Fantasy/Romance
Date Published: Jan. 24, 2022
Publisher: Jan-Carol Publishing, Inc.
Achaiah knew the dangers of falling to earth for the love of his human, Nev. When Nev falls for her guardian angel, Achaiah, she is unaware of the danger that their love puts her in. That's why fallen angels have one rule: Never fall in love with a human.
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Contemporary / Gay Romance
Date Published: 4/1/22
Inside the cockpit, Captain Paul Miller is always in control. But on the ground, he constantly feels adrift. His marriage is crumbling, and life has become much too complicated.
Jamey Conley has worked hard to make his café in the Frisco airport a successful venture. He loves his work – and especially the airport scenery. He goes gaga over guys in uniform, but when he meets Paul, sparks really fly. Too bad his ideal man is married -- and straight.
Excerpt
“Paul?” Jamey came running up. “My friend called. He can’t make it. Can I share a taxi with you?”
Almost as if it were fate, a cab pulled up at that very moment.
No! “Sure.”
Paul slid across the leather seat, and Jamey followed him inside.
The driver turned sideways, and looked over his shoulder. “Where to?”
“Gateway Suites,” Paul said.
The cabbie nodded, and started to turn away.
“Wait.” Paul looked at Jamey. “Tell him where you’re going.”
“Gateway Suites.”
“No.” Paul shook his head. “No, he’s not going there. No.”
“I’m going to the Gateway,” Jamey insisted.
The driver snorted derisively. “I’m not getting in the middle of a lover’s quarrel. You wanna get out here, or go to the Gateway?”
“The Gateway,” Jamey said.
Paul swore under his breath. The cab pulled away from the curb.
Paul tried to keep his voice low. “What kind of game are you playing?”
“I don’t play games, Paul.”
“Then stop acting like a kid,” Paul said in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t want to fuck you.”
Jamey’s eyebrows shot up, and hid themselves under a lock of caramel hair. “Who said anything about fucking?”
The driver turned with a big grin on his face.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” Paul yelled, before facing Jamey. “Damn it, keep your voice down.”
“But now that you mention it…” Jamey cupped Paul’s crotch, and rubbed.
Paul intended to push him away, but Jamey’s lips were so close to his. One heated look and they both knew what was coming. Their lips met as if magnetized and it was magic.
Jamey’s mouth was so warm, so soft, much softer than Paul had imagined, and he opened his mouth with a low moan. Jamey slipped his tongue inside. It was just like the movies. Time stopped. Everything disappeared, even the nosy driver. It was just him and Jamey. Until they pulled apart.
Paul sighed. He drew back and studied Jamey’s face. Jamey stared back, his feelings showed plainly on his face. He was thrilled beyond words to be the recipient of Paul’s affection.
Damn, damn, damn. Paul was completely unprepared for the feelings that kiss stirred in him, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. He feigned a disgusted look and shook his head. “Sorry, Jamey. I had too much to drink tonight. You’re a great guy, but I’m not gay.”
Jamey’s happy expression faded. “You know what I think, Paul?” Jamey moved away. “I think you’re lying. To me. And most of all to yourself.” Jamey tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Take me to Dartmouth Street please.”
About the Author
Gale Stanley grew up in Philadelphia PA. She was the kid who always had her nose in a book, her head in the clouds, and her hands on a pad and pencil.
Some things never change.
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Health Care Heroes Book 14
Contemporary Romance
Date Published: 02-02-2022
The more she pushes him away, the more he’s interested….
Kenzie McMillan just landed her dream job – she’s been promoted to Head Nurse at Mercy General Hospital and assigned to prominent cardiac surgeon Dr. Trevor Loveless. However, Kenzie soon wonders if she should have been more careful what she wished for, since the young doctor has an ego the size of Seattle. If only he weren’t so good-looking….
When Kenzie discovers that someone has been dipping into the hospital’s stash of controlled substances, she’s determined to identify the culprit. But she can't do all the detecting alone... does she dare ask Dr. Loveless for help? Will she be able to resist the attraction between them?
