hice.

If the plural of man is always called men,
Why shouldn't the plural of pan be called pen?
If I speak of my foot and show you my feet,
And I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?
If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,
Why shouldn't the plural of booth be called beeth?

Then one may be that, and there would be those,
Yet hat in the plural would never be hose,
And the plural of cat is cats, not cose.
We speak of a brother and also of brethren,
But though we say mother, we never say methren.
Then the masculine pronouns are he, his and him,
But imagine the feminine: she, shis and shim!

Let's face it - English is a crazy language.

There is no egg in eggplant nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple.

English muffins weren't invented in England.

We take English for granted, but if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can
work slowly, boxing rings are square, and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

And why is it that writers write, but fingers don't fing, grocers don't groce and hammers don't ham?

Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend?

If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?

If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught?

If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat?

Sometimes I think all the folks who grew up speaking English should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane. (Me too.)

In what other language do people recite at a play and play at a recital?

We ship by truck but send cargo by ship...

We have noses that run and feet that smell.

We park in a driveway and drive in a parkway.

And how can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites?

You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out, and in which an alarm goes off by going on.

And in closing, if Father is Pop, how come Mother's not Mop?

#SampleSunday - Flipped Out, DIY-5

2011-10-16T07:32:00.000-07:00

Avery and her hunky handyman boyfriend Derek Ellis are renovating another house in Waterfield, Maine. But it’s not just any house. It belongs to local news anchor Tony “the Tiger” Micelli—and it’s a quaint cottage with limitless possibilities. Even more exciting is that the makeover is going to be filmed as part of a home renovation TV show.

Unfortunately the road to cable TV fame is a bumpy one: this DIY spins into a DOA when Tony’s corpse is found at the cottage, flat on his back and not from natural causes. Turns out there were a few people who wanted Tony dead, and that the murderer might have his sights set on a few more Waterfield residents. That means it’s up to Avery to nail the killer. Before someone yells "Cut!" and it's all over.

From somewhere in chapter 3... I think.

“And . . . action,” Nina said.

I made sure to stay out of sight while Wilson panned the living room—it wouldn’t do for us to be peeking around the archway and ruining the shot—but once Adam started speaking, we knew Wilson had finished his pan and was focused on Adam, so we leaned into the living room to watch.

“Hi,” Adam said, grinning dementedly, “and welcome to Flipped Out! I’m Adam Ramsey, your host. Today we’re here in Waterford, Maine—”

“Cut,” Nina said. “It’s Waterfield, Adam. Do it again.”

Adam grimaced. Wilson went back to the doorway. Derek and I ducked out of sight, and it all started over again. And again. Adam couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. He was very handsome, he probably photographed extremely well, he had a nicely modulated voice, but he couldn’t remember details to save his life. If it wasn’t the name of the town that slipped his mind, it was another word he mispronounced or stumbled over. After five or six takes, he had finally got the introduction and the name of the town and everything else just right, but when he moved into the kitchen to introduce Derek and me, the problems started all over again.

“Here we are with this week’s team of renovators, Erik Ellis and—”

“Cut,” Nina said, her voice beginning to show signs of wear around the edges. “It’s Derek, Adam. Not Erik. Do it again.”

Wilson looked put out. Adam looked pained. “Sorry, Neen.”

Nina was making an almost visible effort to be nice. “I’m sure you are, Adam. Just do it again, please.”

Wilson moved back to the doorway, Derek and I exchanged a glance, and Adam took a deep breath and blew it out again, flashing another broad smile. “Here we are with this week’s team of renovators, Derek Ellis and Ivory Baker—”

“Cut,” Nina said. “It’s Avery, Adam. Derek and Avery. Not Erik and Ivory. Do you need a break?”

The not so subtle subtext was, “Take a break, Adam. And come back ready to get it right.”

"Yeah,” Adam said, “I think maybe I do. I’ll be right back.”

He left through the laundry room and headed into the backyard, where he’d probably either punch a tree to make himself feel better, or wander around for a couple of minutes, kicking at tufts of grass and muttering. Hopefully he’d come back inside in a better frame of mind.

# # #

Flipped Out just hit the New York Times bestseller list at #33 - yay!!! - and can be bought through Amazon and B&N, as well as other e-retailers and in bookstores and select big box stores - Target, Walmart, etc - across the country.

The Big Time!

2011-10-13T07:39:00.000-07:00

HUGE THANKS

to everyone who bought Flipped Out in its first week of availability!

Thanks to you, we hit the New York Times extended bestseller list at #33!

xoxoxo

PSA: You might be a crime writer if...

2011-10-07T07:20:00.000-07:00

This list arrived in my email box today, courtesy of my husband, who forwarded it from a colleague at the real estate firm, who'd probably gotten it from someone else. Supposedly, it was written by a cop, although the fact that some of the information is questionable - the part about the baby cry recording seems to be urban legend - I'm not sure. However, I don't think it matters, since it's excellent advice we should all keep in mind.

Not to mention a hell of a story idea.

You know you're a crime writer when a list like this makes you brainstorm plots for your next book!

1. Tip from Tae Kwon Do:

The elbow is the strongest point on your body. If you are close enough to use it, do!

2. If a robber asks for your wallet and/or purse, DO NOT HAND IT TO HIM.

Toss it away from you instead....

Chances are that he is more interested in your wallet and/or purse than you, and he will go for the wallet/purse. Leaving you to RUN LIKE MAD IN THE OTHER DIRECTION!

3. If you are ever thrown into the trunk of a car, kick out the tail lights and stick your arm out the hole and start waving like crazy. The driver won't see you, but everybody else will.

4. Women have a tendency to get into their cars after shopping, eating, working, etc., and just sit there, doing their checkbook, looking at their receipt, or checking of a chore list.

DON'T DO THIS!

This is the perfect opportunity for a predator to get in on the passenger side, put a gun to your head, and tell you where to go.

AS SOON AS YOU GET INTO YOUR CAR, LOCK THE DOORS AND LEAVE.

If someone else is in the car with a gun to your head, DO NOT DRIVE OFF!

Instead gun the engine and speed into anything, wrecking the car. Your Air Bag will save you. If the person is in the back seat, they will get the worst of it. As soon as the car crashes, bail out and run. It is better than having them find your body in a remote location.

5. A few notes about getting into your car in a parking lot or parking garage:

Be aware: look around you, look into your car, at the passenger side floor and in the back seat.

If you are parked next to a big van, enter your car from the passenger door. Most serial killers attack their victims by pulling them into their vans while the women are attempting to get into their cars.

Look at the car parked on the driver's side of your vehicle, and the passenger side. If a male is sitting alone in the seat nearest your car, you may want to walk back into the mall, or work, and get a
guard/policeman to walk you back out.

6. ALWAYS take the elevator instead of the stairs. Stairwells are horrible places to be alone
and the perfect crime spot. This is especially true at night!

7. If the predator has a gun and you are not under his control, ALWAYS RUN!

The predator will only hit a running target 4 in 100 times; and even then, it most likely WILL NOT be a vital organ. RUN, preferably in a zig -zag pattern!

8. As women are always trying to be sympathetic: STOP.

Ted Bundy, the serial killer, was a good-looking, well educated man, who ALWAYS played
on the sympathies of unsuspecting women. He walked with a cane, or a limp, and often
asked 'for help' into his vehicle or with his vehicle, which is when he abducted his next victim.

9. Another Safety Point:

Someone just told me that her friend heard a crying baby on her porch the night before last, and she called the police because it was late and she thought it was weird.

The police told her "Whatever you do, DO NOT open the door."

He told her that they think a serial killer has a baby's cry recorded and uses it to coax women out of their homes thinking that someone dropped off a baby. He said they have not verified it, but have had several calls by women saying that they hear baby's cries outside their doors when they're home alone at night.

10. Water scam!

If you wake up in the middle of the night to hear all your taps outside running or what you think is a
burst pipe, DO NOT GO OUT TO INVESTIGATE! These people turn on all your outside taps full blast so that you will go out to investigate, and then attack.

As an additional tip from me: Stay where there are other people. As a friend in New York City told me when I was but a wee little nineteen-year-old wandering the city at all hours of the day and night: never walk down a deserted street. Go where there are other people. You never know what might be there that you can't see.
Stay alert, keep safe, and look out for your neighbors!

Lights... Camera... and Action!

2011-10-04T08:12:00.000-07:00

Flipped Out, Do It Yourself mystery #5, is now in stores everywhere, and downloadable for any number of e-reader devices from any number of websites. Go forth, buy, read, and enjoy. It’s a pretty good book, if I do say so myself. Here’s the blurb Berkley put on the back cover:

Avery and her hunky handyman boyfriend Derek Ellis are renovating another house in Waterfield, Maine. But it’s not just any house. It belongs to local news anchor Tony “the Tiger” Micelli—and it’s a quaint cottage with limitless possibilities. E ven more exciting is that the makeover is going to be filmed as part of a home renovation TV show.

Unfortunately the road to cable TV fame is a bumpy one: this DIY spins into a DOA when Tony’s corpse is found at the cottage, flat on his back and not from natural causes. Turns out there were a few people who wanted Tony dead, and that the murderer might have his sights set on other Waterfield residents. That means it’s up to Avery to nail the killer. Before someone yells “Cut!” and it’s all over.

Pretty cool, huh?

I’ve also sent the manuscript for the sixth DIY mystery to my editor. It doesn’t have a release date or a title yet, but they’re both coming. So yes, Avery carries on into 2012.

A new frontier

2011-09-22T06:29:00.000-07:00

Some of you may remember having heard me yap on about what I call my "science fiction futuristic romance space opera thingy" ... for lack of a more focused term.

I developed the idea more than a year ago: first in a piece of flash fiction my Working Stiffs blog buddy Wilfred Bereswill challenged me to write, after I told him I can't write anything short; and secondly in a class I took with the fabulous Heather Graham last fall. I was told by a lot of people it would be a hard sell, and that I probably shouldn't put too much effort into it... but to be honest, I had a hard time letting it go. Characters sometimes dig into your brain and refuse to give up, even when you know you should push them outta there and let them shrivel and die in the harsh light of real life.

In this case I didn't even try. Quinn's just one of those special people. I did my best to ignore him when I had other things to do, but I never made a concerted effort to get rid of him. Once in a while I'd even let him come out and play for a while.

Fast forward about a year: a month or so ago, I was yapping to another friend about it - the wonderful Misa Ramirez, author of the Lola Cruz mysteries from St. Martin's Minotaur and the Enchanted Dressmaking mysteries from NAL, as well as the marketing director for a new boutique publisher called Entangled Publishing ... and long story short, Misa asked to see the outline for the book. Then she asked if she could show it to one of the editors. And then she said the editor wanted a formal proposal for the series.

(Yes, in playing with the idea, it had morphed into a series. I told you I can't write anything short.)

And now I am extremely excited to be able to report that I have signed a four book contract for a series of sci fi romances about the crew of a space freighter called the Good Fortune. There'll be adventure, there'll be sex, there might be a little mystery and definitely some suspense, and hopefully some of you who read my mysteries will give these books a try as well. They're not very science fiction-y, I promise. They just happen to be set in a galaxy far, far away, but for all intents and purposes, they could take place right here on our own planet, as well. They're character books, just like the rest of what I write. Only, instead of - say - five mysteries making up one long romance, like the Cutthroat Business books, this is four romances making up one long adventure.

Check out the short outline for book 1, Fortune's Hero, scheduled for release sometime in 2012:

To ensure their survival on a hostile planet, an escaped prisoner and his hostage must forge a partnership that changes them from enemies to reluctant allies and – eventually – to lovers.

Last year, space smuggler Quinn Conlan was on top of the world. He had everything a man could want: a fast ship, a great crew, a gorgeous girlfriend, lots of money, and adventure and excitement around every corner.

That all changed when he agreed to ferry a shipload of weapons to the beleaguered planet Marica, currently under siege by Rhenian forces. Now he’s stuck in a prison camp on the moon Marica-3, subjected to weekly sessions with the camp’s “medical team,” and praying for a quick death before he breaks under the torture and spills everything he knows about the Marican resistance.

When the opportunity presents itself, Quinn takes a Rhenian med tech hostage and heads into the inhospitable interior of the small moon. There, he has to keep himself and Doctor Elsa Brandeis safe from the deadly flora and fauna, as well as hidden from the prison guards searching for them, all while formulating a plan for getting his crew out of prison, his ship out of impound, and everyone out of orbit.

But when Elsa professes her love, can Quinn take the beautiful doctor at her word, or will trusting her—and his heart—condemn him and his crew to an eternity on Marica-3?

All that's left now is to write the book... after I finish the revisions on DIY-6 and the last half of A Done Deal. :-)

And The Winner Is...

2011-09-21T05:06:00.000-07:00

As promised, it's the 21st of September, and I've looked at all the title suggestions, put everyone's name into a hat, and drawn a random commentor who gets his/her name into the 6th DIY book.

That person is - drumroll, please! - Judy Norton!

This blog syndicated to a lot of places, including Goodreads, Amazon Author Central, and my Facebook page, and I got a lot of lovely title suggestions by comment and message in a lot of different places. I'll be gathering them up and forwarding them to the editor along with the manuscript itself next week, and as soon as I know what the title will be, I'll share. One of you might have the winning title, so check back and see whether it's you!

Thanks, everyone, for playing! I appreciate the help! xoxo

What's in a Name?

2011-09-01T00:13:00.000-07:00

Back in March, I sold Do It Yourself mystery #6 to Berkley Prime Crime on the following couple of paragraphs:

When Derek and Avery first get the inside track on a distressed condo in Josh Rasmussen’s complex, it doesn’t seem like a very exciting project. But the price is right, and they can turn the property around quickly, which will help their cash flow. And besides, Avery thinks they can amuse themselves by giving the small, bland space some much needed oomph.

However, it isn’t but a few days after renovations start that they have all the excitement they can handle. It begins with the suspicious death of Hilda Shaw, one of the neighbors. Hilda was the resident busy-body, always sitting at her window watching the other tenants coming and going. She delighted in knowing things about people, personal things, and in letting people know that she knew.

As it turns out, every one of the residents in the small condo complex is hiding a secret of their own, including Josh Rasmussen, and Avery soon finds herself knee-deep in other people’s dirty laundry. The trick becomes figuring out which of the many secrets is the deadly one, and which of the neighbors killed Hilda, before someone else learns too much about what is going on and has to die as a result. And this time, that someone might just be Avery.

Since April, I’ve been busy – at least on and off – writing the book. I have to send it to my editor by October 1st . . . AND IT DOESN’T HAVE A NAME!!!

So far, the working title has been Secrets and Small Spaces, but that doesn’t have quite the punch I’m hoping for. And that’s where you come in.

For the next three weeks – let’s say until September 21st – give me your best suggestions for a title for my book. After the 21st, I’ll look at the offerings, pick one or more to send to my editor along with the manuscript, and draw a name out of a hat of one of you, who gets to become a character in the book.

Yes, since I haven’t submitted the manuscript yet, I can totally do that!

One of you may also end up with the winning title, but that won't be up to me; that's something the sales and marketing departments at Berkley figure out. They may pick one of the titles we suggest, or they may come up with one of their own. In either case, as soon as I know what it is, I'll announce it.

Keep in mind, the title has to be short enough to fit on the cover: 3-4 words, max. It has to sound somewhat mysterious or criminal, but it also has to have that Do It Yourself home renovation connotation. The other books have been called Fatal Fixer-Upper, Spackled and Spooked, Plaster and Poison, Mortar and Murder, and Flipped Out.

Let the games begin!

Excerpt - Close to Home

2011-07-31T05:21:00.000-07:00

From Chapter 1 of Close to Home:

“I have a problem,” I told Dix.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” my brother answered, his voice as clear in my ear as if he were sitting right next to me instead of a couple of counties over. “What’s your problem?”

The emphasis told me I wasn’t the only one with problems. Maybe our sister Catherine had called him to moan and groan. Or maybe Todd had. Dix’s best friend, assistant D.A. Todd Satterfield, had probably called to whine about me, and about the fact that I hadn’t yet accepted his proposal of marriage.

Or maybe something was going on with Dix himself. Although what kind of problem could Dix possibly have, with his perfect wife, his perfect children, and his perfect career?

Still, I’ve been trained well. I asked. Making sure my voice was sympathetic. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing you can help me with right now. Except maybe by giving me a distraction. What sort of problem, sis?”

“I’m...” I cleared my throat, “...pregnant.”

Dix was quiet for a second. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I could have sworn I heard you say you’re pregnant.”

I didn’t answer.

“You did say you’re pregnant.”

He waited. When I still didn’t speak, he added, “Well, that did it. I’m distracted. Are you sure?”

Of course I was sure. It wasn’t the kind of thing I’d toss around if I weren’t. I’d bought six different over-the-counter pregnancy tests, all different brands, two of each so as to safeguard myself against any mistakes, and all six had come out positive, one after the other. I was definitely pregnant.

“Well, are congratulations in order?” Dix asked. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t sound happy.”

“I’m not sure how I feel.” Other than scared out of my mind.

“Because of the...” he lowered his voice, “miscarriage?”

I’d had a miscarriage some three years ago, while I’d been married to Bradley Ferguson. I had told Catherine about it, and she had told mom, and at some point I guess someone had told Dix. It wasn’t me. It’s not the sort of thing you discuss with your brother. “How do you know about that?”

“Catherine told Sheila.” His voice changed subtly on his wife’s name, but I didn’t pursue it. In retrospect I realize I should have, but at the time I had other things on my mind.

“That’s part of it,” I answered. “It was not a good experience.”

Understatement of the year. Bradley and I had lasted less than two years before we called it quits, so I guess it had been for the best really, but at the time it had been difficult.

“This’ll make Todd happy, anyway,” Dix said, trying to look on the bright side. “Now you’ll have to marry him.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t bring myself to come right out and say it. “It isn’t Todd’s baby.”

And then I didn’t have to. When I didn’t say anything, Dix read my silence. His voice changed. “Oh, sis. What have you done?”

“Something stupid?” I don’t know why I posed it as a question. I’d been stupid, no doubt about it.

“I’d say. You slept with him? And you didn’t make sure you were protected? What were you thinking?”

“That’s kind of the problem,” I muttered. “I wasn’t.”

I’d been feeling. Needing. Enjoying. But not thinking. Too wrapped up in the moment, I hadn’t given the possibility of getting pregnant a thought until I didn’t get my period on time. And Dix was right. I’d been an idiot. It had been bad enough to sleep with Rafe in the first place, when I knew we’d never have any kind of real relationship, but to do it withoutprotection...!

“That’s obvious,” Dix said.

My voice was tiny. “So what do I do now?”

“You’re asking me?” I could picture him, running his fingers through his sandy blond hair, making it stand straight up. Fisting his hands in it in frustration and yanking. “All right. You don’t have many options that I can see. There’s not much chance you can pass this kid off as Todd’s...”

“No.” Any baby Rafe and I made would have its father’s dark hair, dark eyes, and golden skin. My blonde and blue-eyed fairness might lighten things up a little, like a liberal dash of milk in coffee, but we’re still talking café au lait, not plain vanilla. And since Todd is as fair-haired and blue-eyed as I am, there was no way we’d be able to explain something like that away. Or like he’d want to.

“God, sis,” Dix said, as if he were looking at the picture in my mind and freaking out all over again, “what were you thinking?”

The thing is, the picture was beautiful. A little baby... girl? boy?... with big dark eyes, thick black lashes, and a big toothless smile, holding on to my finger—

“Obviously marrying him is out,” Dix said, popping the bubble.

I nodded. Yes, and not only because he hadn’t asked. He probably didn’t want to. No, scratch that—he definitely didn’t want to. He’d been upfront about it. He wanted me in his bed, but he didn’t want a relationship. Not that he’d said so, but surely if he had, I would have heard something from him at least once in the past six weeks. The whole experience must not have been as mind-blowing for him as it had been for me. He’d achieved his goal of bedding Savannah Martin, and now he was on to the next woman. While I was here, barefoot—I was painting my toenails—and pregnant. Damn him.

# # #

Close to Home, the 4th Cutthroat Business mystery, is available from the following fine establishments:

AMAZON

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

No words

2011-07-23T11:46:00.000-07:00

I'm a writer. I'm supposed to have words. Always. But today there are none.

Yesterday, someone - and I hesitate to call him a man - planted a bomb outside a government building in my hometown. And while the police were busy dealing with that tragedy - a tragedy where seven people died - this person, dressed in police gear, with a Glock and an assault rifle, drove to a summer camp 45 minutes away, where he said he was dispatched to check on everyone's safety in light of what had happened in town. And then he opened fire on the campers. On children.

All in all, almost a hundred people died. A hundred of my people. In my town. Oslo, city of peace. The capital of Norway, where the Nobel Peace prize is handed out each year.

And I have no words. There's no way to explain something like this. No way to put into words the feelings of shock, of anger, of helplessness. Of grief, not for myself - I was lucky; my family and friends are safe - but for everyone who wasn't so blessed.

There are no words for the lives lost, the innocence lost, the peace lost. For all of us.

Most of all, I'm proud to be Norwegian today. I'm proud of the way my people and my government handled the crisis. Proud that there was no fingerpointing, no instant jump to a conclusion that - as it turns out - would have been wrong. Proud that we rose above, that there was no retaliation against people who are just as shocked, disbelieving, and angry as the rest of us, even if their skin is a different color.

Proud that of all the pictures of the senselessness, this is the one that made its way around the interwebs in record time, with the caption "this is a picture everyone should see."

I pray that in the days and weeks to come, we'll be able to hold on to those feelings of tolerance, of brotherhood, of solidarity and love... and that they'll help us get through this, to once again be the city of peace that we were before July 22nd, 2011.

Excerpt - Contract Pending

2011-07-03T02:27:00.000-07:00

From chapter 5-ish: Savannah's first meeting with Jorge Pena:

I turned toward the curb and the pale blue Volvo. Only to stop after a few steps when I saw that Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t alone.

For just a second—less; half a second, maybe—my heart stuttered in my chest at the sight of the man leaning on the car. Tall, dark, muscular... One arm braced above the passenger side window and dark head inclined toward Mrs. J, he was dressed in faded jeans that molded long legs and a nice posterior, while a plain white T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and well-developed arms.

My breath caught in my throat, my stomach swooped... and then I realized that it wasn’t Rafe after all. Just another tall, dark, muscular guy in faded jeans and a T-shirt. One who was bugging Mrs. Jenkins.

“Excuse me!” I raised my voice and sped up, my heels clicking against the pavement. “Sir!”

The man straightened and turned. Up close and from the front, he looked less like Rafe. The coloring was the same—dark hair and eyes, golden skin—but this guy’s hair was longer than Rafe’s, straight and shiny, slicked back. Rafe keeps his hair cropped short. The man had a trim goatee, while Rafe stays clean-shaven, and he had an earring, a small silver cross, that Rafe doesn’t have. He also had some sort of tattoo—a dragon or demon, maybe; something green and scaly—that extended a claw above the neck of the T-shirt in the back, and around the side of his throat. And though the eyes were the same—brown bordering on black, deep and dark, fringed with long, sooty lashes any woman would sell her soul for—the expression in them was different. Where Rafe rarely looks at me without some form of amusement, even when he’s about to kiss me and his gaze is hot enough to scorch, this guy’s eyes were flat and expressionless.

“Can I help you?” I came to a stop in front of him. He was a little shorter than Rafe, too. Just an inch or so over six feet tall.

He looked me over. From head to toe and back. If it had been Rafe, the inspection would have been slow, insolent, appreciative, and ending in a killer grin. It would have made my cheeks flush and my stomach quiver. This appraisal made a chill go down my spine. There was no feeling there. No appreciation, no curiosity, no anger—nothing but cold assessment.

I forced myself not to show a reaction. “Sir?”

“I’m looking for Rafe.” His voice was low, harsh, with a hint of an accent. Not Southern. That was different, too. Rafe’s voice is husky and warm. Only when he’s angry do his voice and eyes go dead and flat, like this man’s.

“That’s quite a coincidence,” I said. “So am I. I’m sure Mrs. Jenkins told you we haven’t seen him for more than a month?”

I leaned sideways, to try to get a bead on Mrs. J, in the front seat of the Volvo. Just to make sure she was OK and still breathing. The way this guy was looking at me, I wouldn’t put it past him to have slit Mrs. Jenkins’s throat if he didn’t get the answers he wanted.

She was still alive. Staring straight ahead, her wrinkled face blank. I recognized the expression, or rather, the lack thereof. Clearly, whatever the guy had said or done to her, had scared her practically witless. She’d retreated into this place she goes, where she isn’t living in the same world as the rest of us anymore. She gets a vacant look in her eyes, and she babbles. About old Jim Collier shooting her son Tyrell, about Walker Lamont cutting Brenda Puckett’s throat, about Walker coming after the two of us with a gun... The poor dear has had some tough breaks in her life, and obviously, being related to Rafe isn’t destined to make anything easier for her.

I added, pulling my attention back to the man in front of me, “He left almost six weeks ago. He mentioned Memphis, although that could have been just a ruse. No one’s heard from him since. For all I know, he’s dead.”

The man parted his lips, just far enough to squeeze out a few words. “He ain’t dead.” The unspoken last word of that sentence, I thought, was yet.

It took another superhuman effort to keep my voice from shaking. “I’m sorry. As I told you, we haven’t heard from him. Not since he left. I’m sure he’ll be back sooner or later, but I have no idea when. And I doubt I’ll get advance warning. He usually just shows up. One day I’ll turn around, and there he’ll be.” Please, God...

The man didn’t answer. Just kept looking at me with those dead eyes.

“I’ll be happy to give him a message,” I offered, a little desperately. Maybe that would make him leave. “Whenever he comes home. Or in case he calls.”

The man looked at me again. Up and down. The regard was still impersonal, but his eyes lingered for a second longer than necessary on my legs and on the top button of my blouse. And on my throat. I paled. It was only too easy to guess what he was thinking, and I hadn’t meant that I wanted to be the message.

He must have seen the realization on my face, because he smiled. Chillingly. By which I mean that the corners of his mouth stretched, but his eyes stayed the same. “Tell him to watch his back.”

I nodded. Fervently. “I can do that. When I see him. Or talk to him. Whenever that will be.”

He nodded. And turned on his heel and walked away.

# # #

Contract Pending is the third book in the Cutthroat Business mystery series featuring Realtor® and Southern Belle Savannah Martin.

It's available in electronic format from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords.

#SampleSunday - a taste of Contract Pending

2011-06-26T07:31:00.000-07:00

A few pages from chapter 2 of Contract Pending for your enjoyment:

Chapter 2

“Spicer and Truman found her walking down the street in her housecoat and slippers,” Detective Grimaldi said twenty minutes later.

I had driven hell for leather into downtown, found a parking space a block and a half from Police Plaza, and hoofed it up to her office with five seconds to spare, only to find her entertaining Tondalia Jenkins, who was drinking Diet Pepsi and eating peanut butter crackers from a vending machine, in front of a TV in the lounge. Her fuzzy slippers were dirty and worn through on the bottom—clearly not meant for walking long distances outside—and her hair stood out at weird angles to her head, the way it had back when she was living in an old folks’ home where nobody cared for her.

“They drove her back to the house, but no one was there. Since they didn’t feel good about leaving her by herself, to wander off again, they brought her to me.”

“And you called me,” I said. She shrugged unapologetically.

“I figured you’d be the most likely person to know how to get in touch with her grandson.”

We were standing in the doorway to the lounge, keeping an eye on Mrs. Jenkins, but far enough away that she couldn’t hear our conversation. Or so I thought.

“You figured wrong. I have no idea how to get in touch with Rafe. I haven’t heard from him since he left. For all I know, he’s been dead for the past five weeks.”

Mrs. Jenkins glanced up at that, her beady eyes concerned. I mustered a smile. “Sorry, Mrs. Jenkins. I’m sure he’s not. I just haven’t heard from him, is all.”

I lowered my voice again, and added, for Detective Grimaldi’s benefit, “And I have absolutely no idea how to get in touch with him.”

“He didn’t tell you where he was going? Give you a phone number to use in case of emergencies? Call or write?” Tamara Grimaldi’s voice was disbelieving. I shook my head.

“He mentioned Memphis, in a throwaway sort of way, but he didn’t actually say he was going there. And the only phone number I’ve ever had for him, is the one I gave you back in August, after Perry Fortunato’s… um… death. You said it had been disconnected.”

“And you have no other way of getting in touch with him?”

“None at all,” I said firmly. “Have you tried asking Julio Melendez? You’ve still got him locked up, right? Or what about Ishmael Jackson? Doesn’t one of them know how to find him? What would Julio do if he had another job for Rafe?”

“According to Julio,” Detective Grimaldi said, with a wolfish snap of strong, white teeth, “Mr. Collier was the one who approached him, not vice versa.”

I opened my eyes wide. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. It doesn’t matter what he says, either, because he can’t prove it. We can’t even prove that Mr. Collier was involved. He left town before I had the chance to ask him about it, but all he’d have to do, would be to say that he knew Julio and Ishmael and the others socially, but that he wasn’t involved in anything criminal. There’s no law against playing pool, even with known felons.”

I hid a smile. “Sorry to hear that.”

“No, you’re not. But that’s neither here nor there. Right at the moment, I need to get in touch with him because his grandmother is all alone and wandering around. If we can’t find him and get him to make alternative arrangements, we’ll have to put her back into the Milton House for the time being.”

Mrs. Jenkins’s hearing must have been acute when it came to things that mattered to her, because she looked up at the name of the nursing home where she had spent a few miserable weeks. Brenda Puckett had arranged for her to live there, after she had swindled Mrs. Jenkins out of her house, and as soon as Brenda’s murder was solved, the first thing Rafe did was get his grandmother out of the Milton House and back into her old home.

“You can’t do that!” I protested, turning away so Mrs. Jenkins couldn’t read my lips. “It’s a horrible place. They never combed her hair or washed her clothes or did anything nice for her.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“The best thing would be to find Marquita Johnson. Any idea where she is?”

“None at all,” Tamara Grimaldi said. “From what I understand, she got a phone call on Saturday afternoon, and left. Mrs. Jenkins thought she went to Sweetwater to see her children.”

I nodded. “That’s what she told me too, when I was there on Saturday. I was a little worried about leaving her by herself, but she assured me that Marquita would be home by evening. She said Marquita goes to Sweetwater to visit her children regularly.”

“From what we can gather, she didn’t come back. I’ve contacted the sheriff down there…”

“Bob Satterfield,” I said. She nodded.

“He talked to her ex-husband, apparently he’s a deputy sheriff…”

I nodded. “Cletus Johnson. They’ve been separated for a while.”

“He claimed not to have spoken to her since last week sometime, and he certainly didn’t call her on Saturday to tell her to come down to Sweetwater. They’re fighting over custody and visitation rights, and he’s not about to give her any more time with those children than he has to.”

“What a guy,” I said. Detective Grimaldi snorted.

“Though he told us that if anything had happened to her, he knew who was to blame.”

“Let me guess. Rafe Collier.”

The detective nodded. “Some history there, I take it.”

“Marquita had a crush on Rafe in high school. Cletus liked her, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day when Rafe was around. Then Rafe went to jail and Cletus and Marquita got married. I don’t think Rafe had anything to do with their splitting up, but I guess Cletus felt he needed someone to blame.”

“I’m sure,” Detective Grimaldi agreed. “We’ll keep looking for her, of course, but aside from talking to her friends and acquaintances down there, there’s not a lot we can do. Sheriff Satterfield said he’d tell his officers to keep an extra eye out as they go about their business, just in case someone has seen her. In the meantime, I have to decide what to do about Mrs. Jenkins.”

I nodded gloomily. She continued, “I don’t really have a desire to put her back into the Milton House—I was there with you, remember, and I know what it’s like—but Mrs. Puckett did pay for her care there, so they wouldn’t be able to turn her away, and sad as it is to admit, it’s a nicer place than some I’ve seen.”

“That’s a scary thought.”

“She can’t stay in her house alone. That’s a disaster waiting to happen, and I won’t allow it.”

“So what do you suggest?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know.

She grinned. “Didn’t you tell me that Mr. Collier asked you to keep an eye on her while he was away? Maybe you can move in with her until we either find Miss Johnson or until Mr. Collier comes back.”

I had known what was coming, but that didn’t mean I liked hearing it. “What am I going to do with her when I have to go show a house? Or write a contract? I have a committee meeting for the Eye Ball tonight, although I suppose I can cancel that. But I also have a date with Todd tomorrow. And believe me, he’s not going to be happy about me bringing Rafe’s grandmother along. Anyone’s grandmother, really, but especially Rafe’s.”

Tamara Grimaldi smirked. “I met Todd Satterfield once, did I tell you that?”

“He told me. He said he gave you those pictures of Rafe and Ishmael Jackson and the others, that he got from his tame P.I. back in September. Isn’t there a law against civilians hiring private investigators to follow other civilians around?”

“You’d think,” Detective Grimaldi said, “but you’d be wrong. Anyway, I formed the impression that Mr. Satterfield doesn’t care for Mr. Collier, or for anyone associated with him. I’d cancel that date, if I were you.”

“On the other hand, it would almost be worth bringing her, just to see his face.” I grinned unbecomingly for a moment, and then got myself under control again. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice. I mean, I promised Rafe I’d look after her. She can move in with me. I’d rather do that, than spend days or weeks in that house on Potsdam Street. I’m sure it’s not haunted, but I still avoid looking into the library whenever I’m there, just in case. And it’s where Walker tried to kill me, too. I have bad memories of the place. I’d rather stay in my apartment. I’ve only got one bedroom, but she can have that, and I’ll sleep on the sofa. And if I have to go show houses, she can come with me. I’ll just have to cancel Todd and the Eye Ball.”

The Eye Ball is a charitable event benefiting the optometry department at Vanderbilt Hospital. I was doing some volunteer work for them, preparing for the gala.

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot to figure out,” Detective Grimaldi said pleasantly. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Right. “I suppose you have work to do?”

“Two dead in a house fire, both with bullets through their brains, and a fatality during a domestic brawl. A woman stabbed her husband four times with a carving knife. Thanks for asking.”

I was sorry I had.

“If you think of any way to get in touch with Mr. Collier, let me know. I’ll let the Memphis PD and the TBI know we’re looking for him, just in case he shows up on their radar. And I’ll let you know if I find out anything about Marquita Johnson.”

“Please do. Believe me, the sooner you find either her or Rafe, the happier I’ll be.”

Detective Grimaldi didn’t answer, but she smiled.

# # #

Contract Pending will be available on or around July 1 from Amazon, BN, and Smashwords.

The Boddy in the Snowbank - whodunit

2011-06-21T02:14:00.000-07:00

Just for fun, this is a blog post I wrote for the 7 Criminal Minds blog earlier this year. The prompt was, "the Clue characters are visiting a hunting lodge. The next morning, the host, Mr. Boddy, is found dead outside in the snow with no visible marks on him. Your job is to figure out whodunit, using nothing but the items available to you at the lodge."

*Disclaimer: I do not own the Clue characters, nor would I particularly want to. I just borrowed them for a bit.*

“When I walked outside that morning, he was facedown in the snow, still wearing his tuxedo from last night and no overcoat. There was no mark on him, no footprints in the snow, nothing to show what had happened.

The last time I saw Mr. Boddy alive was at dinner. Veal Parmesan. There were five guests. All were there to, quote, ‘assist Mr. Boddy with his research,’ unquote.

On Mr. Boddy’s right sat Mrs. Peacock, wife of Marcus Peacock, the reclusive millionaire, and over dessert, Mr. Boddy accused her of having done away with no less than four of her previous husbands. The real reason she was there, however, was so that Mr. Boddy could see the look on her face when he told her that her current husband had been caught on camera coming out of Scarlet Begonia’s apartment in the wee hours of the morning one day last week. Lavinia was furious, of course, and it didn’t make Scarlet happy either, especially when Lavinia threw an entire glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in her face, totally ruining her make-up.

Boddy had another reason for inviting Scarlet. Professor Peter Plum was among the guests. Five years ago, Plum lost his license to practice psychology after word got out that he had made sexual overtures toward a patient. Well, that patient was Scarlet Begonia, and she was only fourteen at the time. So the scandal was even more scandalous than anyone originally thought.

Boddy had gotten that piece of intelligence from the Reverend John Green, who has some sort of strange connection with Mrs. Begonia, Scarlet’s mom. She seems to be one of these crazy women who finds solace in bogus TV evangelists. According to Mr. Boddy, she has given all her money to Reverend Green, and that’s why Scarlet set her sights on Marcus Peacock and his fortune. Incidentally, the money Mrs. Begonia gave the Reverend Green, was the money she had gotten from Peter Plum in return for keeping her mouth shut about the scandal, so Professor Plum wasn’t too happy after Green spilled the beans that Plum had paid through the nose to keep buried.

Mr. Boddy’s tame investigator, Michael Mustard, seemed to be the one who had procured the photographic evidence of the affair between Scarlet and Marcus Peacock. And not only that, but Mr. Boddy had figured out that Mustard was Lavinia’s first husband, the one who disappeared in the Congo six years ago. Neither of them offered an explanation, but either way, Mrs. Peacock clearly isn’t Mrs. Peacock at all. She’s Mrs. Mustard, and a bigamist.

All in all, it was a memorable meal. Everyone was scowling at everyone else, while David Boddy sat in the middle of it all and took mental notes, grinning from ear to ear.

After dinner, everyone went their separate ways. Lavinia retired to her room—and who could blame her?—while Scarlet did her best to stir up trouble in the library, where the men had retired to drink. Plum and Green almost came to blows, and Mustard had to break them up.

After that little brouhaha, Mr. Boddy retired to his study to work on his latest exposé. I could hear the click-click-click of the keyboard from my room behind the pantry. Everyone else went upstairs, and then the migrations started. Lavinia Peacock headed for Michael Mustard’s room, Professor Plum headed for Scarlet’s—and found it empty because she was already in with the Reverend Green. I wouldn’t have been surprised to have found any one of them dead the next morning, by someone’s hand, and that’s the truth.