About the Author
Professionally, Annee works as a disability counselor where she helps her clients navigate through complex medical and legal systems while rediscovering their wholeness in Spirit.
Annee also enjoys freelance writing for Publishers Weekly and multiple publishing companies.
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A wealthy banker with a long list of secrets dies.
The bizarre crime scene stumps the local police…
… but a young doctor could be the key to solving the case.
Internist Julia Fairchild encounters banker Jay moments too late - the poor man is near death in his own dining room. At first no one can figure out what killed him, but the coroner soon confirms that it was homicide: Jay died of methanol poisoning, and now a murderer is on the loose. Julia knows how to catch a killer and she can cut through the noise like a scalpel through skin. She agrees to help the understaffed police force solve the case, but each clue only complicates her investigation further.
Can Julia dissect the deadly riddle and nail the perp, or will this be the first time a monster succeeds in giving her the slip?
If you love Louise Penny, Kelly Oliver, and PC James, you need this medical mystery! Find out why fans say, “I love the character Julia Fairchild!”
Don’t wait - Click the BUY button now!
Book Details:
Genre: Cozy Mystery
Published by: Finngirl, LLC
Publication Date: December 2021
Number of Pages: 206
ISBN: 978-1-7335675-7-2
Series: A Julia Fairchild Mystery, #4 || Each is a stand Alone Novel
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
Julia arrived at the Hotel Montpelier just as Drake drove up. She took advantage of his simultaneous presence to make a proper entrance to the celebration in the Hotel’s Grand Ballroom. It had recently been refurbished to its original grandeur from the early 1920’s. She admired the beauty of the ceilings with their Art Deco design, recently uncovered by the removal of a false ceiling from a previous “upgrade.” The beautiful wood floor with exquisite inlaid mosaics shone from a recent floor polishing. The cherry and mahogany woodwork glistened in the light from the elegant crystal chandeliers which had also been hidden until now.
Julia and Drake were greeted by some of the other members of the restoration committee. Drake was the designated master of ceremonies while Julia’s primary duty was to personally welcome as many of the potential donors as possible and say a few words in support of the project. He certainly looked the part tonight in a well-cut black velvet tuxedo. His dark hair was touched with silver—just enough to give him a classy look. He stood tall and proud as he walked through the crowd, nodding to some and saying a word or two to other attendees.
Julia searched the assembled festival attendees for familiar faces as Drake gently guided her to an older man and woman. He placed his hand at the small of her back as he addressed the wealthy couple. “Julia, I’d like to introduce Mr. And Mrs. George Oglethorpe. They have been long-time supporters of the theatre.”
Julia stepped forward a half-step and extended her hand. “I’m Julia Fairchild. I’m honored to meet you. I love our theatre, too.”
The woman’s face brightened as she recognized the name. “Of course! Dr. Fairchild. Call me Anna. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.” She took Julia’s hand in both of hers. “You’re so young and pretty for a doctor.”
Julia reddened. She actually felt a little mousey most days, but conceded to herself that she did ‘clean up’ nicely for such events. “Thank you. I was blessed with good genes. How long have you and your husband lived in Parkview?”
“My goodness. Forever. Right out of college anyway. George heard about the paper mill here looking for mechanical engineers and applied right away.” She smiled proudly at him. “We love the town and were never inclined to leave once we settled in. Isn’t that right, dear?” Her husband nodded between sips of his drink. “Are you from here?”
“Not from Parkview. I grew up down the highway on a small farm. My grandma persuaded me to come home and here I am.” Julia felt her eyes well up as she recalled warm memories of time spent with her grandparents. “Thank you for your support of our lovely theatre. The restoration committee will be sharing the plans for the renovation during the program.”
Julia felt Drake’s arm around her waist as he interceded. “Thank you for coming this evening. Please excuse us. I see someone who is clamoring to talk with Dr. Fairchild before the dinner starts.”
Drake took Julia’s arm and as they turned around, they found Gregory Lantz and his wife Sandy who had been standing right behind them. “Greg! So good to see you here tonight. Thanks for coming.” They exchanged nods and handshakes. “Julia is standing in for Karen tonight. She’s also supporting the project.” Julia smiled and nodded. Aside from the perfunctory smiles, Julia sensed a tension between the men, and she moved a step away from Drake to better observe them both.
Greg stirred his gin and tonic vigorously. “I’ve talked with some of the members of the board at the bank, but I don’t have a definite commitment yet for a donation. I think we can come through for $50,000. But nothing close to the million dollars that everyone seems to think the bank can donate.”
“Greg, any amount would be great. I understand it’s been a little tough with the new bank still getting started.” Drake Ashford was the president of the older, long-established Parkview National Bank. He was aware that despite heavy advertising and promotions, the new River City Community Bank was not yet meeting expectations. He was also acutely sensitive to the loss of some of his own banking clients to the new bank, where Greg was Vice President.
Greg bristled. “Actually, we’re meeting our numbers and seeing new business every day. I would think you would have noticed already.” He smirked.
“We’ve noticed a little change, but we’re prepared to handle it.” Drake took a large swallow of his scotch. “Please excuse us. I have some other people to greet. Talk to you later, Greg.” Drake and Julia moved away.
“That man really annoys me,” Drake said under his breath. “He’s so naive. He doesn’t see how Jay is using him. He’s just a ‘yes’ man. But I guess it makes him feel important.”
“What do you mean?” Julia asked, nodding and smiling at some of the faces she recognized. She knew he referred to Jay Morrison, recently divorced and head of the new bank. She felt Drake’s hand shaking as he maneuvered her through the crowd.
“I’ll tell you later. Too many ears here.” He surveyed the guests nearby. “Let’s see…there’s Warren Pontell and his lovely wife Sarah. He’s talked about making a major contribution. His wife was a theatre actress in her younger days. And they have money to burn.” He turned to Julia and wiggled his eyebrows, à la Groucho Marx.
Drake and Julia chatted with the Pontells for a few minutes, using the time to emphasize the benefits of the smaller venue of the “little theatre.” It was designed to be an intimate stage setting with seating for about one hundred fifty people. Until recently, the area had been used for storage and was marginally functional for stage events in its current state.
Julia had found herself daydreaming but tuned back in when she heard Mr. Pontell say, “We’d like to donate $50,000 for the little theatre. Perhaps you can find a way to let us have something to say about naming it.” He grinned broadly as his wife beamed.
“Warren, that’s wonderful!” said Drake. “I’ll talk with the board of directors about naming opportunities. Let me get back to you on details for your donation. Thank you.”
Now grinning, Drake gently guided Julia toward Adam Johns, an influential man in the local union hierarchy, and his wife. He had started working at ESCO Paper Company right out of high school and had worked his way up from the labor pool to an electrician apprenticeship and then to a journeyman electrician. His constituents considered him to be fair and honest. He had an unofficial status in the union as a leader, although he didn’t have an elected or paid position as such.
Adam tugged at the neck of his dress shirt and pulled at the bottom of his dark blue waistcoat. The jacket gaped over his generous girth. He looked uncomfortable in his tuxedo. Julia was sure her mother would have said something like “putting perfume on a goat,” but most likely his wife had insisted he dress up for this occasion. He certainly looked impressive at his height of six foot three inches.
“Mr. and Mrs. Johns, good evening,” said Drake as he offered his hand. “Do you know Dr. Julia Fairchild? She’s helping to support the Theatre Restoration project as we all are.”
“We sure do,” said Adam, returning the handshake. “Dr. Fairchild, you took care of my mom several years back. She was real sick but you got her well and she’s fine now. Thanks to you. In fact, she’s going on a cruise through the Panama Canal with her church group this coming week. She’s always wanted to go on that trip.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Johns. I do remember your mom—Violette, I believe? She’s a lovely lady with a lot of spunk.” Julia shook his hand before turning to his wife. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Johns.”