However, when I woke up and went outside to pick up the morning news, it was Mr. Boddy I found facedown in the snowbank.

The first clue to what had happened, even before I got outside, was that the front door was locked. From the inside. With a deadbolt. And not only that, it was chained, too.

There was nothing about Boddy that gave any indication of how he had met his demise. No gunshot wound, no blunt force trauma to the head, no lingering odor of almonds. No footprints other than his own. He was just dead. Cold and dead. Clutching a matchbox in his hand.

It seemed obvious. Mr. Boddy had come outside to smoke a last cigarette before bed, the way he always did, and someone had locked the door behind him, causing him to freeze to death. He couldn’t have planned to stay outside long, or he would have worn an overcoat. He probably used the matches to try to keep himself warm. If he pounded on the door, no one heard him. Not surprising, as the guest rooms are upstairs and most of the guests were busy with other things. The less said about that, the better.

But was it murder? I’m afraid I believe it was. And it’s obvious who the killer is. If Lavinia Peacock was with Michael Mustard, and Scarlet was with John Green, then Peter Plum was the only suspect without an alibi. He must have come downstairs after he failed to find Scarlet, to have it out with Mr. Boddy. Finding the study empty and the front door ajar, he must have snatched at the opportunity to get rid of Mr. Boddy once and for all, before the author could turn Plum’s venality into another one of his sensational exposés.”

Stopping for air and to give the nice policeman taking her statement enough time to catch up, Mrs. Blanche White, cook and housekeeper to the late Mr. David Boddy, leaned back on her chair and crossed her ankles demurely. “That should do it, I believe. The events of last weekend in as much detail as I can recall. Is there anything else I can do for you, young man?”

The young constable shook his head. “I don’t think so, Mrs. White. Open and shut case, seems to me. If you’ll just sign for me.” He uncapped a pen and placed it on the desk next to the witness statement.

“Of course, dear.” Mrs. White signed her name with a flourish. “Yes, it seemed that way to me, too. Open and shut. I suppose all of Mr. Boddy’s research is gone?”

“If he had any research on his computer,” the young constable confirmed, “we couldn’t find it. The hard drive was wiped.”

“Professor Plum must have gone into the study and done it, I expect. After Mr. Boddy was dead.” Mrs. White clicked her tongue and shook her head. “As a professor, he would have the know-how, of course. I would have no idea how to do something like that myself, but then I never did get much of an education. Been on my own since I was sixteen, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

Mrs. White got to her feet. “If there’s nothing else, I guess I’ll be on my way.”

The young constable stood as well, his face concerned. “Do you have somewhere to go, Mrs. White? It’s not easy, getting a new job in this economy.”

Mrs. White smiled. “I’ll be going to stay with my sister and her husband for a while. We don’t have much, but we have each other.”

She bustled out of the police station, the very picture of the dowdy housekeeper. After a few seconds, a big car pulled up to the curb and the back door opened. Lavinia Peacock grinned at her sister from the passenger seat, and Scarlet scooted across the back to make room for her aunt.

“Where’s John?” Blanche asked, looking around the interior of the car. It was Lavinia who answered.

“Back at work. He’ll be in touch. You know what he’s like. Everything work out all right in there?”

“Of course.” Blanche took off her unfashionable hat, unbuttoned the top two buttons on her prim blouse, and crossed her legs. “What could go wrong?”

“He could have caught on to the names?” Scarlet suggested. “Any idiot should have realized they were fake.”

Blanche shrugged. “The boy’s name is Bruno Gray. He probably thought Green, White, and Mustard were perfectly reasonable names.”

Scarlet huffed.

“So no problems?” Michael wanted to know, from behind the wheel. “No questions about the fact that your room was on the first floor, and you should have heard David Boddy banging on the door? No suggestion that you didn’t have an alibi and might have been the one who locked the door behind him?”

Blanche shook her head. “Not a one. Bruno said it seemed like an open and shut case. Peter Plum is out of our hair, finally paying for what he did, and David Boddy won’t be writing about us—or anyone else—ever again. I think it was a good night’s work.”

She leaned back, smiling. After a second, she added, “But next time, Lavinia can be the cook and maid, and I’ll be the wealthy divorcee.”

“Fine with me,” Lavinia said, smiling. In the back seat, Scarlet rolled her eyes and turned up the sound on her iPod.

# # #

#SampleSunday - Hot Property

2011-06-19T04:57:00.000-07:00

Here's the last little tidbit from Hot Property; Savannah is sitting her first open house since her friend Lila was murdered, and she's a mite nervous that the Open House Bandits will pay her a visit:

I was still in the kitchen, looking at my list of names, when I heard the sound of an engine pulling up outside. The oven clock said 3:50 right on the dot, and my heart started beating faster. The rumbling was replaced by silence, and then I heard the sound of heavy boots on the flagstone steps. The door knob turned just as I hurried into the front foyer. The door opened and a man came in. He was tall and dark, with broad shoulders under a black leather jacket, and long legs encased in faded denim. His skin was the color of coffee with plenty of milk, a warm golden tan, and the eyes that scanned the room before landing on me, were as dark and melting as those on a Cocker Spaniel, and surrounded by a thick fringe of long, sooty lashes. They were also rimmed by a smudgy bruise of fatigue, a mute testament to a long and mostly sleepless night. When I didn’t say anything for a second, just stared at him, he flashed a grin. “Cat got your tongue, darlin’?”

My vocal chords were galvanized into cooperating as my cheeks turned pink. “You took your time getting back to me.”

He quirked a brow. “I didn’t know you’d called.”

“I didn’t call,” I said. “I left word with Marquita.”

“I ain’t been over there for a while.” He wandered closer to me, assessing the O’Keeffe, the baby grand, and the antiques along the way. “Your kind of place, ain’t it? All this old stuff.”

I shook my head. “The house is too modern. When you grow up in an 1839 mansion on the Antebellum Trail, a brand new house, no matter how ostentatious, just doesn’t cut it.”

Rafe didn’t answer, but he smiled. I flushed, feeling stupid. He had spent his childhood in a trailer in the Bog, surrounded by leaning walls and a leaking roof, so this place probably looked like a palace.

Then again, Mrs. Jenkins’s house on Potsdam Street, where he lived now – at least from time to time – wasn’t anything to sneeze at, either. Circa 1889, it was a three-story Victorian with a ballroom on the third floor and a circular tower on the southeast corner. It needed a ton of work, some of which he had done, some which he hadn’t gotten around to yet, but it had all the personality this cookie-cutter McMansion lacked.

“So what’s been going on,” I asked, “that you haven’t been over to see your grandmother lately?”

“I spent the night with Tammy Grimaldi.” His voice was so even that it took a moment for the words to sink in. Just as the realization of what he’d said sucker-punched me in the stomach, he added, “So what is it you want, darlin’?”

“Want?” I repeated blankly.

“If you went toe to toe with Marquita, you gotta want something. What is it?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” I grimaced. “I wanted to tell you that Lila Vaughn was dead. But if you spent the night with Tamara Grimaldi, I guess you already know that.”

His eyes were opaque. “The subject came up, yeah.”

“Pillow talk?”

Try as I might – and I wasn’t trying that hard – my voice came out sounding snippier than I wanted it to. His lips curved.

“Never mind,” I added, with what little dignity I could muster. Goodness, how humiliating! I wouldn’t blame him for thinking I was jealous.

His voice was easy. “You’re giving me too much credit, darlin’. Women like Tammy Grimaldi don’t look twice at somebody like me.”

“You haven’t heard the way she asks questions about you,” I answered.

He laughed. “That ain’t cause she likes me, darlin’. She probably thinks I’m doing something I shouldn’t be.”

“And are you?” The words just fell out of my mouth without conscious thought, and Rafe chuckled.

“I’m sure I’m doing plenty of stuff I shouldn’t be.”

“Like what?”

“You sure you wanna know, darlin’?”

I hesitated. For just long enough to make it difficult to say yes. “You said you had things to do this afternoon,” I said instead. “What happened?”

He shrugged. “Change of plans.”

“Well, if you didn’t speak to Marquita and get my message, how did you know I wanted to talk to you?”

That was easy, he didn’t.

“So what are you doing here?” I asked.

“Maybe I just came by to pick up where we left off last week.” He grinned, and I took an immediate step back, fetching up against the nearest piece of antique furniture with a bump that sent the elegant console-table knocking against the wall. He laughed. “Relax, darlin’. After Tammy told me what’d happened to Lila, I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I see,” I said. “That’s really quite nice of you, to take time out to check on me. Do you want to go back to her, now that you’ve seen that I’m all right?”

He laughed. “What exactly d’you think we were doing, darlin’? I spent the night in jail. She hauled me in for questioning around 8 o’clock yesterday, kept at me till one in the morning, let me sleep for five hours, and came back to work at seven. Then we kept going in circles till one, when she finally let me leave. I had to tell her you were waiting for me before she’d let me out of her sight. She’s probably outside right now, making sure I’m doing what I said I was gonna do.”

“So you’re only here because you told her you would be?”

He shrugged, looking around. “You alone?”

“No, actually. There’s a young couple around somewhere. They went back that way, to look at the master suite...” I pointed, “it must be ten minutes ago now.”

And they hadn’t come back yet.

Maybe Gary Lee and Charlene had overheard our conversation and decided to make themselves scarce until we had finished. Or maybe they’d exited from the master suite out onto the deck, and had gone around the house to their car that way. Maybe I really was alone. Except for Rafe, who was making me feel just a touch apprehensive. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering. Busy day?”

“Not too bad. Seventeen visitors, eighteen with you. I’ve seen worse.”

“You sure you shouldn’t check up on your couple? If you ain’t heard a noise for ten minutes, they could be up to all sorts of trouble. Going through the medicine cabinets, pocketing the silverware, strangling one another...”

I shook my head. “They’re nice kids. Newlyweds looking for their first house. I met them two weeks ago at your grandmother’s open house, and I’ve shown them a couple of homes since then. They have another they want to see tomorrow. They’re not doing anything wrong.”

“It’s almost time to close up, though. You don’t wanna leave nobody behind.”

I glanced at my watch. “If they’re not out here in two minutes, I’ll go look for them. Just out of curiosity, why are you being so helpful? You don’t have a moving truck on standby outside, do you?”

“After what happened to Lila? No, darlin’. I ain’t that stupid.”

“Good to know,” I said, wondering whether he really had just admitted that he’d been involved in the open house robberies or if my imagination was running away with me.

“Course, if you’ve got a hankering for being tied up, I could oblige just to make you happy.”

“After what happened to Lila?” I said. “No, thanks. I’m not that stupid.”

“Good to know,” Rafe said with a grin.

# # #

So there you have it. The last little tidbit of Hot Property, the second Cutthroat Business mystery. The book, as well as the other two, are available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords for a mere $3.99. A steal, I assure you. What are you waiting for?

Hunk of the Week: Cullen (no, not the vampire one)

2011-06-14T14:10:00.000-07:00

The other day I had a question on my Facebook page from Patti St Marie Wilson, one of the fans of my alter ego, Jennie Bentley's Do It Yourself home renovation series:

Who do you think of when you write about Derek? I figured the name came from Derek Morgan - but, your Derek is blond. I'm trying to think of a blond hunk and none seem to come to mind. lol

The truth is, I don't think about anyone. But since Patti wanted to know what Derek Ellis looked like, I had to do a little bit of figuring, and here's what I came up with:

This guy's name is Brett Cullen. Not one of the vampire Cullens, although he's certainly beautiful enough, don't you agree?

Yes, this is close to what my Derek - Avery's Derek - looks like. When I started writing the series, I didn't have this guy in mind, though. In the original outline my editor sent me, the character's name was Mike Ellis, and he was supposed to look like Bill Pullman.

However, I happen to be married to a Mike, so making him the hero of my new mystery series seemed a little self indulgent, and much as I enjoy Bill Pullman as an actor, he doesn't make my heart beat faster. So I had to do a bit of tweaking.

I don't know where I came up with the name Derek; I think I just picked it out of the air. It wasn't because of Derek Morgan, because I didn't watch Criminal Minds then. It's possible I picked it because of Derek Jeter, but I'm not sure. It's a nice name. I kept the character blond because I was already writing the Cutthroat Business mysteries about Rafe, who definitely isn't blond, and I wanted to do something different.

(On a side note, I originally thought Rafe would look something like Derek Jeter. It turned out he didn't. But that's a blog for another time.)

Brett Cullen and I go way back, though. Just because I didn't consciously picture him when I created Derek Ellis, I have to think he was in the backbrain somewhere. See, Brett Cullen used to be on what was - and possibly still is - my very favorite TV show EVER.

It was called The Young Riders and followed a group of people at a Pony Express waystation in Nebraska Territory in 1860. The series ran from 1989 to 1992, and it spawned my #1 celebrity crush, one I still haven't quite been able to shake, 20+ years later.

No, it wasn't on Brett Cullen. Sure, he was hot, but I was young back then, and I was crushing on the boys instead of the men. Brett Cullen played Marshal Sam Cain, who happened to have a thing for Emma Shannon, who ran the waystation.

For your enjoyment, here's a little snippet from the first episode of the show, in which Brett AKA Sam, probably had the best line of the entire episode. Enjoy!

Since you asked...

2011-06-12T11:24:00.000-07:00

Yes, the Wonderjocks are real. They're made by a company called Aussiebum. Check it out, for your delectation:

Excerpt - Hot Property

2011-06-12T04:16:00.000-07:00

From somewhere in chapter 8, I think... In the midst of sleuthing, Savannah meets a guy:

I was in the process of locking the front door of the French Chateau when a bright blue Mini Cooper with white racing stripes zipped into the driveway and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. A young man jumped out. He looked to be in his early twenties, and was devastatingly handsome, in that glossy way that soap opera actors and matinee idols (and gay Realtors) are. His skin was luminous and as poreless and smooth as a baby’s bottom, his soft, brown hair flopped over his forehead in shining waves, and his eyes were midnight blue bordering on black and surrounded by lashes almost as luxurious as Rafe’s. “Hel-lo, beautiful!” he caroled when he saw me, his teeth shining with the radiance of a toothpaste ad. I smiled politely.

“Hi.”

He stuck out a hand. “I’m Beau. The house boy.”

“The what?”

“House boy. Here.” He dug into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to me. I caught quite a load of skin at the same time, because Beau – an awfully appropriate name, and one I doubted was legally his own; it was just too fitting – was bare-chested beneath. His jeans hung low on his hips, exposing a taut, tanned stomach and admirable musculature all the way around.

I looked away, down to the business card, blushing. Way to go, Savannah; ogle the gay guy, why don’t you?

Beau Riggins, the card said, House Cleaning, followed by a phone number. Feeling Dirty? the slogan underneath said, Call the House Boy!

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, “I’m sure you are who you say you are, but I really can’t let you into the house.”

“That’s OK, gorgeous. I’ve got my own key.” He pulled it out and dangled it in front of my face, something which necessitated another display of skin. “Mr. Givens will be here any minute himself, I’m sure. He always comes home for lunch on Mondays. To watch me work.” He winked.

“I see,” I said. “Um... not that it’s any of my business, but wouldn’t it be better to wear a uniform of some kind? What if you spill bleach on yourself or something?”

Beau ran a hand down his chest and stomach. It was as manicured as the rest of him. Whatever he was doing to the house, didn’t involve chapping his hands in hot water and ammonia. No calluses on Beau. “This is a bona fide, genuine tan, sweetie. The real thing; I was in Acapulco just two weeks ago, working on it. Bleach won’t take it off. And wearing a shirt would totally ruin everything. Nobody’s gonna pay me $100 an hour to vacuum the floors while I wear clothes.”

“You clean in the nude?” I said. “For $100 an hour?” Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure which was more shocking.

“I clean in a pair of Wonderjocks,” Beau corrected, unconcernedly pulling down his zipper to show them to me. They were bright blue, the same color as the car, and fit him like a second skin. The waistband identified them as Property of Australia in bright red and white letters. I stared in horrified fascination, although I still felt like I was missing something.

“I’m sorry. Wonder... what?”

“Wonderjocks,” Beau repeated, with a fond look down at them. Or himself. “They work the same way as that bra you’re wearing.” He demonstrated on his own well-developed pectorals. “The Wonderjock lifts and separates, too.”

“Lifts and separates what?” I asked. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Beau grinned. “They’re wonderful, aren’t they? Boosts the appeal of even the smallest guy, and for those of us who are OK on our own, they take us out of the merely average and give us a little something extra. And $100 an hour is my starting price. It goes up from there.”

“Good Lord,” I said reverently, not quite sure whether I was reacting to Beau’s price or the briefs. They were the first pair of men’s undies I had seen since my divorce, and Bradley’s tighty whities sure hadn’t looked like this.

Beau chuckled. “I do just fine, darling. Nashville is full of rich gay men and bored housewives who’ll pay through the nose to watch me swing a feather duster. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.” He winked.

Just at that moment, a dark sedan pulled into the driveway and saved me the trouble of coming up with a response. A well-dressed, older man got out and came up the stairs. “Good afternoon, Beau.”

“Hi, Mr. Givens,” Beau grinned. Mr. Givens, Beau’s employer – and audience for the next hour or two – turned to me.

“Hello.” It was less a greeting than a request for me to explain who I was and what I was doing there, distracting his entertainment.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Savannah Martin with Walker Lamont Realty. Previewing the house. I was just leaving.”

Mr. Givens nodded, but his gaze had already returned to the beautiful Beau. “Did you lose your key, Beau?”

“Not at all, Mr. Givens,” Beau said, brandishing it. Givens’s eyes glazed over at the display of skin, and Beau’s dimple made a brief appearance. “I was just shooting the breeze with Savannah. But now that you’re here, I guess I should get to work.”

Mr. Givens didn’t answer, just turned toward the front door. It was answer enough. Beau winked at me and followed.

# # #

There you go. The digital version of Hot Property is available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords for $3.99. Enjoy!

Why Some Men Have Dogs And Not Wives

2011-06-10T01:25:00.000-07:00

I couldn't resist this one. Not sure who wrote it originally, or I'd give credit where credit is due. It came to me via my husband, who got it from his mother.

1. The later you are, the more excited your dogs are to see you.

2. Dogs don't notice if you call them by another dog's name.

3. Dogs like it if you leave a lot of things on the floor.

4. A dog's parents never visit.

5. Dogs agree that you have to raise your voice to get your point across.

6. You never have to wait for a dog; they're ready to go 24 hours a day.

7. Dogs find you amusing when you're drunk..

8. Dogs like to go hunting and fishing.

9. A dog will not wake you up at night to ask, "If I died, would you get another dog?"

10. If a dog has babies, you can put an ad in the paper and give them away.

11. A dog will let you put a studded collar on it without calling you a pervert.

12. If a dog smells another dog on you, they don't get mad. They just think it's interesting.

13. Dogs like to ride in the back of a pickup truck.

And last but not least:

14. If a dog leaves, it won't take half of your stuff.

To test this theory:
Lock your wife and your dog in the garage for an hour. Then open it and see who's happy to see you.

Architecture 101 - Queen Anne

2011-06-07T02:00:00.000-07:00

Of all the Victorian house styles, Queen Anne is the most elaborate as well as the most eccentric. The style is often called romantic and feminine, yet it is the product of a most unromantic era - the machine age.

Queen Anne became an architectural fashion in the 1880s and 1890s, when the industrial revolution was building up steam. North America was caught up in the excitement of new technologies. Factory-made, precut architectural parts were shuttled across the country on a rapidly expanding train network. Exuberant builders combined these pieces to create innovative, and sometimes excessive, homes. Country folk yearned for fancy city trappings. Wealthy industrialists pulled out all stops as they built lavish "castles" using Queen Anne ideas.

Although easy to spot, America's Queen Anne style is difficult to define. Some Queen Anne houses are lavished with gingerbread, but some are made of brick or stone. Many have turrets, but this crowning touch is not necessary. So, what is Queen Anne?

Anne was the Queen of England, Scotland, and Ireland in the early 1700s. Art and science flourished during her reign. One hundred and fifty years later, British architect Richard Norman Shaw and his followers used the term Queen Anne to describe their work. Their buildings didn't resemble the formal architecture of the Queen Anne period, but the name stuck.

In the US, builders began constructing homes with half-timbering and patterned masonry. These houses may have been inspired by the work of Richard Norman Shaw. Like Shaw's buildings, they were called Queen Anne. As builders added spindlework and other flourishes, America's Queen Anne houses grew increasingly elaborate. The Queen Anne style in the United States became entirely different from the Queen Anne style in England, and both styles were nothing like the formal, symmetrical architecture found during the time of Queen Anne's reign.

Some Queen Anne houses are lavishly decorated. Others are restrained in their embellishments. Yet the flashy "painted ladies" of San Francisco and the refined brownstones of Brooklyn share many of the same features. There is an element of surprise to the typical Queen Anne home. The roof is steeply pitched and irregular. The overall shape of the house is asymmetrical.

A list of Queen Anne features can be deceptive. Queen Anne architecture is not an orderly or easily classified. Bay windows, balconies, stained glass, turrets, porches, brackets, and an abundance of decorative details combine in unexpected ways.

In Avery's world of Waterfield, Maine, there are a lot of Queen Anne Victorians, since a large part of Waterfield Village, the historic district, was built during the late 1800s. Of all of them, Kate McGillicutty's Bed and Breakfast, the Waterfield Inn, is probably the most impressive:

The Waterfield Inn turned out to be every bit as lovely – and expensive – as Melissa James had said. It was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. It was gorgeous, spotlessly clean, and meticulously maintained. A true Queen Anne Victorian, the Inn was a mix of architectural styles and angles. Two-and-a-half stories tall with a square tower, like Aunt Inga’s house, it also had a round tower with an onion dome, like the Kremlin in Moscow. The square tower had a mansard roof topped by a widow’s walk. There was a bay window on the first floor, a wrap-around porch, gingerbread trim, narrow, arched windows, and gables in every direction. The house had every Victorian excess imaginable – the very hallmark of the Queen Anne style – and everything was painted a sunny butter yellow with gleaming white accents.

Incidentally, Mrs. Jenkins's house in A Cutthroat Business and Hot Property is a Queen Anne, as well, although Savannah doesn't take the time to describe it in as much detail: Circa 1889, it was a three-story Victorian with a ballroom on the third floor and a circular tower on the southeast corner.

I see a lot of Queen Anne's. They're all over East Nashville. I've always thought Mrs. Jenkins's house at 101 Potsdam Street looks something like the Ambrose House, shown here, except in much worse shape. When I first moved to Nashville, rather a long time ago now, the Ambrose House was nothing but a shell. Now it's a gorgeously restored event venue, but in my mind, I still remember it the way it used to be, and used it for A Cutthroat Business.

So there you have it, the Queen Anne Victorian. Hope you enjoyed!

#SampleSunday - another tidbit from Hot Property

2011-06-05T05:36:00.000-07:00

Here you go, a few pages from chapter 3:

3.

No sooner had I kicked my shoes off and padded into the kitchen in my stocking-feet, than there was a knock on the door. I reversed direction and unlocked the door again, wondering what Todd had forgotten to say. Had he decided to come out and propose, after all...?

“What did you...? Oh!”

“Evening, darlin’.”

The man outside lacked Todd’s all-American, clean-cut good looks, as well as his $500 suit and his impeccable manners. Instead of waiting for me to invite him in, he sauntered across the threshold, brushing against me on the way. Not by accident. I glanced out into the hallway – no sign of Todd – before I followed. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”

To my dismay, my heart was thumping a little faster than usual. I was nervous, and not looking forward to teasing answers to my questions out of him, although I can’t say I was terribly surprised to see him. I had called him, after all, and it wasn’t the first time he’d shown up unannounced on my doormat.

He stopped in the door to the living room and turned to face me. “Thought I already did. Hot date?”

“Dinner with Todd.”

Out of my customary high heels, he seemed even taller than usual. I folded my arms across my chest. It was a reflex, although in my more lucid moments I wasn’t entirely certain whether I was trying to prevent him from seeing into my cleavage or if it was more of a defense mechanism against the man in general, emotionally as well as physically.

He nodded. “Saw you drive up. Thought maybe he’d be staying the night.”

“I didn’t see you,” I said, diverted. He shrugged. “No, he won’t spend the night. I let him walk me to the door and I kissed him goodnight, but that’s it. My mother always told me a man won’t pay for the cow if he can get the milk for free.”

Rafe grinned, white teeth flashing. “So you’ll kiss Satterfield, but you won’t kiss me?”

So much for pretending last week’s kiss had never happened... “I kissed you. Or let you kiss me, which comes to the same thing.”

He shook his head. “No, it don’t. I’ll show you the difference, if you like.”

I stepped back, out of reach. “Some other time.”

He grinned, but let it go. “So what can I do for you, darlin’?”

“Oh. Um… Right. I called you, didn’t I? I’m never quite sure whether my messages are going to get to you or not. Sometimes you call back, sometimes you don’t, and whoever answers the phone – Wendell, isn’t it? – never answers it the same way twice. First it was a car lot, then a pawn shop, and today he said it was a storage place. The only consistent thing he says is that you’re not there.” I realized I was babbling, postponing the inevitable, and I reined myself in. “I wanted to ask you something. Do you want to sit down?”

He quirked a brow – usually I was trying to get him out, not in – but he didn’t comment. “Sure.”

“The living room is through there.” I pointed. “Can I get you anything? Milk, water, sweet tea?”

“Beer?”

“Sorry. Although I think I may have half a bottle of Chardonnay somewhere...” I looked around vaguely.

“I ain’t that big on wine. But I’ll take a glass of tea, if it ain’t too much trouble.”

“Coming right up.” I walked into the kitchen while he headed for the living room. A minute later, when I entered with two glasses of sweet – iced – tea on a tray, I found him not on the sofa, where I’d expected to see him, nor by the balcony doors, looking out at the view – my second guess – but lounging in the doorway to the bedroom, assessing my queen sized bed with an experienced eye. And why I had expected anything different, I don’t know. Nevertheless, I stopped as if I’d hit an invisible wall, and blushed. One corner of his mouth curled up, but he didn’t speak.

I prodded myself into moving, and put the tray down on the coffee table. “Here you go. It’s just instant; I didn’t have time to brew fresh.”

“You’re slipping, darlin’. What’d your mama say?” He removed himself from the door and came around the sofa to retrieve his glass. I did my best to avoid touching him when I handed it over, but without success. His fingertips brushed my knuckles, and I’m not willing to swear it wasn’t intentional. Rafe’s got the kind of in-your-face sex appeal that a lot of women – and Tim – seem to like, and although I’ve been brought up to value old-fashioned manners and decorum, I’m not entirely dead below the neck, either. Especially as he doesn’t scruple to turn the setting up to scorching hot every time he sees me.

“Cheers.” He lifted his glass. I did the same, without thinking. “To us.”

He drank. I hesitated, and then took a small sip from my own glass. It was just a toast, and joining in it didn’t mean that I acknowledged that there would ever be an ‘us.’

“So what do you need?” He put the glass down on the table and himself on the sofa, where he leaned back comfortably. He was wearing jeans tonight, and a black T-shirt that molded to his chest and upper arms. I turned away to sit down in a chair, before he could catch me looking. He added, with a grin, “You got someplace you need me to break into for you? Or somebody I can beat some answers out of?”

Recently, we had broken into a storage unit together, in the process of trying to discover who had murdered my two coworkers Brenda Puckett and Clarice Webb, and we had also persuaded a young man to come clean about finding Brenda’s dead body and not calling the authorities. Rafe hadn’t had to do any actual beating, but the way he had loomed over the youth, cowing him with his six feet three inches and 195 pounds of solid muscle, not to mention the demeanor he had developed in two years behind bars, hadn’t hurt. Nineteen-year-old Maurice Washington had sung like the proverbial nightingale.

I shook my head. “I know how much you enjoy doing that sort of thing, but this time, you can give me the answers I need yourself.”

“Shoot.” He lifted the glass and took another long draught of iced tea, throat moving smoothly as he swallowed. I wasn’t sure whether the word was an invitation to ask what I wanted, or a reaction to hearing that there was nothing macho and illegal for him to do.

“Do you know anything about these open house robberies that have been going on for the past two weekends?”

He put the glass down, and I thought there was a watchful look in the depths of his eyes, but it was hard to be sure. They’re so dark as to be almost black, and he’s learned to hide his feelings and reactions almost too well. “Why?”

“Tim has asked me to host an open house for him this Sunday.”

“Yeah? Where?”

I shrugged. I hadn’t been paying attention when Tim went over the details on Monday. “Some million-dollar McMansion in Brentwood somewhere.”

“Better be careful then, darlin’.” Rafe picked the glass up and took another swig. The ice cubes jingled when he put it down on the table again, empty. “So you want me to get you some protection? Gun? Knife? Something untraceable, in case you have to use it?”

“Lord, no!” I moderated my voice. “I’m not going to walk around with a gun in my handbag, thanks all the same. I thought about it after Walker tried to kill me, yes, but I’ve decided I’m just not comfortable carrying a weapon. More tea?”

“Not right now. You’d be more comfortable once you got used to using it.”

“What makes you think I’d want to be comfortable using it? Deliberately shooting someone, or sticking a knife into them? No, thanks. I don’t think I have it in me.”

“If you had to, you could,” Rafe said, in a weird echo of Detective Grimaldi’s statement from earlier in the week.

I shrugged. “I appreciate the offer, but no. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me some... um... personal protection? Stay with me during the open house, just to make sure nothing happens?”

“Guard your body?” He grinned, letting his eyes wander over it. I compressed my lips and willed the incipient blush to stay where it was. “You sure your body’d be safe with me, darlin’?”

I hesitated. “I’d trust you to protect it from someone else coming at it with a knife or a gun.” Although not necessarily from himself. But if we were in someone else’s house, surely I’d be safe. “And I’d be happy to pay you for your time, if you’d like.”

“With your body?”

“No! Don’t you ever think about anything else?”

“I’m a man,” Rafe said, as if that was an explanation. Maybe it was. “It’s a tempting offer, darlin’, but I’ve got plans for Sunday afternoon.”

I’d been afraid he’d say that.

# # #

So there you have it. the electronic version of Hot Property is available for sale from Amazon, from Barnes and Noble, and from Smashwords, for $3.99. A steal, I assure you!

#SampleSunday - Hot Property

2011-05-29T01:47:00.000-07:00

Here you go: the first four pages of Hot Property, Cutthroat Business mystery #2, for your enjoyment:

The first open house robbery took place on the second Sunday in August, just at the time I was busy apprehending a murderer.

Before I go any further, I guess I should make it clear that I’m not actually in the business of law enforcement. Walker Lamont was the first, and I sincerely hope the last, murderer I’ll encounter.

My name is Savannah Martin, and what I am, is a Realtor. Walker was my boss. Up until the moment I happened to be standing next to him when he came face to face with someone who could put him in the wrong place at the wrong time, we’d had a very good relationship, and I’m sure he meant it sincerely when he apologized for having to kill me.

But I digress. As I was pushing the business end of a lipstick into Walker’s back, trying to make him believe it was a gun, another Realtor – Kieran Greene with RE/MAX – was being gagged and tied to a chair on the other side of town. After he was safely trussed, four masked men proceeded to strip the house of anything of value and cart it off in a rented moving van, leaving Kieran sitting in the kitchen waiting to be rescued.

The incident made the news, but was treated as sort of a sidebar to Walker’s arrest. Violence against Realtors, Part II. Poor Kieran’s ordeal was buried on page 4 of the Nashville Banner and received scant attention from anyone. It wasn’t until the next Sunday, when the same thing happened again, that the real estate community sat up and took notice.

The first I heard of this second robbery was at the weekly staff meeting on Monday morning. With Walker in jail, Timothy Briggs had taken over as managing broker of Walker Lamont Realty, and he was the one who brought it up. “Before we talk about holding open houses next weekend,” he said, leaning back in Walker’s leather chair and folding his manicured hands across his flat stomach, “I guess we should discuss what happened yesterday. I assume you’ve all heard the news?”

He looked around the table, his baby-blue eyes bright.

I raised my hand. “I haven’t. What happened yesterday?”

“Oh, Savannah, it was just awful!” Heidi Hoppenfeldt was busy chomping her way through the three dozen donuts Tim had brought in for us to share, and when she spoke, a fine spray of crumbs arched out of her mouth and landed on her ample bosom. She was on the other side of the table from me, so I wasn’t hit, but the people on either side of her leaned away.

“What’s awful?” I said. And added, mentally, “apart from Heidi’s table manners.”

Tim smirked. “Didn’t you catch the news last night, darling? My goodness, you must have had a busy day. It was on the five o’clock, six o’clock, nine o’clock and ten o’clock news!”

“I was in Sweetwater this weekend,” I said. Sweetwater is my hometown, a small place an hour or so south of Nashville. My mother and my two siblings live there, along with their spouses and children, my aunt Regina, and various old friends and acquaintances. “I had dinner with a friend before I drove back, so I didn’t get home until after eleven. And I didn’t listen to the radio in the car.”

Tim smacked his lips appreciatively. “And how is the scrumptious Mr. Collier?”

A few of the girls and the other (gay) guys tittered. Tim has an outspoken and unrequited crush on Rafael Collier, who’s an old acquaintance of mine, also from Sweetwater. Rafe isn’t gay – not by any stretch of the imagination – but Tim likes to dream.

“He’s fine,” I said repressively.

“He certainly is,” Tim agreed, with a saucy grin.

I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean. I haven’t seen him for a few days, but he seemed all right on Thursday. And we’re not dating.”

“You were dating last weekend at Fidelio’s,” Tim pointed out. A whisper, like a breath of wind through stiff grass, spread around the table. Fidelio’s is one of the nicest (and most expensive) restaurants in Nashville; the sort of place where country music stars dine and normal people can only afford to go on special occasions. It’s not the kind of place one takes a casual acquaintance, unless one has serious designs on her. Which Rafe does. (He wants to sleep with me. And he hasn’t made any secret of it, so I don’t see why I should.) But if he had thought that wining and dining me at Fidelio’s would make me give in to his predatory charms, he must have been disappointed. He didn’t get so much as a goodnight kiss when he brought me home, although I’d wager that my near-faint when he suggested it may have been almost as gratifying to his undeniable ego.

“It was a business dinner,” I said firmly. “And it’s none of your concern. Yesterday I had dinner with someone else. Someone you haven’t met.”

“You get around, don’t you, darling?” Tim smirked.

I narrowed my eyes. Tim added, “Well, since you missed the news... There was another open house robbery yesterday.”

I blinked. “Like the one last week? When the owners came home and found their Realtor bound and gagged in the kitchen?”

Tim nodded. “Poor Kieran. He’ll never be the same.” He clicked his tongue sympathetically and then brightened. “This time the Realtor was Lila Vaughn, with Worthington Properties.”

I must have made a noise, for he added, “Do you know her?”

I nodded. “I took real estate classes with Lila Vaughn. We got together for lunch less than two weeks ago.” Just after the ordeal with Walker, in fact. She’d wanted to hear the scoop.

“I saw her on the news yesterday,” Heidi mumbled, spraying another shower of crumbs across the table. The donut box was slowly emptying out.

“They interviewed her?” That sounded like Lila. She was an aggressive go-getter, willing to do pretty much whatever it took to get ahead, and she probably considered the news coverage free advertising. I could easily see her pushing through any fear or discomfort she was feeling to get her face on TV. She’d exhorted me to do the same thing last time we spoke, and to take advantage of the media circus surrounding Walker’s arrest.

Heidi nodded. “Black girl, pretty, with long, curly hair.”

“That’s her. What happened?” I looked around the table.

“The same thing as last time,” Tim said. “Just before the open house was over, a group of men showed up. They tied Lila to a chair and spent twenty or thirty minutes carrying everything of value out of the house. Electronics, jewelry, rugs, paintings. The house was full and they got it all.”

“Was Lila hurt?”

Tim shrugged. “The news didn’t say. The owners found her when they came home later.”

“Gosh,” I said, “she must have been terrified.”

We all thought about Lila’s ordeal and – I’m sure – thanked God it had happened to her and not to us.

“In light of all this,” Tim broke the silence, “those of you with open houses scheduled for this weekend may want to take some extra precautions. Get a friend to come with you so you don’t have to be alone. Keep the doors locked between visitors, or stay on the porch or outside in the yard where people can see you. Arrange to call a friend every fifteen minutes. You know, all the usual things.”

“The same things my daddy told me when I was sixteen and started dating,” one of the women said with a grin.

Tim nodded. “And that reminds me... Savannah, I can usually count on you to host an open house for me, but if you’d rather not, under the circumstances...” He let the sentence trail off suggestively. I grimaced. At the last open house I hosted, someone had tried to kill me, which didn’t make me particularly eager to try again. Until the open house robbers were caught, I’d just as soon not tempt fate.

However, I couldn’t in good conscience say no. Tim was, for all intents and purposes, my boss, now that Walker was languishing in jail, and although he couldn’t really order me to do anything – like all Realtors, I’m an independent contractor and responsible only to myself – I didn’t think it would go over very well to refuse. In my roughly eight weeks on the job, I hadn’t brought in so much as a dime in commissions.

“Sure. I’m happy to help.” I don’t think I sounded happy, but I got the words out.

“Excellent.” Tim showed all his capped teeth in a blinding smile. The conversation went on to the houses he and the others wanted to hold open next weekend, and I tuned out while I let my mind wander.

Poor Lila, what a horrible thing to have happen. She wasn’t the most delicate of women, bless her heart – not by a long shot – but still, surely something like this would be enough to put the wind up anyone. I’d had to deal with some scary stuff myself in the past few weeks, and I was becoming quite an expert on heart-stopping terror. I should definitely give her a call to commiserate, once the meeting was over. IfI scraped the bottom of my purse, I could come up with enough change to pay for lunch.