Mr. Johns turned back to Drake. “Mr. Ashford, some of the guys at the mill want to know if you had talked with our union officials yet about the stock trading going on with our pension funds. And if you know anything, they hope you can tell them. And call me Adam. My wife is Linda.”
“Yes, Adam. I talked with a Scott Sowders in Portland. He’s looking into whether those trading fees can be traced back to any individuals. May I call you when I know something more?”
“Sure. You can call me at ESCO. The operator knows how to reach me. Thanks a lot, Mr. Ashford.”
“You can call me Drake, please. I’ll call you soon and we’ll go from there. Thanks again for being here tonight.”
“Hey. It’s an alright party. My wife is always trying to get me to gussy up. It’s more fun than I thought it would be.” He grinned and saluted with his cocktail.
Julia saw the auctioneer heading their way and alerted Drake. “I’ll check my lipstick while you talk with him. Where are we sitting?”
“Main table,” he said, pointing to the center of the long side of the room. He scowled. “Unfortunately, it appears we’re seated next to Jay Morrison, of all people.”
***
Excerpt from One Will Too Many by PJ Peterson. Copyright 2022 by PJ Peterson. Reproduced with permission from PJ Peterson. All rights reserved.
PJ is a retired internist who enjoyed the diagnostic part of practicing medicine as well as creating long-lasting relationships with her patients. As a child she wanted to be a doctor so she could “help people.” She now volunteers at the local Free Medical Clinic to satisfy that need to help. She loved to read from a young age and read all the Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew books she could find. It wasn’t until she was an adult that she wrote anything longer than short stories for English classes and term papers in others. Writing mysteries only makes sense given her early exposure to that genre. Sprinkling in a little medical mystique makes it all the more fun.
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The Elemental Artist Series, Book Two
Fantasy, Action & Adventure, Coming of Age
Date Published: March 1, 2022
Publisher: Kitsune Publishing
He will need courage, resilience, and a bit of magic… to survive fatherhood.
Artist Matthew Sugiyama finally has a location to start his search for his birth family, but no one prepared him for the turbulence of a scowling, unhappy child. Not only is the depot is far away, his fledgling parenting skills are not cutting it... and everyone has plenty of advice to offer on fatherhood.
But before Matthew can find his bearings, Akiko disappears. In a blink, Matthew’s priorities change. Time is running out and when old friends and enemies arrive in the depot, the situation leaves Matthew scrambling. He needs a plan—and he needs help—but who can he trust?
A profoundly moving father daughter story of the search for love and connection, Graphite and Turbulence celebrates the magic that transforms friendly strangers into family.
Graphite and Turbulence is the sequel to Oil and Dust. Author Jami Farleigh invites you to rejoin many of your favorite characters as they continue to travel through a post apocalyptic landscape in a tale that blends fantasy, laughter, coming of age, and parenting into another perfect escape.
Other books in the The Elemental Artist Series
The Elemental Artist Series, Book One
When all has been lost, we find ourselves…
Out of the ashes of destruction, a new world has arisen. The plagues of the past—the worship of greed and pursuit of power—are gone. Now, the communities that remain in this post-apocalyptic world focus on creating connections, on forging futures filled with family and love. And all with the help of hard work, hope… and a little bit of magic.
Artist Matthew Sugiyama knows this well. Traveling the countryside in search of the family he lost as a child, he trades his art for supplies—and uses his honed magic to re-draw the boundaries of reality, to fashion a world that is better for those he meets.
Following glimpses of visions half-seen, Matthew—and the friends he encounters along the way—will travel a path from light to darkness and back again. A road where things lost in the past can only be found in the love of the present, and the hope for the future.
And he will travel this path wherever it leads. From joy to sorrow, from tears to laughter. Because Matthew is the Elemental Artist, and he knows that though dangers arise, humanity will always triumph… in a world he has painted in shades of Oil and Dust.