“Does that sound OK, Savannah?” Tim’s voice said. I nodded vaguely. “I’ll put you down for that, then. Thank you.”

“No problem.” I had no idea what I’d just agreed to do, but I wasn’t willing to admit I hadn’t been paying attention by asking him to repeat it. I’d figure it out later.

Tim giggled. “If you’re worried, maybe you should ask Mr. Collier to keep you company. He looks like he’d be able to handle any number of robbers.”

Rafe would be more likely to be aiding and abetting them, but I didn’t say so. “I’ll keep the suggestion in mind,” I said instead, cooly.

“Do that, darling. And if you don’t, maybe I’ll ask him to guard my body instead.” Tim tittered.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be surprised if you find yourself tied to a chair, in that case.”

“Darling!” Tim bleated, seemingly overcome with emotion. He fanned himself with a limp hand as the rest of the room laughed. I blushed.

# # #

Look for Hot Property at an e-book retailer near you in the next few days. It should be available on Amazon, B&N and Smashwords around the 1st of June. 

Changing Worlds

2011-05-25T12:06:00.000-07:00

I wrote this for the Working Stiffs a few months ago, about one of my favorite book characters. He doesn't qualify as a hunk, exactly - a little too short, for one thing - but he's still one of the best written, best realized, most amazing heroes out there, and I have a feeling that if we ever met, I'd probably develop a heck of a crush. How could you not?

Without further ado:

One of my favorite writers of all time has a new book out, in one of my favorite series, about one of my all-time favorite characters.
The writer is Lois McMaster Bujold, and the novel is called CryoBurn. It’s the last in a long line of semi-soft science fiction books known as the Vorkosigan Saga, set on the planet Barrayar in the year 3000-odd. The first few books, Shards of Honor and Barrayar, are about Aral Vorkosigan and his wife Cordelia, and then in The Warrior’s Apprentice, their son Miles takes over. And I mean that in the most literal way.
Miles is one of those characters who do that. As a recent review for CryoBurn says – you can go on Amazon and read it yourself – “Like many a Miles novel before it, it’s a fast-paced adventure wherein Miles happens to people, and their lives (and worlds) are skewed in his wake.”

I read that, and it got me to thinking about my own characters. Do they do that? Do I write the kinds of characters who happen to people, and who change lives and worlds as a result?

It’s not the first time I’ve heard that sentiment expressed as relates to Miles, by the way. A character in one of the books says much the same thing. “I’ve had many subordinates over the years, who’ve turned in impeccable careers. Perfection takes no risks with itself, you see. Miles was many things, but never perfect. It was a privilege and a terror to command him, and I’m thankful and amazed we both got out alive. Ultimately his career ran aground in disaster. But before it ended, he changed worlds.”

All in all, I’m not sure I accomplish the same thing. Oh, my characters are just fine. People seem to like them. They’re strong enough and interesting enough to carry their books. But they don’t change lives and worlds. They’re not iconic. They don’t jump off the page and hit you between the eyes. They don’t make you laugh and cry and think. At least I don’t think they do.

And that’s my fault, for not creating the kind of character who can do that. For taking the easy way out. For skimming the surface and not delving deep to where the real issues are.

We all want our characters to be ‘good,’ don’t we? We want them to come across as beautiful. Even when they have flaws, the flaws tend to be endearing. We do our best to create perfection. But as the quote above says, perfection takes no risks with itself. And compelling characters are all about risk.

Miles isn’t perfect, not by a long shot. Physically, he’s about as far from leading man material as you can get. Less than five feet tall, hunch-backed and bowlegged, he’s reviled by his fellow – ignorant – Barrayarans as a mutant. His own grandfather tried to cut his throat at birth. His mind is brilliant, but his body is crippled, and an obstacle to everything he wants to accomplish. So he tries harder, to the point of obnoxiousness. He’s driven, he’s manic, he’s sometimes suicidal. He screws up all the time. He makes mistakes – and aren’t we all loath to make our characters do that? We don’t want them to look bad. We love them, so we don’t want bad things to happen to them. We don’t want them to embarrass themselves, or look less than – here’s that word again – perfect.

We want people to like them. People who read our books, as well as other characters within our books. We don’t want our protagonists to be unlikeable. So we play it safe. We want their friends and family to love them. Not to try to cut their infant throats. Not to wish them to be other than they are because they’re just too damned embarrassing to be around.

Miles has a cousin named Ivan, who is everything Miles isn’t: tall, handsome, and a ladies man. Miles is a little envious of Ivan, and always has been. Ivan, on the other hand, wouldn’t want to be Miles for anything in the world – and I’m not sure I can blame him. But this passage from the book A Civil Campaign – Miles in love; scary thought – really says it all, if you’ll bear with me. It makes me cry every single time I read it, and I want to share it with you because it says so much, not just about Miles, but about Miles’s effect on the people around him, and about the kind of character that can be created by a writer who isn’t afraid of making their protagonist larger than life and at the same time so very human. This is Miles from Ivan’s point of view, with all his flaws and all his contradictions, with every quality that makes him who he is, and with Ivan’s conflicting emotions about it.

Enjoy. She’s a hell of a writer.

“Damn that smile. Was it Ivan’s fault, that he had been born undamaged while his cousin had been born crippled? No, blast it. It was bloody bungled politics that had wrecked him, and you’d think it would be a lesson to him, but no. Demonstrably, even sniper fire couldn’t stop the hyperactive little git. In between inspiring you to strangle him with your bare hands, he could make you proud enough to cry. At least, Ivan had taken care no one could see his face, when he’d watched from the Council floor as Miles had taken his Auditor’s oath with that terrifying intensity, before all the assembled panoply of Barrayar last Winterfair. So small, so wrecked, so obnoxious. So incandescent. Give the people a light, and they’ll follow it anywhere. Did Miles know how dangerous he was?

And the little paranoid actually believed Ivan had the magic to entice any woman Miles really wanted away from him. His fears were more flattering to Ivan than he would ever let on. But Miles had so few humilities, it seemed almost a sin to take this one away from him. Bad for his soul, eh.”

# # #

So what about you? Have any favorite characters who fit the bill? Care to share?

#SampleSunday - A Cutthroat Business

2011-05-22T01:09:00.000-07:00

Last year sometime, I went to a book club meeting with a bunch of ladies from Hillwood Presbyterian Church, who had been reading A Cutthroat Business for their selection that month. (Thanks again, Carmen!) One of them, a sweet little blue-hair in her sixties, made me mark this section of her book and autograph it, since she thought the sexual tension in this certain paragraph (below) was the best part of the entire story. Enjoy!

Rafe shrugged. “Can’t fault a man for looking.”

“I can,” I said.

He grinned. “That why you’re wearing those clothes? So I wouldn’t look?”

I opened my mouth, but before I could deny that such a thought had crossed my mind, the waiter appeared. He whisked Rafe’s plate away. I gave him mine, too. I’d eaten as much as I decently could without looking like a glutton.

“Would sir and madam like some dessert?”

He looked from one to the other of us. Rafe turned to me, questioningly. I shook my head. “None for me, thanks. Though you may want to try the chocolate raspberry cheesecake. Todd had it yesterday, and it looked good.”

He nodded. “One of them, then.”

I added, “And some coffee, please. Black.”

The waiter took himself and our used plates off, and Rafe returned his attention to me. An arched brow invited me to pick up where I’d left off. I said, reluctantly, “As a matter of fact, Todd asked me not to wear anything revealing.”

“You told him about tonight? Afraid you wouldn’t make it back home again?”

I shook my head. “It was yesterday. Last night, after you left. He said he didn’t like the way you looked at me, and would I please not wear anything provocative in front of you again.“

“You think he’d approve of that getup?” His eyes wandered over me, what he could see above the table.

“It’s not provocative,” I said.

He grinned. “That depends, darlin’.”

“On what?” What was provocative about a long sleeved, primly buttoned blouse and a chignon so severe my eyebrows were elevated, for goodness’ sake?

“I s’pose on what’s underneath. And what it’d take for someone to get to it.”

He smiled, but the eyes that met mine were intent. I opened my mouth, but found I had no words. Rafe didn’t speak, either. Leisurely, his gaze snagged on my lips for a moment before moving south. As the seconds ticked by, the curve of his mouth softened and his eyes turned hot. I had a hard time catching my breath. I felt the way you do when you jump into cool lakewater and all the air gets slammed out of your lungs. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, and for the life of me, I couldn’t look away. The sounds around me receded, until all I could hear was a faint buzzing, as if from a bumblebee trapped in a jam-jar. The drumming of my own heartbeat sounded uncomfortably loud in my ears.

The return of the waiter broke the spell, and I accepted my cup of coffee with hands that weren’t entirely steady. My voice wasn’t, either. “I don’t know why I ordered this. Could I have a glass of water, please? With ice?”

The waiter didn’t react, but of course Rafe did. “Have the cheesecake, too, darlin’. You look hungry.”

A choking noise came from the table next to us, and one of the women buried her face in her napkin. I opened my mouth to protest, but the waiter was already lowering the plate, and I didn’t want to argue in front of him. I waited until he was out of earshot before I hissed, “I told you I didn’t want any dessert.”

“That was before,” Rafe said.

“Before what?”

“Before I got you so hot and bothered you ordered ice water to cool down.”

“I am not hot and bothered!” I denied. “And I don’t want any cheesecake.” I pushed the plate away. For what might have been the first time in my life, cheesecake held absolutely no appeal.

# # #

So there you have it. A #SampleSunday excerpt from A Cutthroat Business. How did you like the super-sexy paragraph? (If that guy was looking at me, I might feel the need for a little ice water myself. Just sayin'...)

Check back next week for another #SampleSunday snippet. I think I might throw up a little teaser for Hot Property, Cutthroat Business Mystery #2, coming soon to a Kindle (or Nook) near you!

Folk Victorian

2011-05-20T01:32:00.000-07:00

Pale green in color, with gleaming white gingerbread trim, and surrounded by velvety grass and masses and masses of flowers, the house we were visiting was another impressive Victorian confection, such as I envisioned Aunt Inga’s house might one day look like. The doorbell rang with a somber, tolling sound that reverberated in the recesses of the house. A few seconds later the heavy door opened.

Waterfield’s doctor was a good-looking older man, with graying hair cut short, and a friendly, open face with round glasses. He was casually dressed, in wrinkled khakis and a faded blue golf shirt with a crocodile on the pocket. A napkin tucked under his collar was stained with yellow. He had a fork in one hand, and when he saw us, his brows crawled up his high forehead like caterpillars. “Derek. Good morning, son. What’s going on?”

“Morning, sir,” Derek said, not waiting for an invitation, but walking right in. “This is Avery Baker. I’m helping her renovate her Aunt Inga’s house over on Bayberry. I found her looking like this when I came to work this morning.”

“Oh, dear.” The doctor looked around for somewhere to deposit his fork, and ended up putting it on what was either an outstanding reproduction or a genuine mahogany veneered Hepplewhite sideboard standing in the hallway. Philippe would have been drooling. “You’d better put her in the parlor.”

He stepped out of the way. Derek headed into a room on the left with the doctor following. “On the couch, please.”

The ‘couch’ was a pristine example of a 1770s Federal style straight-back sofa upholstered in yellow damask. It might even have been a Sheraton. Again, Philippe’s mouth would have watered, and he would surely not have approved of the way Derek unceremoniously dropped me onto the old seat. The doctor, whose sofa it was, didn’t turn a hair.

# # #

That's Avery's first meeting with Dr. Ben Ellis, Derek's dad, and his Folk Victorian cottage.

The Folk Victorian has a much simpler design than the ornate Second Empire Victorian or the Queen Anne. The classic Victorian styles (Gothic Revival, Italianate, Second Empire, Stick Style, Romanesque Revival, and Shingle Style) were created by professional architects, and were built mostly by the well-to-do. But the lower reaches of the middle class shared the same Victorian urge to live in a fashionable house, and if they couldn't afford a professional architect, they could design the house themselves, or have a local carpenter do it. The design was likely to be an unprofessional but possibly still charming pastiche, including elements of styles that were still currently fashionable among the upper crust, and elements of styles that definitely were not. Also, the house would naturally tend to be smaller and plainer than what the wealthy could afford.

Many Folk Victorian houses were adorned with flat, jigsaw cut trim in a variety of patterns, or with spindles and gingerbread trim borrowed from the Carpenter Gothic. Some Folk Victorian homes may suggest Queen Anne architecture.

The exact division between Queen Anne and Folk Victorian is fuzzy, considering how many of the smaller Queen Annes were hodge-podged together by local carpenters, rather than designed by architects. But Folk Victorians were being built long before the Queen Anne style appeared on the scene, and in any case, it is still useful to make a rough distinction between the more expensive, very elaborate, architect-designed Victorians (Queen Anne) and their less-expensive, plainer, carpenter-designed cousins (Folk Victorian).

So there you have it, folks. Folk Victorian 101.

Till next time. Cheers!

Behind every successful man

2011-05-18T06:38:00.000-07:00

Today is the season finale of Criminal Minds, which is the only show I watch on television these days.

(Writing takes a lot of time. And it's easier to give up TV than to give up time with the kids or the hubster. Although I suppose I could give up eating. It might not hurt.)

Anyway, in honor of the occasion, here's a pretty picture.

This deliciousness, of course, is Shemar Moore, who plays Special Supervisory Agent Derek Morgan on Criminal Minds. Alpha male, noir hero, the guy who always kicks down the door and subdues the suspect.

Who can resist a hot alpha hero?

What makes Derek Morgan so much fun, though - other than the fact that he's extremely easy on the eyes - is his relationship with FBI technical analyst Penelope Garcia. Garcia is Morgan's Moneypenny.

If that reference is lost on you, you obviously don't know your Bond. James Bond went out and saved the world while Miss Moneypenny manned the office. Just like Penelope Garcia. And where Bond couldn't do his job without 'Penny,' Morgan couldn't do his without Penelope.

For your enjoyment, here's a clip from season 2, episode 17, in which Morgan is in Texas on a case, and Garcia is back at Quantico, Virginia, manning the computers.

If I recall correctly, there's a little bit of gratuitous Shemar Moore semi-nakedness added, that wasn't part of the original episode, but just suffer through it. And when you've watched it a couple of times, because I know you'll want to, tell me if you have a favorite TV pairing. I must say I'm partial to this one myself. Their chemistry is off the charts, and their banter is just damn funny, besides the fact that there's a little Penelope Garcia in all of us, and don't we all just love the idea that the not-quite-perfect girl can land the hot hunk? My fingers are crossed for something good tonight!

Excerpt - A Cutthroat Business

2011-05-15T05:39:00.000-07:00

For your delectation, here are a few words from Chapter 4 of A Cutthroat Business:

Rafe had been correct when he told me that I probably hadn’t come down his way a lot growing up. I’d never been to the area known as the Bog, but I knew where to find it: on the other side of Sweetwater from the Martin plantation. We’re on the north, or Columbia side; they’re on the southern road to Pulaski. And if the town of Pulaski sounds familiar to anyone, it’s probably because it was the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan. We have so much to be proud of here in middle Tennessee.

I’d driven past the Bog before, looking through the windows of dad’s Cadillac, but this was the first time I’d turned off from the highway onto the rutted one-lane track leading down through the trees.

For all that it’s in the South, Tennessee is not like Louisiana or Mississippi. We’re a rocky state, for the most part. Even in the flatter areas, there isn’t much in the way of wetlands. The Bog was not actually a bog, just a rather dank and dismal place. A small creek — or crick, as we say in these parts — ran through it, a tiny branch of the Duck River. But where it could have been picturesque and pretty, it was just sluggish and muddy brown. It looked unhealthy, like it was carrying disease. A half dozen rusted trailers — mobile homes in my new, professional lingo — were scattered through the spindly trees, and a few shacks squatted here and there among them. Clapboard shacks, low-slung and dilapidated, with leaking roofs and leaning walls. The few cars were American, old and rusted; some had missing parts or sat on cinderblocks, and none looked like they had been driven in the last few years. My immaculate Volvo — the only thing I had gotten in settlement after my short-lived marriage to Bradley Ferguson, aside from the chunk of change that was currently evaporating out of my savings account with every month that went by — was as out of place here as a prize brood mare among mules.

I turned off the engine and got out. The slam of the car door sounded very loud in the silence. And it was very silent here. No birds singing, no children playing, no conversations or music. The brook didn’t even babble. Very quiet.

Maybe too quiet, as they say in the movies. But I was here, so I looked around anyway. There were no names or numbers anywhere, or for that matter any mailboxes. Nothing to indicate in which of these depressing shacks LaDonna Collier had lived and died. If these people ever got mail, it must all arrive together in the big box up on the main road, and be distributed once someone had carried it all down here. Every place looked deserted, and just as neglected and derelict as the next. There was no sign of life, and no one I could ask directions of.

Just for kicks, since I was here anyway, I made my way over to the nearest of the shacks and peered through its dirty window. The interior was empty, save for some debris on the floor. Wire-hangers, crumpled papers, roach motels. It didn’t look as if anyone had lived there for a while.

Stepping carefully around broken bottles, crumpled beer cans and twigs, I moved to the next home. It was empty, too. Mother was right; people had been deserting the Bog like rats fleeing a sinking ship. There was nothing for me to do here but to go home. I turned on my heel to go back to the car, and stopped with a gasp.

He had moved so quietly through the dry grass that I hadn’t heard him, and now he stood between me and the Volvo. For a second, with the sun in my eyes, all I could see was a tall, dark figure, and I recoiled.

He didn’t move. Not when I stumbled back, not when the heel of my insensible shoe got caught in a snake hole, and not when I ended up on my derriere on the dusty ground, with my skirt twisted around my hips and my thighs on display. The only thing that moved was his eyes, from my face to my feet and back, with insolent appreciation.

“Didn’t your mama teach you better manners?” I inquired coldly, in spite of my burning cheeks. The tiny smile on his lips transformed into a full fledged, dangerous grin.

“Hell, no. My mama always said, grab what you can get, ‘cause it’ll be gone afore you know it.”

He held out a hand. I hesitated, trying to remember whether anyone had ever said anything about Rafe Collier being in the habit of forcing himself on women.

“Or you can stay there,” he added, pointedly. I took the hand and let him haul me to my feet. We stood contemplating one another in silence for a moment.

“Are you following me?” I asked, finally.

“Why’d I be following you? This is my place.”

“I thought you were in Nashville,” I said.

“I thought you were in Nashville.”

“It’s my mother’s birthday. I came down for the party.”

He didn’t answer. After a second I added, awkwardly, “I heard about what happened to your mother. I’m sorry.”

“So you came to offer your condolences?” His voice was dry.

I shrugged. It wasn’t as if I could tell him that I had come to the Bog out of idle curiosity, because I wondered if there might be a connection between LaDonna’s death and Brenda Puckett’s murder.

In the silence that followed, the sound of a car engine, backfiring badly, came closer. Turning, I could see an older model Chevy come bumping down the track. It stopped a few feet away, and the driver’s side door opened with a screech. An African-American woman shoehorned herself out from behind the steering wheel and waddled toward us.

She was about my height and age, and approximately three times my weight. Her breasts were the size of watermelons and she had a behind you could have left a tray of drinks on, with no worries that they’d spill. All of her was poured into a hot pink spandex dress with spaghetti straps, which must have been made for a woman half her size. Her hair was bleached yellow and curled into big, fat sausage curls, and her lips were painted a deep cherry red. She looked like a black drag-queen parody of Shirley Temple. Her eyes were small and half buried in fat, but she managed to give me a dirty look anyway, before turning to Rafe. “Who she?”

He opened his mouth, but I intercepted him. “I’m Savannah Martin. Who are you?”

She didn’t answer, nor give any indication of having heard me. “What you bring her here for?”

“He didn’t bring me,” I said. “I came on my own.”

“What you want with a skinny white chick like that? When you can have Marquita?”

She balanced her weight precariously on one foot and thrust the other ample hip out.

I hid a smile. “You know, I’m going to go. I can see you’ve got your hands full here, Rafe.”

I gave him a patronizing pat on the arm. The muscles under the golden skin were as hard as granite. He cut his eyes to me, but didn’t say a word. Marquita growled deep in her throat, like a Rottweiler. I found myself moving a little faster than usual as I headed for my car.

# # #

If this sounds like something you'd like, the ebook is available from the following outlets:

AMAZON

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

Houses, Hunks, and Whodunit - Part 2

2011-05-14T05:32:00.000-07:00

Since I talked about houses last time - specifically, Aunt Inga's house, or more accurately, the Second Empire Victorian - I guess it's time for hunks. Or more specifically, one hunk. This one:

I know. Yum, right?

His name is O.T. Fagbenle - also known as OT or O-T - and he's a British-Nigerian actor. In addition to acting, he sings, and he also writes music. And did I mention yummy?

Anyway, he can do an American accent. I saw him in Masterpiece Theatre's Miss Marple, By the Pricking of My Thumbs, and he played an American GI. And I have decided that if anyone ever - or in the next two years or so, before he gets too old - decides to make a movie out of A Cutthroat Business, he's who I want to play Rafe. Just check it out:

It took me four minutes longer than the fifteen I had promised before I could pull my pale-blue Volvo — the safest car on the road — to a stop behind the sleek, black Harley-Davidson waiting in the circular driveway. The man straddling the seat matched the motorcycle: dark, muscular, and more than a little dangerous. The T-shirt might as well have been painted on for all that it left to the imagination, and the tattoo peeking from under the left sleeve looked like the tail end of a viper curled around his bicep.

I hesitated before I opened the car door. Real estate can be a scary business on occasion. Those of us who are involved in it advertise our faces and phone numbers all over town, then agree to meet total strangers who call, claiming to want to see an empty house somewhere. Often in an area that isn’t the best, like the one I found myself in now. Sometimes — rarely, but it happens — one of us gets attacked. And there was something about this man that suggested that I ought to step carefully. So I did, both because it seemed prudent and because the gravel was difficult to navigate on three inch heels. “Sorry I’m late. I’m Savannah Martin..."

And then I stopped — dead, if you’ll pardon the pun — when he removed the mirrored sunglasses and I met his eyes.

They were as dark as those on a Jersey cow, and surrounded by long, thick, curving eyelashes. There’s nothing wrong with my lashes — nothing a liberal application of make-up can’t correct, at any rate — but I would have sold my soul to possess his. He could hawk mascara for Maybelline with those lashes. Not that that was the reason I was staring.

“Struck speechless by my good looks, darlin’?” His voice was amused.

“Sorry,” I managed, fighting back a blush. How mortifying, to be caught staring! “For a second there you looked familiar, but...”

“You ain’t never forgotten me?” He grinned. White teeth flashed against golden skin, and a ghostly memory stirred, like an alligator in a swamp, but it subsided without breaking the surface.

“Um...” I said, distracted. The grin widened wickedly.

When a few seconds passed while I didn’t say anything else, he added, “Been back to Sweetwater lately?”

So he was from back home. Well, it made sense. The drawl, slow as molasses, was pure South, and he wasn’t someone I had met recently, or I would have remembered.

“A few weeks ago,” I said slowly, running mental mug shots past my inner eye. “You?”

“That’d be telling.” Another grin curved his lips and the alligator stirred again. I concentrated, and almost had it, but just as I was about to reach out and grasp it, it slipped through my fingers once more.

You couldn’t give me a hint, could you?”

I smiled hopefully. He contemplated me in silence for a few seconds before he said accommodatingly, “Sure. Columbia High.”

I nodded. Of course. He was someone I had gone to high school with. That explained it. Long enough ago that I wouldn’t necessarily remember him right off; not so long ago that I had forgotten entirely. But there had been hundreds of students in my high school, from all over Maury County and beyond. How in the world did he expect me to recognize him after all this time...?

And then the brick dropped, or the alligator reared, or whatever. I jumped back. “Oh, my God! Rafael Collier. You’re...”

“Guilty as charged.” He made a little mocking half-bow. His voice was pleasant, but his eyes were anything but. They had turned as black as the motorcycle he’d been riding, and approximately twice as hard. I swallowed and opened my mouth. And put my foot in it.

“I thought you went to prison.”

He lifted an eyebrow. Just one; the other didn’t move so much as a fraction of an inch. “That was twelve years ago, darlin’. I got out.”

Obviously. I swallowed again and took another step back.

# # #

So what do you think? Does he look like Rafe or not? And if you don't think so, who do you think would do a better job?

Houses, Hunks, and Whodunit

2011-05-13T12:05:00.000-07:00

In keeping with the new log line on my blog - courtesy of Lyda Phillips, whose review of A Cutthroat Business in the Nashville Scene last year included the sentence "...a frothy girl drink of houses, hunks and whodunit," - I thought I'd say a few words about houses.

More specifically, one house: Aunt Inga's house in Fatal Fixer-Upper. There's a chance that not everyone might have seen a Second Empire Victorian, and I thought I might remedy that.

Here are Avery's words on her first visit to Waterfield:

Graham Rodgers had told me it was in bad shape. I had been prepared for the fact that it would need some work. Aunt Inga had been old, childless, and not well off, so there had been things – probably a lot of things – she hadn’t been able to keep up with. I expected an overgrown yard, a few loose roof shingles, missing gutters, and maybe some rotted boards. The reality was so much worse than anything I could have imagined, that for a second, I just stared, appalled.

Oh, don’t get me wrong: the house must have been beautiful once. Like mother had said, it was a fairytale Victorian cottage with a tower and arched windows. Unless my mandatory architecture classes betrayed me, I was looking at a Second Empire Victorian. Basically an Italianate style, identified by a square tower, mansard roof, and tall, narrow windows, arched or rounded on top. Named for the reign of Napoleon III (1852-1870), Second Empire was the first true style of the Victorian era in the US.

Above is another, more manicured example. Note the tall, narrow windows on the first floor, the arched windows on the top level, and the mansard roof... all hallmarks of the Second Empire style.

In the United States, the style usually combined a rectangular tower with a steep, short, mansard roof; the roof being the most noteworthy link to the style’s French roots. The tower could be of equal height to the top floor - such as in example 2 - or it could exceed the height of the rest of the structure by a story or two, like in picture 1 and 3.

The mansard roof crest was often topped with iron trim, called “cresting”. There's plenty of cresting on this house: both on top of the tower and on the lower roofs. In some cases, lightning rods were integrated into the cresting design, making the feature useful as well as decorative.

So there you have it. A basic description of the Second Empire Victorian, i.e. Aunt Inga's house. Next time I think I'll hunt up some pictures of Dr. Ben's Folk Victorian Cottage. After I post about hunks and whodunit, of course. In the meantime it's Friday, and time for a frothy drink. Until next time. Cheers!

Wanna become a character in DIY-6?

2011-05-06T15:22:00.000-07:00

Wanna help raise money for tornado relief?

Here's your chance: Go to the Help Write Now auction and bid on a set of DIY books and the chance to become - or name - a character in DIY-6, currently in progress.

Giveaway!

2011-05-05T08:40:00.001-07:00

I've just uploaded a post on ITW's The Neverending Book Giveaway, with a chance to win one of five free downloads of A Cutthroat Business.

If you have an e-reader and you'd like to try the book - or you don't have an e-reader, but you have a computer and you might consider downloading a Kindle for PC/Mac or a Nook for PC/Mac to read e-books that way - hie yourself over to The Neverending Book Giveaway and leave a comment on the post to be entered in the drawing.

Ends May 15th.

Book for Sale!

2011-05-02T06:35:00.000-07:00

It's official: the electronic version of A Cutthroat Business is available for sale and download, with a new cover and a new name.

This is the book about which Library Journal said that the "hilarious dialogue and tension between Savannah and Rafe will delight fans of chick-lit mysteries and romantic suspense," while the Nashville Scene called it a "frothy girl-drink of houses, hunks, and whodunit, narrated in a breezy first person."

Here's what would be the back cover blurb, if e-books had back covers:

Everyone has warned new-minted realtor Savannah Martin that real estate is a cutthroat business.

But Savannah doesn’t think she’s supposed to take the warning literally ... until an early morning phone call sends her to an empty house on the ‘bad’ side of town, where she finds herself standing over the butchered body of a competitor, face to face with the boy her mother always warned her about.

Rafe Collier is six feet three inches of testosterone and trouble; tall, dark, and dangerous, with a murky past and no future — not the kind of guy a perfect Southern Belle should want to tangle with. In any sense of the word. But wherever Savannah goes, there he is, and making no bones about what he wants from her.

Now Savannah must figure out who killed real estate queen Brenda Puckett, make a success of her new career, and avoid getting killed — or kissed — by Rafe, all before the money in her savings account runs out and she has to go back to selling make-up at the mall.

If I had to describe it, I'd probably call it a sexy romantic mystery in the vein of Janet Evanovich or Gemma Halliday, "with a dose of southern charm and a bad boy you won't want to forget," (Tasha Alexander, bestselling author of Dangerous to Know, who also said A Cutthroat Business has "enough wit and sexual chemistry to rival Janet Evanovich") and that it "hooks you in the first page and doesn't let go until the last!" (Lynda Coker, Between the Pages)

A Cutthroat Business is listed for $3.99, is roughly 88,000 words, and includes an excerpt from Hot Property, book 2 in the Savannah Martin mystery series, which will be available in digital format in June.

Check it out. I think you'll like it!

Amazon is dragging their heels, and haven't gotten the book up for sale yet, but you can find it on Barnes & Noble, for Nook, HERE, and on Smashwords, for Nook, Kindle, iStuff, Sony, Kobo, or PDF format, HERE.

Snippet Saturday: Humor

2011-04-23T08:29:00.000-07:00

Snippet Saturday is the brainchild of author Lauren Dane, wherein a group of authors selects thematic excerpts from their work and shares them on Saturday mornings. This Saturday the theme is humor.

Since it's been on my mind lately, why don't I regale you with the first meeting - recently - between Savannah and Rafe in A Cutthroat Business. I think it's funny; hopefully you will too:

FROM SOMEWHERE IN CHAPTER 1:

It took me four minutes longer than the fifteen I had promised before I could pull my pale-blue Volvo — the safest car on the road — to a stop behind the sleek, black Harley-Davidson waiting in the circular driveway. The man straddling the seat matched the motorcycle: dark, muscular, and more than a little dangerous. The T-shirt might as well have been painted on for all that it left to the imagination, and the tattoo peeking from under the left sleeve looked like the tail end of a viper curled around his bicep.

I hesitated before I opened the car door. Real estate can be a scary business on occasion. Those of us who are involved in it advertise our faces and phone numbers all over town, then agree to meet total strangers who call, claiming to want to see an empty house somewhere. Often in an area that isn’t the best, like the one I found myself in now. Sometimes — rarely, but it happens — one of us gets attacked. And there was something about this man that suggested that I ought to step carefully. So I did, both because it seemed prudent and because the gravel was difficult to navigate on three inch heels. “Sorry I’m late. I’m Savannah Martin...”

And then I stopped — dead, if you’ll pardon the pun — when he removed the mirrored sunglasses and I met his eyes.

They were as dark as those on a Jersey cow, and surrounded by long, thick, curving eyelashes. There’s nothing wrong with my lashes — nothing a liberal application of make-up can’t correct, at any rate — but I would have sold my soul to possess his.

He could hawk mascara for Maybelline with those lashes. Not that that was the reason I was staring.

“Struck speechless by my good looks, darlin’?” His voice was amused.

“Sorry,” I managed, fighting back a blush. How mortifying, to be caught staring...! “For a second there you looked familiar, but...”

“You ain’t never forgotten me?” He grinned. White teeth flashed against golden skin, and a ghostly memory stirred, like an alligator in a swamp, but it subsided without breaking the surface.

“Um...” I said, distracted. The grin widened wickedly.

When I didn’t say anything else, he added, “Been back to Sweetwater lately?”

So he was from back home. Well, it made sense. The drawl, slow as molasses, was pure South, and he wasn’t someone I had met recently, or I would have remembered.

“A few weeks ago,” I said slowly, running mental mug shots past my inner eye. “You?”

“That’d be telling.” Another grin curved his lips and the alligator stirred again. I concentrated, and almost had it, but just as I was about to reach out and grasp it, it slipped through my fingers once more.

“You couldn’t give me a hint, could you?”

I smiled hopefully. He contemplated me in silence for a few seconds before he said accommodatingly, “Sure. Columbia High.”

I nodded. Of course. He was someone I had gone to high school with. That explained it. Long enough ago that I wouldn’t necessarily remember him right off; not so long ago that I had forgotten entirely. But there had been hundreds of students in my high school, from all over Maury County and beyond. How in the world did he expect me to recognize him after all this time...?

And then the brick dropped, or the alligator reared, or whatever. I jumped back. “Oh, my God! Rafael Collier. You’re...”

“Guilty as charged.” He made a little mocking half-bow. His voice was pleasant, but his eyes were anything but. They had turned as black as the metal of the motorcycle he’d been riding, and approximately twice as hard. I swallowed and opened my mouth. And put my foot in it.

“I thought you went to prison.”

He lifted an eyebrow. Just one; the other didn’t move so much as a fraction of an inch. “That was twelve years ago, darlin’. I got out.”

Obviously. I swallowed again and took another step back.

###

DIY-6 is in the bag!

2011-04-07T05:12:00.000-07:00

It's official: Avery will be going on after DIY-5, Flipped Out, that's coming in October. I just agreed - yesterday, in fact - to write another book in the series. DIY-6 will be released sometime in 2012; not sure when yet. I thought you might be interested to see the outline that did the trick: When Derek and Avery first get the inside track on a distressed condo in Josh Rasmussen’s complex, it doesn’t seem like a very exciting project. But the price is right, and they can turn the property around quickly, which will help their cash flow. And besides, Avery thinks they can amuse themselves by giving the small, bland space some much needed oomph. However, it isn’t but a few days after renovations start that they have all the excitement they can handle. It begins with the suspicious death of Hilda Shaw, one of the neighbors. Hilda was the resident busy-body, always sitting at her window watching the other tenants coming and going. She delighted in knowing things about people, personal things, and in letting people know that she knew. As it turns out, every one of the residents in the small condo complex is hiding a secret of their own, including Josh Rasmussen, and Avery soon finds herself knee-deep in other people’s dirty laundry. The trick becomes figuring out which of the many secrets is the deadly one, and which of the neighbors killed Hilda, before someone else learns too much about what is going on and has to die as a result. And this time, that someone might just be Avery. Book will include tips for how to make the most of small spaces and giving bland spaces more personality with architectural features and paint, furniture and decorations. Like every other book in the series, it'll probably change some between now and when it's actually written, but that's the basic idea. Now I've got to get busy writing! xoxo

Aaaaand it's here:

2011-03-30T16:23:00.001-07:00

The cover for FLIPPED OUT, DIY-5, available October 4th. The back cover copy reads as follows:

Flipped Out available for preorder

2011-03-01T09:32:00.001-08:00

It's seven months until October, but it seems you can preorder DIY-5, FLIPPED OUT, from Amazon as of today.

There's no cover yet, and not much in the way of description, but if you're in the market for a preorder, it's available. Go HERE if you want to check it out.

DIY-5 title announced

2011-01-21T14:26:00.000-08:00

Just got word that the official title for DIY-5 will be FLIPPED OUT!

I wanted to call it FLIPPING OUT!, but apparently that's already taken. Not by a book, but by a television show. And since the title of the book is also the title of a fictional home renovation show in the book, FLIPPED OUT! it is.

Here's the back cover blurb, straight from the Penguin's mouth:

Inheriting her aunt’s old Maine cottage has led Avery Baker down a new career path—home renovation. Finding a property’s hidden potential has rewards and challenges—not to mention certain unanticipated dangers. Like murder…

Avery and her hunky handyman boyfriend Derek Ellis are renovating another house in Waterfield, Maine. But it’s not just any house. It belongs to local news anchor Tony “the Tiger” Micelli—and it’s a quaint cottage with limitless possibilities. Even more exciting is that the makeover is going to be filmed as part of a home renovation TV show.

Unfortunately the road to cable TV fame is a bumpy one: this DIY spins into a DOA when Tony’s corpse is found at the cottage, flat on his back and not from natural causes. Turns out there were a few people who wanted Tony dead, and that the murderer might have his sights set on a few more Waterfield residents. That means it’s up to Avery to nail the killer. And fast.

FLIPPED OUT! will be coming to a store near you in October 2011.

This and That...

2011-01-21T14:23:00.000-08:00

It's been a while; sorry about that. MORTAR AND MURDER, DIY-4, has hit stores.

It debuted on the Barnes and Noble mass market mystery list at #3 it's first week, and fell to #4 this week.

Meanwhile, it also hit #4 on BookScan's mass market mystery list, and #27 on Barnes and Noble's big list of all mass parket paperback releases, regardless of genre.

So... another national bestseller. Thank you so much!

Behold -

2010-07-01T16:41:00.000-07:00

the beauteousness of DIY-4, Mortar and Murder!

Due to arrive in a store near you on January 4th, 2011 - that's just over six months from now - Mortar and Murder has a cover, and as usual, the brilliant Jennifer Taylor has outdone herself. My sinister shadow is back, which makes me very happy - he was missing from DIY-3, Plaster and Poison - and you'll notice a new cat up there in the middle of the stairs. He's a small Russian Gray kitten named Mischa, and he lives under the porch of the 1783 center-chimney Colonial house on Rowanberry Island that Avery and Derek take on in Mortar and Murder. I wanted the book to be called Island Getaway, which should give you an idea of what it's about, but that was deemed not renovate-y enough. So we ended up with the current title instead. And the current cover. Innit beautiful?

Weird, but cool...

2010-06-19T12:32:00.001-07:00

...and rather amazing, too.

More than three months after it was released, Plaster and Poison is back on the Davis-Kidd bestseller list at #5 - HERE - and I don't think it was the two copies I sold on Thursday night...

A Frothy Girl Drink!!!