Jami Fairleigh is a biracial, Japanese-American writer, urban planner, and hobby collector from Washington. She shares her life with a husband, a trio of well-mannered horses, a pair of dubiously behaved parrots, and one neurotic dog. Her writing has been published by Terror House Magazine, Horror Tree, Defenestration, and Amsterdam Quarterly. She is currently working on the third novel in the Elemental Artist fantasy series. You can find her and more information about her writing at jamifairleigh.com.
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Young Reader, Children's Book, Middle Grade, Mystery, Adventure
Publisher: Annie Tillery Mysteries
What can possibly happen when a crime happens under the very noses of a group of very savvy eighth graders at St. BeSillius’ Catholic School on St. Frederick’s Island? When the money they raised to buy toys for children in homeless shelters in near-by NYC is stolen, the Buccaneers, as they call themselves are outraged. Despite warnings from Father Felix and Sr. Jo, Sprocket, the leader of the Buccaneers, and her determined buddies set out to follow the clues, run down the thief, and get those toys for the homeless kids.
When their clubhouse is burned down, and a threatening letter is sent to the local newspaper, The Foghorn, owned and operated by Sprocket’s mother, the Buccaneers are even more determined to unravel the plot against them. A mysterious island once owned by the pirate, Jon Buccleigh and a labyrinthine cave serve as the setting for this skullduggery. A Native American healer, her community, and a group of the beach people conspire with the Buccaneers to get that money back.
You will be laughing at some of the Buccaneers’ antics and gasping at what those brave eighth-graders face to solve the mystery. The story is rich with colorful and engaging characters as well as the flavor of post-war America in 1947. An altogether fun and satisfying read.
CHAPTER ONE
ON THE MOVE
How do those turtles do it? Pull their heads into their bodies? Here comes Sr. JoAnn. My head stubbornly remained on top of my neck.
If you think it’s easy writing a note to the kid in the seat next to you when the rattling of Sr. JoAnn’s rosary is announcing her slow walk down my aisle at this moment, you’ve never been to Catholic school. The room is silent. You can hear pen nibs scratching across the pages of our black and white composition books, leaving a trail of ink blots.
Pen nibs, you say. Ink blots? You won’t believe this about the ink and the inkwell. Will you? We all learned to master a form of writing called the Palmer method. This is just another aspect of toughening the backbone here at St. BeSillius’s. As I look at my permanently stained right middle finger, I wonder if I will be done in by something lurking in the ink and become St. Sprocket, patron saint of calligraphy.
The smell of chalk and old tempera paints barely covers the tinge of pine-scented urine coming from the old radiators. My mom went to this school and tells the story of kids leaning their wet behinds against the radiators to let their underwear dry if they had an accident. Going to the bathroom in those days was a privilege reserved for the Pope. Thank God things have changed, and St. BeSillius has hired a nurse, and given her an office where this kind of thing could be taken care of.
A floorboard squeaks. I hear the faint clink of keys as if Sr. has reached into the stygian depths of her pocket for something. I slide my ruler over the words I’ve just written and peer cautiously from the side of my vision trying to locate Sr. JoAnn. My stomach bunches. She is reading Eddie O’Malley’s entire page. Eddie’s not one of us, so there is nothing out of the ordinary to see in his notebook.
My page is full of writing, but not what I think I want Sister to see. So far, I’ve jotted a list: LOOK FOR CLUES, including the narvex, the sacristy, the side entrance, the choir loft, and the bushes around the church. I’ve signed it, Sprocket.
Sprocket? Is that a Christian name? Of course not, silly reader. We all have code names to protect the guilty. We are the Buccaneers of St. BeSillius School, a secret society dedicated to solving the mysteries and misdeeds of our little parish school and the island where it’s located.
Uh-oh. Here she comes. If I rip the page out and crumple it, she’ll just grab it. And, I’ll have to explain why there’s nothing on the page, in longhand mind you, about the characteristics that would have made George Washington a good Catholic, if only he had known better.