2010-06-17T20:11:00.000-07:00

I just have to share this with y'all:

I'm a Nashville Scene Critic's Pick this week, for the reading/signing/book club at Barnes and Noble Cool Springs on Thursday, June 23rd, and the divine Lyda Phillips has some very nice things to say about yours truly, among other things that I mix up "a frothy girl drink of houses, hunks, and a whodunit, narrated in a breezy first person."

You can read the whole thing HERE - thanks so much for the plug, Lyda!

It's Official

2010-06-12T07:02:00.000-07:00

A Cutthroat Business is in stores - yay! - and DIY-4, Mortar and Murder, has an official release date of January 4th, 2011. It's available for preorder from Amazon, HERE. There's no cover art as of this writing, but I have it on good authority that the cover will feature a colonial staircase, a sailcloth rug, a view of the ocean, and a small, blue-gray kitten. Considering the previous three covers, I'm sure Jennifer Taylor will blow it out once again. I'll post a picture of the cover as soon as I have one. In the meantime, get thee to a store and purchase A Cutthroat Business, by my alter ego, the real me, Bente Gallagher.

Library Journal likes A CUTTHROAT BUSINESS!

2010-04-08T07:10:00.000-07:00

Check it out:

Gallagher, Bente. A Cutthroat Business: A Savannah Martin Mystery. PublishingWorks. Jun. 2010. c.362p. ISBN 978-1-935557-07-4. pap. $13.95. M

Showing a house to a client who turns out to be an old high school boyfriend, Nashville real estate agent Savannah Martin discovers a coworker's corpse.

VERDICT: The hilarious dialog and the tension between Savannah and Rafe will delight fans of chick-lit mysteries and romantic suspense. Under the pen name Jennie Bentley, the author writes a popular DIY cozy series (Fatal Fixer Upper).

Romantic Times likes Plaster and Poison!

2010-02-19T15:00:00.000-08:00

I can't share the review yet, but it'll be in the April issue of Romantic Times Book Reviews, and it'll be on newsstands sometime in March.

I do know that it's a 4 star review, and that says, among other nice things, that it's a 'solidly built mystery' whose 'attractive characters and beautiful setting round out this wonderful read.'

So there! Thanks for another stellar review, Paige Traynor!

Another Two Thumbs Up for Cutthroat!

2010-01-29T17:08:00.000-08:00

Here's an early preview from Paige Crutcher, journalist and reviewer for the Examiner.com, who has this to say:

A CUTTHROAT BUSINESS is equal parts charming and sexy, with a side of suspense.

Bente Gallagher's heroine and hero, Savannah Martin and Rafe Collier, are a pairing of perfection. The prim Southern Belle and street-smart alluring rogue captivate and delight. As readers watch the two team forces in an effort to solve a murder, and attempt not to fall under each other's spell, they'll find it impossible not to enjoy the ride.

A CUTTHROAT BUSINESS is a lightning fast read that will have readers coming back for more again and again.

Thank you, Paige!

A CUTTHROAT BUSINESS is available for preorder from Amazon.com HERE.

Five Stars for "A Cutthroat Business"!!!

2010-01-09T20:24:00.000-08:00

The first very early pre-review of the ARC of "A Cutthroat Business" is in, from Lynda Coker and Between the Pages, and it couldn't be nicer! Just listen to what she has to say:

"WOW! This series and author were new to me, and I have to tell you that they're both great. In 'A Cutthroat Business', Bente Gallagher hooks you in the first page and doesn't let go until the last. And there is something for every reading preference in her writing. Tricky plot twists, rich description, likable characters, and some villainous characters you'll love to hate. My favorite is her humor. Not heavy, in-you-face humor, but subtle, sneak-up-on-you humor that will have you chuckling out loud. The hero in this story, Rafe Collier, is straight out of my little black book of most loved 'alpha' types. And the heroine, Savannah Martin, while a capable, independent business woman, is still sweet and vulnerable. It was so amusing to watch as she pussy-footed around Rafe, not sure if he was an irresistible hunk or a killer. The elements of Mystery and Suspense weave in and around these two characters linking them in ways they both distrust, yet cannot resist."

If that isn't a fantastic review, I don't know what is! Thanks, Lynda!!!

A Pull-No-Punches Mystery!

2010-01-05T13:56:00.001-08:00

Yep, that's what the divine Miss Harriet Klausner calls "Plaster and Poison."

The first review is in, and you can read it HERE.

Among other nice things, Miss Klausner calls the book 'delightful' and the plot 'solid and entertaining.'

So there!

The No-Kiss BlogFest

2010-01-02T13:05:00.000-08:00

OK, I just can't resist doing this. Mostly because I have something else I really should be doing - a blog post for the Southern Authors for Monday - and this allows me to put it off a little longer.

This is an excerpt from A CUTTHROAT BUSINESS, coming to a store near you in June 2010: featuring sweet and proper Southern Belle Savannah Martin, and not-so-sweet and not at all proper Rafe Collier, the guy she can't admit to herself that she likes. He has convinced her to go out with him, and she's worried.

When I got back to the table, he was making idle conversation with the three women at the next table. The cheesecake he had insisted on giving me was neatly packaged in a styrofoam to-go box, and my coffee and water were shimmering in the candlelight. The sight of it all — especially Rafe — made my stomach twist unpleasantly, and rather than sit down, I placed a steadying hand on the back of my chair. “I’d like to leave now, if that’s OK with you.”

“Sure.” He rose with alacrity and tossed a couple of bills on the table. They were more than adequate to cover the tab and the tip.

“I didn’t mean that you had to leave. Just that I wanted to.”

“What am I gonna do here by myself?”

“You could join them.” I looked pointedly at the next table, where all three women were watching us — him — expectantly. He grinned.

“You ain’t jealous, are you, darlin’?”

“You wish,” I said. The grin widened.

“You bet. So I think I’ll just take you home. Just in case you feel like giving me a kiss when I drop you off.”

He gestured. As I turned to leave, one of the women at the next table snagged my sleeve. “If you don’t want him, sister, I’ll be happy to take him off your hands.” She winked at Rafe.

“Be my guest,” I said. “If you want him, you can have him, with my blessing.”

Rafe grinned, but refrained from pointing out that he wasn’t actually mine to give. “She don’t mean it,” he said instead, putting a friendly arm around my shoulders and squeezing.

“Sure I do,” I said — tried to say — but the words wouldn’t come. Rafe nodded politely to the threesome.

“Nice to meet you lovely ladies. Y’all have a good evening.”

“You, too,” all three women chorused; the one who had spoken earlier with an envious look. Little did she suspect that I intended to ditch him just as soon as I decently could.

That proved to be a more difficult task than I had expected. My first attempt, on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, didn’t come off at all. “I’m not really dressed for a ride on the back of the motorcycle, so why don’t I just get the valet to order me a cab?”

He smirked. “Nice try, but I ain’t sending you home by yourself.”

“But there’s no sense in you coming all the way back with me when you could just go home yourself.”

“Sorry, darlin’, but you ain’t getting rid of me that easy. I got you here, and I’m taking you home.”

“But I can’t ride on the back of the motorcycle. Not in this skirt.”

Rafe glanced down at it, and back up to my face. There was a wicked glint in his eyes. I took a step back, shaking my head. “Oh, no. I’m not taking it off. Nor hiking it up to my hips, either.”

He grinned. “Relax, darlin’. You can keep your clothes on. For now. I had Wendell leave the Town Car in the lot down the street. Come on.” He put a hand against my back to steer me down the sidewalk. I let him do it, even if it took everything I had not to flinch from the touch.

Neither of us said much on the ride back to my apartment. I don’t know what Rafe was thinking, but personally, I was planning what to say when we got there, and how I would handle the various scenarios that might present themselves. My first choice would be to simply say goodnight in the car outside the gate. Failing that, I’d say goodnight outside the door, without unlocking it. If he absolutely insisted on coming in — and I knew I couldn’t stop him if he did — I’d let him go in first and make sure he didn’t get between me and the door. If he did... But I’d deal with that situation if I got to it. Which I wouldn’t. Because I’d simply say goodnight in the car outside the gate; it was that simple.

“I’ll walk you up.” He had the engine shut off and his door open before I even realized we’d pulled up to the curb.

“You don’t have to...” I began, but it was too late; he was already out and coming around to open my door. “Really, I don’t mind going up by myself.”

“That’s all right. I don’t mind, either.” He extended a hand and hauled me out of the car.

Scratch Plan A. I let him walk me up the stairs to the second floor and tried again. I had barely managed to turn to him and open my mouth when he was already talking. “Keys?”

“Wha… what?” I stammered. He grinned.

“What if you can’t get in? Let me see your keys.”

I dug the key chain out of my handbag and held it up. He arched an eyebrow and nodded to the lock. Scratch Plan B, too. I sighed and unlocked the door. “Happy now? You’ve walked me to the door and I can get in.”

His eyes crinkled. “Ain’t you gonna ask me in for a nightcap?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I said primly.

“Afraid you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?”

“In your dreams,” I said.

He smiled, but didn’t speak. It wasn’t necessary. I didn’t speak, either, because I wasn’t sure what to say. The idea that I was starring in Rafael Collier’s pornographic daydreams was more than a little disturbing.

As I stood there, dumbly, his eyes dropped from my eyes to my mouth, and I felt a stab of abject panic. God, he wasn’t going to kiss me, was he?

It looked like he was. His eyes flicked back to mine — deep and dark; the kind of eyes a girl could drown in if she wasn’t careful — and he leaned closer. I could feel my own eyes go out of focus, and I thought I was going to pass out from the sheer terror of it.

He grinned and dropped a kiss, not on my mouth, but on my forehead. His voice was amused. “You’d think I was Jack the Ripper. You can let go now, darlin’.”

I blinked and started breathing again. “Huh?”

“My jacket. You can let go.”

“Oh.” I realized I was clutching the soft leather with both hands and moved back as if I had burned myself. He laughed.

“Makes you wonder what’d happen if I got you into bed.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I managed, “because that will never happen.”

“You sure about that, darlin‘?”

I nodded. I was positive. If the thought of him kissing me scared me so much I almost passed out, there was no way I’d even entertain the idea of him taking me to bed. In fact, from here on out, I was more determined than ever to have absolutely nothing at all to do with him.

So there you have it. The No Kiss scene. One of several in the book, since this is one of Savannah's slight obsessions. He does finally lay one on her, on the last page of the book, but... wait. That'd be telling. ;-) Just buy the book and read it for yourself. It's available for preorder on Amazon!

20% discount on A CUTTHROAT BUSINESS - direct from the publisher

2009-12-09T06:20:00.000-08:00

Some of you may know that the real me - Jennie Bentley is a pseudonym - is starting a new series in 2010. Yes, published under my real name, which is Bente Gallagher.

A CUTTHROAT BUSINESS is the book I wrote before the DIY books, the book that started it all. The book that caused the powers that be at Berkley to ask me to write the Do-It-Yourself Home Renovation mysteries. It's written from the point of view of Savannah Martin, new-minted realtor and Southern Belle, in Nashville, Tennessee, who gets more than she bargains for when she stumbles over the dead body of a fellow realtor in an empty house.

Lest you think this is another fluffy cozy, let me set your mind at ease: there's actually a little more to it than that. See, Savannah is recently divorced. After doing everything in her life perfectly, the way she was supposed to do, fully expecting everything to fall into place in its turn and give her the perfect life she was supposed to have, she discovered that her perfect husband was cheating. So Savannah divorced the jerk and went out on her own, for the first time ever. After going from her parents' house to finishing school to university to Bradley's house, she's on her own, and scrambling to make ends meet. As well as questioning all her previous assumptions.

Into this mix falls not only the dead body, but a new guy. And not just any guy. If Margaret Anne Martin, Savannah's sainted mother, could have picked the next guy she'd like to see in her daughter's life, Rafael Collier wouldn't even have made the bottom of the list. Half black, half white trash, with a criminal past, a tattoo, and a Harley-Davidson, he's Margaret Anne's worst nightmare: the boy she - and every other mother in tiny Sweetwater, Tennessee - warned their daughters about.

Now Savannah has to figure out who killed real estate maven Brenda Puckett - the wicked witch of the South - and what Rafe Collier's connection to the house on Potsdam Street is... all while keeping her involvement from her mother.

A CUTTHROAT BUSINESS will be released in trade paper format in June 2010, at a price of $13.95, but for a limited time, you can pre-order it directly from the publisher for 20% off. If it sounds like something you'd enjoy, please make my day!

Here's the LINK!

"Spackled and Spooked" made the IMBA list!

2009-09-09T15:28:00.001-07:00

The Independent Mystery Booksellers Association's bestsellers for August 2009:

Softcover

1 – Steig Larsson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Vintage
2 – Aaron Elkins, Uneasy Relations, Berkley
3 – Juliet Blackwell, Secondhand Spirits, Berkley
4 – Michael Connelly, The Brass Verdict, Little Brown
5 - Rhys Bowen, A Royal Pain, Berkley
6 – tie
Elizabeth Lynn Casey, Sew Deadly, Berkley
Jennie Bentley, Spackled and Spooked, Berkley
8 – Ellen Crosby, The Bordeaux Betrayal, Pocket
9 - Deborah Crombie, Where Memories Lie, Avon
10 – Michael Koryta, Envy the Night, St. Martin’s

Woot! Woot! Woot!

It's all about MEEEEE!

2009-08-22T16:00:00.000-07:00

OK, so I've been bad about taking pictures of all the fun stuff that's been happening to me lately. The launch party at Sherlock's Books in Lebanon went by without pictures. The signing at Davis-Kidd, ditto, along with - of course - the TV interview. There were people taking pictures at Killer Nashville last weekend, but I wasn't among them, so if there are pictures of me floating around out there, I haven't seen'em. I also forgot the camera when I did Evening with an Author at Tinney Contemporary last Thursday night.

But today, I remembered the camera. I even remembered to put batteries in it before I left. Therefore, I am able to give you the following three photos from Mysteries and More, the only bona fide "mysteries only" bookstore in Nashville!

Here I am with Mary and Gregg Bruss, the lovely owners of Mysteries and More; thank you so much for having me!

Here I am with my independent publicist, Tom Robinson from Author and Book Media, without whom Spackled and Spooked as well as Fatal Fixer-Upper would be in a lot fewer places.

And here I am with one of the many lovely folks who came out to support me and Mysteries and More by buying one or both of my books! Thanks so much to all of you!

If you're interested in an autographed copy of Fatal Fixer-Upper or Spackled and Spooked, talk to Greg and Mary; they've got'em! You can order from Mysteries and More right HERE.

That's it for now; I'm done with signings and appearances until the Southern Festival of Books in October. It's time to get busy writing DIY#4, tentatively titled Mortar and Murder.

Catch you later!

Woo-Hoo!!!

2009-08-12T12:20:00.000-07:00

"Spackled and Spooked" hit #5 on Barnes and Noble's bestseller lists this week. That's up six places from last year, when "Fatal Fixer-Upper" hit #11. We've not only broken into the Top 10, but the Top 5!

Here it is, from the tower at Barnes and Noble in Hendersonville, Tennessee, where the fine folks were happy to have me sign stock last week. Notice the stellar company I'm keeping. And notice especially the cover of "Sew Deadly," across and two spaces down from "Spackled and Spooked," in the lower right hand corner of the picture

"Sew Deadly" was written by my fellow Good Girl and Berkley Babe, Laura Bradford, AKA Elizabeth Lynn Casey, and it was released on the same day as "Spackled and Spooked." It's the first in the Southern Sewing Circle mysteries, also from Berkley Prime Crime. Best of luck to Laura/Elizabeth Lynn on her release!

So there you have it. And if you were among the many nice people who bought "Spackled and Spooked" at a Barnes and Noble near you in the past week, thanks for your help in making my book a best seller! I couldn't be happier!

Contest Over

2009-08-05T08:45:00.000-07:00

Spackled and Spooked hit stores yesterday, officially, and that marks the end of the contest on my website for this time.

Congratulations to Beth Pripstein of Baltimore, who won the books and subscription to DIY-Ideas Magazine. Thanks to everyone who signed up for the newsletter in the past few weeks.

If you'll give me a day or two, I'll come up with another contest of some sort - and you won't have to sign up for the newsletter again to play!

Enter to win

2009-07-26T11:00:00.000-07:00

Want a signed copy of "Fatal Fixer-Upper"? Or a signed copy of "Spackled and Spooked" (once I get my hands on one)?

Here's your chance. Sign up for my newsletter anytime between right now and August 4th, 2009 - when "Spackled and Spooked" hits shelves - and you could be the lucky winner! I'll pick one name at random and send copies of "Spackled and Spooked" and "Fatal Fixer-Upper," as well as a subscription to DIY-Ideas Magazine, where Avery (and I) get lots of our renovating ideas!

Here's the place to go: Newsletter

Be sure to respond to the email that comes your way, confirming that yes, you do want to receive Jennie Bentley's (very infrequent) newsletter.

Thanks, y'all! And good luck!

Check me out, I'm on BookPage!

2009-07-13T13:05:00.000-07:00

Many of you may not know this, since I didn't myself until last year, but venerable BookPage - you know, the newspaper-looking magazine you pick up at your local library - is headquartered here in Nashville.

Last fall, just before the release of "Fatal Fixer-Upper," I had occasion to visit their offices and meet with the fine folks over there. At the time, they promised me they'd put me on their then-in-progress brand new website.

So I waited, and waited, and waited some more.

I'd almost given up hope, but now, just in time for the release of "Spackled and Spooked," they're ready! You can check out my article HERE, and while you're on the BookPage website anyway, be sure to have a look at everything else, as well. Lots of good stuff there!

It's Official

2009-06-22T11:53:00.001-07:00

I'm a Good Girl. As of today, my picture is up on the Good Girls Kill For Money blog, and everything.

(And I'll thank everyone to please refrain from making comments about why my head is so much bigger than anyone else's. I'm sure that's very significant of something or other - big ego, probably - but I'd just as soon not have to hear about it. 'kay?)

Anyway, if you'd like a free copy of Fatal Fixer-Upper, get over there and leave a comment. You might get lucky.

Updated back cover copy for DIY#3 - PLASTER & POISON

2009-06-03T15:36:00.000-07:00

...because I whined about the original. I like this better:

Avery Baker was once a New York designer, but inheriting her aunt’s old Maine cottage has led her down a new career path in home renovation. Finding a property’s hidden potential has rewards and challenges—especially when a mystery surfaces behind the walls...

Avery’s friend, bed and breakfast owner Kate McGillicutty is finally getting hitched to police chief Wayne Rasmussen. They've asked Avery and her boyfriend, Derek, to renovate an old carriage house behind the B&B. It's a daunting task, especially since Avery’s mother is arriving in town for a lengthy stay (and to judge—ehem—meet Derek), but Avery’s not stressed. She’s excited to remake the seen-better-days carriage house into a romantic Parisian-style retreat.

But the course of home repair never did run smooth, even when sanders are involved. One night at the carriage house, Avery stumbles across a lifeless body amidst the paint cans and plaster. It turns out that the murder victim was someone Kate knew all too well. All of a sudden, this small town is abuzz with big suspicions, and Avery realizes she must unravel the mysterious murder before Kate can tie the knot…

So there you have it.