George was an Anglican having once been a colonial loyal to the King of England, also a George. But that’s another story.
Eddie, not the sharpest pencil in the box, is getting the Spanish Inquisition treatment about his lack of inspiration on the topic. I wonder if the nuns get a special course in interrogation techniques.
Eddie, I love him dearly, is buying me time. Could I quietly turn the page and jot a quick sentence or two? I pick up the notebook and turn the page, knocking a pen full of ink onto the floor along with the ink well. As you can imagine, this was not a silent maneuver. Sr. JoAnn, Eddie and the whole class look at me. I feel my face burn. I get up to clean the mess and knock the composition book on the floor with my note showing plainly on top. Sister reaches for it. I’M DEAD!
The fire drill siren shrieks. Sister turns to move the class to the fire exit, and I kick the composition book under the desk. It obliges me, closing with a snap.
“I’ll clean this later, Sister.” I smile.
“And I will be checking your essay.” She smiles back.
“Yes, Sister,” I say, noting that the proverbial glove his been tossed onto the floor like they did in those ancient duels. I file past her.
**********************************************************
Are you wondering why a bunch of Catholic school kids are searching for clues in what looks like a church and the yard around it?
Let me digress for a bit and fill you in on some details about why we are listing clues and what all this skullduggery (Great word, isn’t it?) is about.
Well, before I fill you in on what happened when we found those clues, let me explain who we are. We call ourselves The Secret Crime-Stoppers of Sts. Christopher and Michael, but I wanted a shorter title like Buccaneers of St. BeSillius. I thought calling on both St. Christopher and St. Michael was pushing the envelope of sponsorship. And who even knows who St. BeSillius is? So, just think of us as the Buccaneers.
For the past year, our class has been raising money for a class trip to visit seven churches on the mainland and distribute toys to the children’s day care centers in those parishes. We did bake sales, car washes, leaf-raking, snow shoveling. We cleaned attics for old ladies, cut lawns and pulled weeds. Some ill-informed parents even let us do fence-painting. Don’t worry! Those shrubs will come back in a year or two.
A whole year of those earnings went into the fund. We kept it in the vestry. That’s the room behind the altar in the church where the priest keeps his vestments. Get it? Vestry, vestments? The box with the money disappeared the day Father Felix was supposed to open a bank account for us. We never got the money back, never found out who did it, and we’re pi….. Whoops! Sorry. I’m just angry. Not mad. Sister Priscilla said that mad means crazy. Well, she hasn’t been paying attention to her students.
Anyway, even though the sisters and priests said we should offer it up to God. I’m not sure what that means, the money or the cursing we did. And, we should learn a lesson. Next time lock it up! And where were we supposed to lock it up? It was in the vestry! With Father Felix, the parish priest!
This didn’t go down too well with some of us, and one night last summer at our club house which is just a shack on the beach, we decided to form our own little PI group, that’s Private Investigator. We voted on and accepted our official title, Buccaneers of St.Besillius. Look. You can’t beat our creativity in naming the group. We even researched St. BS. She’s the patron saint of mimes.
As we gathered around the fire, we wrote up a charter including the following:
· Each member is sworn to secrecy, under pain of . . .what? Oh, I don’t know.
· All clues are to be shared by everyone.
· All communications would be done using our code names. Mine is Sprocket.
· Our meeting place would be the old fishing shack on the beach.
We made a list of our code names.
Lily code name Sprocket, all around smarty, leader, that’s me.
Ryan: code name Bletch, general genius.
Frank: code name Wingnut, mechanical genius, and a bit dippy.
Leon: code name Snap Shackle, math genius, can put two and two together.
Amalie: code name Ratchet, electronic surveillance, or just plain snoop, meaning she can use a camera.
And so, the story begins.
About the Author
Linda does lectures on Topics on Forensic Science at libraries, universities, clubs and other venues. She is currently writing the next Buccaneers book.
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Sam Quinton, Book 3
Mystery
Date Published: March 8, 2022
Publisher: Camel Press
Sociology professor Felix Thayer is brilliant but hateful. A near genius in his field, but impossible to get along with. When his colleague Michael Hartness is found murdered in his office, it doesn’t surprise anyone that Thayer is arrested for the crime. Everyone who knew the two men pretty much saw that coming. But why would Thayer have committed the murder in a manner so careless as to almost ensure his being fingered as the culprit? It’s almost as if the guy wanted to be caught.
That’s what Thayer’s wife needs to know. She doesn’t really care whether her husband’s guilty. She just has to know why he’d be so careless and hires Sam Quinton, full-time gym owner, part-time private eye, and former professional wrestler, to find out. But as Quinton investigates the crime, he finds there may be more to the affair than the animosity of two men. And when the local Mafia begins dogging his steps, he figures he’s on the trail of something that someone wants kept under wraps.
Excerpt
In the middle of a Monday afternoon I was working on the arms, doing concentration curls, when a good-looking older woman stepped into my gym.
That in itself wasn’t unusual. Mainly due to the efforts of Lisa Nolan, my manager, The Blaster, despite its name, has become something of a Mecca in the Providence area for women, both middle-aged and gracefully edging beyond, to come work out. And because most of them tend to work hard at keeping in shape, they usually veer toward the good-looking side of the equation.
This particular woman, however, didn’t appear at all in the mood to work out. Instead, her eyes made a quick circuit of the place, making note of the scattering of clients engaged in all sorts of planned, strenuous activity, then alighted on me, off in the corner and doing my curls.
Even from across the room I could see her nod briefly, as if confirming something to herself, then make a straight line in my direction.
Somewhere, by my guess, in the late forties, she wore black slacks and a charcoal-gray sweater with burgundy argyles, perfectly complementing both the gloomy March weather outside and her thick black hair, which held only a few streaks of gray. She obviously didn’t see the need to color her hair, and giving her a quick appraisal, I found myself in agreement.
I put down my dumbbells and waited for her to come over. When she did, she stood fidgeting for a moment, her look of cool poise drooping a bit.
When she got close, I could see her eyes were a striking royal blue color.
“Mr. Quinton?”
“That’s me.” I grabbed a water bottle from underneath the bench I was sitting on and took a swig.
“I’m interested in hiring you,” the woman said.
“I don’t do individual sessions,” I said. “I can take you over to talk to Lisa. She handles most of our formal scheduling, and I’m sure --”
“No, I,” the woman paused, took a breath and shook her head a trifle. “I’m not looking for a trainer.”
“Aah,” I said, the light dawning.
“I need a detective.” She peered closer at me while keeping her expression blank. I was wearing gym shorts, a tank-top tee shirt and white Puma’s. My face was still a little flushed from the curls, and at the end of a one-hour workout I probably needed a shower.
“Pardon my appearance,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting to see any clients this afternoon.”
The woman looked around, her gaze sweeping the gym, before coming back to me. “You are a detective, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then I need to hire you.”
I perked up at the word “need,” not “want.” “What sort of work?” I asked.
She frowned as she looked down at me. “Detective work. That is what you do, isn’t it?”
I shook my head. “What I meant was what sort of case. What do you need help with?”
Her face crumpled a bit, and a hint of moisture seeped into her eyes. She shook her head slightly, and I wondered if she was going to turn around and head back out the door.
Then she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and stood up a little straighter.
“My name is Susan Thayer,” she said. “Does that explain the kind of work I need?”
“Thayer.”
“Correct.”
“As in Dr. Felix Thayer?” I asked.
She nodded, and looking closely, I could see two parallel tears sliding down her cheeks.
Oh yeah. I don’t know if that explained everything, but it explained an awful lot.
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"A charming read with characters who come to life on the page—and who live for a cause whose urgency shines through the story." ...