Good News

2009-06-01T14:43:00.000-07:00

So apparently it's official: the title for DIY# 3 is PLASTER AND POISON, according to the email I got from my editor at Berkley Prime Crime today.

And another nice little tidbit of good news: apparently the release date is March 2010, not May 2010 - in other words, two months sooner than originally planned!

No cover yet, but here's the back cover blurb as of right now, with qualifications; it might change:

Avery Baker was once a New York designer, but inheriting her aunt’s old Maine cottage has led her down a new career path in home renovation. Finding a property’s hidden potential has rewards and challenges—especially when a mystery surfaces behind the walls...

Local bed and breakfast owner Kate McGillicuty and Waterfield Police Chief Wayne Rasmussen are finally tying the knot. They've asked Avery and her boyfriend, Derek, to renovate an old carriage house behind the B&B. It's a daunting task, but Avery plans on remaking the relic into a romantic Parisian-style retreat.

But the course of true love--and home repair--rarely runs smooth. As proven when Avery stumbles across a lifeless body in the carriage house. And now, Avery's to-do list reads: find wallpaper…lay insulation…solve murder!

Start Spreading the News...

2009-05-28T12:44:00.001-07:00

OK, so the cat's out of the bag, officially, right here: the real me has signed a contract with PublishingWorks, an independent publisher in New Hampshire, to publish the Cutthroat Business mysteries, starring Savannah Martin, Southern Belle and new-minted Realtor® in Nashville, Tennessee.

Book 1, A Cutthroat Business, is tentatively scheduled for release in a year, June 2010, although I have a feeling that that might change, since DIY#3, as yet untitled, is coming out in May, and we'll probably want to give people enough time to read one before we bring out another.

A Cutthroat Business is my baby, the book that started it all. The book that got me my brilliant agent, and that made Berkley decide to offer me the chance to write the DIY-books. It has a very special place in my heart, and I'm beyond thrilled that Jeremy Townsend and the rest of the gang at PublishingWorks saw it the way I did, and decided to take a chance on it.

I'm a Good Girl! At last!

2009-05-10T20:06:00.000-07:00

Starting tomorrow, Monday, May 11th, 2009, yours truly will become a Good Girl.

A Good Girl Who Kills For Money, that is.

If you're not familiar with this lovely group of ladies - of which I am now one - please visit us at www.good-girls-kill.com. I'll be there every other Monday from now on, switching out with the lovely and talented Diana Killian, but of course the others are brilliant too, so feel free to stop by anytime!

Interview with Tom Robinson, Author & Book Media, re Spackled and Spooked

2009-05-08T09:08:00.000-07:00

Q & A With Author Jennie Bentley on Spackled and Spooked
(Penguin Berkley Prime Crime, August release)

Q--How does Avery Baker grow or change in this sequel from the debut book Fatal fixer-upper?

A--Avery is still Avery, you know. A little neurotic and insecure, a little too worried about her boyfriend’s perfect ex-wife, and still adjusting to life in a small town in Maine after spending her life so far in New York City. But she has gained some confidence as a renovator since tackling her aunt’s house, and she has realized that some of her wilder ideas may not always be the way to go. I think she’s a little mellower now, not as determined to prove herself or as inclined to see everything that happens as a threat to her identity. As her relationship with Derek develops and deepens, she becomes more sure of herself, of who she is and what she wants from her life. She’s growing up a little, and settling more comfortably into her new life.

Q--Did you know how Spackled and Spooked would end before you started writing it?

A--When we’re talking about traditional mysteries, they pretty much always end the same way. The sleuth, in this case Avery, figures out who the bad guy is, why he did what he did, and then the police show up and arrest him. Or her. I knew from the beginning who the murderer was and why he killed his first victim. I didn’t know until I got to the end of the book how Avery would figure things out or how the final confrontation would take place. That all develops as I write. But I usually have at least a pretty good idea where I want to end up before I start, as it’s hard to get to where you’re going unless you know where that is.

Q--Because of your background of fixing up homes, did you know the details of the home repairs outlined in this book?

A--I’ve renovated my share of bathrooms over the years, yeah. (That’s the project in this book. In Fatal fixer-upper, all the projects were kitchen related; in Spackled and Spooked, they deal with bathrooms. In the next book, which comes in May 2010, we’re talking romantic bedroom.)

I tend not to do my own plumbing or electrical work—there’s too much scope for disaster there, and good reasons why plumbers and electricians are supposed to be licensed—but as far as the cosmetics go, I’ve been there and done that. We’ve got directions for a few different paint techniques, brown-paper-bagging walls, installing a vessel sink—or, Avery being Avery, a salad bowl—and turning a piece of furniture, in this case a chest of drawers, into a sink base.

Q--Since you've been writing the series, what have been some of the varying comments you've received about this DYI/Home Renovation mystery genre?

A--Most people I hear from write to tell me they enjoyed the book. Since I don’t really hear from the people who don’t, it’s all been good.

Home renovation is such a big thing right now, that the books seem to resonate with a lot of people. One of the comments that stuck with me, was someone who told me that while she’s addicted to HGTV—just the target audience my publisher was looking for!—she appreciates the way the projects in my books relate to real people. Most folks don’t have several square miles of granite in their kitchen, or an extra $20,000 to drop into a bathroom renovation, and the fact that the tips in my books are designed for real people, and that Avery and Derek do their fixing up on a normal, and if possible frugal, budget, gives the books broad appeal.

Oh yes, and then someone e-mailed me to say that my book reminded them of the early writings of Elizabeth Peters, my all-time favorite author, which just totally made my day!

Q--How long did it take you to write Spackled and Spooked?

A--Spackled and Spooked wrote itself, pretty much. Seriously, it was a very easy book to write. I guess the first draft took 2-3 months, and then another couple of months to revise, get feedback, and revise again. And then I had to do another round of revisions six months later, after my editor had a chance to read the manuscript and send me her thoughts. That’s the usual time it takes me to write a book. Start to finish in under six months, and then another year after that for the publisher to get the cover art and type setting and various incarnations of proof editing done.

Media contact:

Tom Robinson tcr811@aol.com 615-794-2998; http://www.authorandbookmedia.com/

Megan Swartz Megan.Swartz@us.penguingroup.com 212-366-2155

Congratulations!

2009-01-30T05:50:00.000-08:00

Here is one final photo from the author's day at the Coffee County Library in Manchester, Tennessee, a couple of weeks back.

Pictured here is Kay Lowry, who looks pretty happy to be the winner of the free copy of 'Fatal Fixer-Upper' that I tossed into the giveaway down there.

Congratulations, Kay! I hope you'll like the book!

Behold: the cover of Spackled and Spooked!

2009-01-22T19:36:00.000-08:00

I got this from my editor today. Isn't it pretty? Like the first one, this is done by Paperdog Studio, and they did a fabulous job! Both cats made it onto this cover: that's Jemmy behind the blue bowl and Inky hanging from the shower ring. And check out the sinister shadow in the old mirror! Don't you love it?!

Wish You Were There - pictures from Coffee County

2009-01-18T14:05:00.001-08:00

On Saturday, January 17th, 2009, I had the honor of participating the second annual Coffee County Public Library Author Day in Manchester, Tennessee. The brilliant JT Ellison turned me on to it, and it was tons of fun. I also got to taste the best cheese cake I've ever had, as well as some brownies that were to die for, and I got to meet some very nice people, including all the librarians in Coffee County - and librarians are some of my favorite people - and the Coffee County Mayor (see picture on the right). From the left, that's Mayor Pennington, JT, me, Beth Terrell, and A. Scott Pearson.

Here I am with the beautiful and talented JT Ellison, author of "All the Pretty Girls," "14," and - released just before Christmas - "Judas Kiss," all psychological thrillers set in Nashville and featuring homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson and her sidekick and lover FBI profiler John Baldwin. Her next book in the series, "Edge of Black," will be released in September.

JT and I also shared out table with A. Scott Pearson, fellow ITW Debut Author and proud owner of the brand new "Rupture," scheduled to be released in a couple of weeks. Excellent book according to JT, who has read and blurbed it. When Scott isn't writing, he's a surgeon at Vanderbilt University, and you can find out more about him - and about "Rupture" - at http.www.rupturenovel.com

Finally, here's the whole group of us, all 26 authors who attended. I'm second from the right on the front row, in the bright lavender sweater. Leave it to me to wear something that makes me stand out!

Anyway, a fun time was had by all, and I've already been invited back next year, so if you're down that way, keep the date and time open!

"Fatal Fixer-Upper" an IMBA bestseller!

2008-12-12T09:08:00.000-08:00

Just yesterday, "Fatal Fixer-Upper" was named a national bestselling paperback for November for the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association. Check it out here:

http://inreferencetomurder.typepad.com/my_weblog/2008/12/imba-bestsellers-for-november.html

The shortest review ever!

2008-12-07T09:30:00.000-08:00

Or maybe not ever - I'm sure there have been shorter ones - but this is pretty darned short. Three sentences total, and one of them is a quote from moi. From that article I wrote for the Mystery Reader's Journal back in May, for their History Mystery issue.

Here's the link - but since the review is so short, I figure I'll just post the whole thing:

Jennie Bentley writes, "If Derek — 6 feet tall, with melting blue eyes, sun-streaked hair, snug jeans and a toolbelt riding low on his hips — can't make it interesting, then I don't know what to tell you."

If you surmise, however, that this novel is chick lit or a sappy romance novel, you would be wrong. It's an ingeniously plotted murder mystery with several prime suspects and a nail-biting conclusion.

So there! Thanks, Roy E. Perry, for those kind words!

Little Me - in Mystery Scene Magazine!

2008-12-05T14:17:00.000-08:00

That - to the right - is the holiday issue of Mystery Scene Magazine, in stores now.

You can read more about it HERE.

However, if you'd like to pick up a copy on your wanderings, at Barnes & Noble or your local independent bookstore, for instance, you can find an article by and about moi on page 51, right under the big picture of the cat.

The article deals with the background for "Fatal Fixer-Upper" and where I came up with the great story about Marie Antoinette's cats and Samuel Clough and the Sally - which I take no credit for - and you'll probably like it.

There's also a wonderful article about Donna Andrews - that's her on the cover - author of the Meg Langslow mysteries, the first of which - "Murder, with Peacocks" - won every major award there is. I love Donna Andrews and Meg Langslow, and I'm sure you will, too. In addition, there are other wonderful stores and reviews, including one for my friend JT Ellison's latest thriller, "14".

So now you know!

I'm a best-seller in Seattle!

2008-12-02T18:41:00.000-08:00

Look here! You'll have to scroll down a little, to the mass market paperbacks, but there I am (even if they got my name wrong)....

Seasons Greetings from moi

2008-11-24T15:19:00.000-08:00

Signing

2008-11-11T20:24:00.000-08:00

A couple of shots from the signing at Davis-Kidd Booksellers Tuesday, November 11th. I started out with good intentions - and the camera - and then I got caught up in what was going on, and forgot to take pictures. The result: all I've got are these two. Me with Tom Robinson of Author and Book Media, my independent publicist, and me with Mary Saums, fellow Sister in Crime, author of Thistle and Twigg.

Sales!!!

2008-11-11T13:50:00.000-08:00

Just got this email from my editor:

Every week, Barnes & Noble sends publishers a list of its national sales, divided into lists by genre and format. So this week you were # 11 on their mass market paperback mystery list.

Which is great!

A Few Reviews...

2008-11-05T15:05:00.000-08:00

I got reviewed by the Nashville Scene today - here - and all in all, I guess can't complain. A comparison to the great lady of mysteries, Dame Agatha herself, isn't anything to sneeze at, even if that crack about my prose being 'nothing if not accessible' hurt a little...

Also, the lovely Diana Vickery at the Cozy Library has posted her review, and a beautiful one it is, too. When I thanked her for taking the time to read and review my book, especially in such a spectacular way, she told me that it's an easy book to like. Bless her!

D-DAY!!!!

2008-11-04T14:36:00.000-08:00

Otherwise known as Debut-Day!

Yay, it's here! "Fatal Fixer-Upper" is in stores everywhere, as evidenced by these picture of moi, at Barnes & Noble (with the marvellous Erika) and Borders.

My chat with ITW

2008-10-31T19:22:00.000-07:00

Check out my interview by the lovely and talented Tasha Alexander in the International Thriller Writers' November newsletter.

http://www.thrillerwriters.org/2008/10/fatal-fixerupper-by-jennie-bentley.html

The International Thriller Writers is an amazing organization, and I would highly recommend that anyone who can joins!

2008-10-13T08:12:00.000-07:00

A few - very few - highlights from the Southern Festival of Books this weekend. The camera wasn't cooperating too well, so there's not much.

Here I am - far right - with the Sisters in Crime panel, which took place on Sunday afternoon. Next to me is Courtney Mroch, in the middle is J.B. Thompson, moderator, immediate past president of SinC-Middle Tennessee, next to J.B. is Chester Campbell, current president of SinC-Middle TN, and on the far left, with the microphone, is Beth Terrell. We were discussing "Crafting Killer Plots for Murderous Mysteries," and a good time was had by all.

And here I am after the panel, a little fuzzy, at the signing table, between Chester Campbell and Beth Terrell. The kind and lovely ladies purchasing my book here, are Molly MacRae and her sister Cam. Molly is the author of "Wilder Rumors," and is a Sherwood Anderson Award for Short Fiction winner. I caught her panel on writing short stories on Friday afternoon, and she really knows her stuff.

Tha-tha-that's all, folks. I did a fun panel with Charlie Lovett on Saturday morning, but we forgot to take pictures, and then I was interviewed on live radio by River Jordan in the afternoon, but I didn't get a picture of that, either. And since it was live, it's not even recorded anywhere, for me to link to. But I'll do better next time, I promise. I had a good time, though, and that's really what matters, is it?

Another review...

2008-10-10T05:34:00.000-07:00

Ron Wynn at the Nashville City Paper has read the book... and likes it.

You can check out the whole thing HERE; this is just the conclusion:

Billed as a "do-it-yourself mystery," Fatal Fixer-upper smartly blends investigative drama, sexual tension and romantic comedy elements, and marks the start of what looks like an outstanding series of Avery Baker cases.

Thanks, Ron!

Woo-hoo!

2008-09-26T11:57:00.000-07:00

FATAL FIXER-UPPER receives 4 1/2 stars from Romantic Times Book Reviews! Thank you, Page Traynor.

RT Rating: 4 ½ stars
Category: MYSTERY
Publisher: Berkley Prime Crime
Published: November 2008
Type: Mystery (Amateur Sleuth)

While this is another in the themed mysteries that are not only extremely entertaining but lightly educational, the mystery is unusually strong. Home renovation and design tips are skillfully worked into the story, the characters are developed and sympathetic, and the setting is charming. The climax leads to a bang-up ending in which the intelligent heroine has to either save herself or lose all.
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Summary: Avery Baker loses a boyfriend and then quits her job after inheriting her aunt's Victorian cottage on the Maine coast. She decides to work on the cottage so she can sell it and gets local hunky handyman Derek Ellis to help her. Soon she doesn't know whether the cottage or the man is more attractive, but when her house is broken into she wonders if he's one of the bad guys. A missing professor, disappearing antiques and old secrets all combine for a first-rate mystery and a frightening surprise ending. (Berkley Prime Crime, Nov., 336 pp., $6.99)

—Page Traynor

Let the celebration begin!

First Review!

2008-09-12T20:21:00.000-07:00

I always knew it was coming, and now it's here: "Fatal Fixer-Upper"s very first review.

http://themysterygazette.blogspot.com/2008/09/fatal-fixer-upper-jennie-bentley.html

The divine Miss Harriet Klausner likes the book, and gave it 5 stars at the B&N.com website (although she did give away rather a lot of the plot points, I thought).

Oh, well... no blood, no foul. Let there be great rejoicing in the land!

Southern Festival of Books 2008

2008-08-29T14:50:00.000-07:00

It's early days yet, but I just got word: I'll be doing a panel at the 20th anniversary of the Southern Festival of Books this year.

The Southern Festival will take place Friday, Saturday and Sunday, October 10, 11 & 12, at War Memorial Plaza in downtown Nashville. Click HERE for more information about the festival.

My panel - sponsored by our local chapter of Sisters in Crime - will take place on Sunday, October 12th, from noon to 1 PM.

The title is "Creating Killer Plots for Murderous Mysteries," and the other panelists will be Middle Tennessee Sisters in Crime president Chester Campbell, author of the Greg McKenzie mysteries, Elizabeth Terrell, author of the Jared McKean mysteries, and Courtney Mroch, author of "Beneath the Morvan Moon."

Killer Nashville 2008

2008-08-13T07:10:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again...

The Killer Nashville mystery writers conference will be taking place this weekend, Friday August 15 - Sunday August 17, at the Franklin/Cool Springs Marriott on the corner of Carothers Parkway across the interstate from Cool Springs Mall in Franklin.

I will be participating in three panels:

Friday 1 PM - 2:20 PM, I'll be discussing Depth Charge: Using Subplots to Create Depth with Chris Roerden, Susan Whitfield, and moderator Alana White in Salon 8

Friday 4 PM - 5:20 PM, I'll be on the Sisters in Crime Panel Start with a Punch, End with a Bang discussing - of course - great beginnings and endings with Lonnie Cruse, Mary Saums, and moderator/panelist (and SinC Middle Tennessee president) Chester Campbell in Salon 7

Sunday 9:30 AM - 10:50 AM I'll be hamming it up with Barbara Graham, Bill Fitzhugh, and moderator/panelist Don Bruns in Salon 7, talking about Humor In Mysteries. Be warned: there will be jokes!

I'll also be sitting at the signing table on Sunday from 12:20 PM to 2:00 PM, although I won't have any books to sign. I'll have a bunch of bookmarks, though, and I'll be happy to sign one of those for you, if you want. Feel free to stop by and say hi, if nothing else.

Looking forward to seeing some of you there!

Bookmarks are here!

2008-08-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

If you look closely at this perfect Southern Belle flirting above her fan, you will see that that's no Southern Belle, that's yours truly. And the fan is actually a handful of bookmarks that I ordered from Earthly Charms for the release of Fatal Fixer-Upper. I've got a couple of conferences and book festivals to go to between now and November 4th, and I thought they'd be nice to have around, to give out. Keep the book on people's minds, so to speak.

If you'd like a bookmark to keep me on your own mind, please don't be shy. Drop me a line, and I'll make sure you get one.

Working Stiffs

2008-07-31T13:23:00.000-07:00

I'm a proud member of the Working Stiffs, a fantastic bunch of Pittsburgh writers who invited me to participate in their grog even though I've only been in Pittsburgh once and certainly don't consider it my home. Nonetheless, I happily agreed, and I've been grogging over there the first Friday of every month this year. Sometimes I even drop in more often. Join me on Friday, August 1, to find out who gets all the credit for my becoming a published writer.

http://www.workingstiffs.blogspot.com