Chris Rogers's Blog, page 10

Paradise Cursed – Snippet 12

To Dayna, the passengers sunning on bright blue deck chairs and listening to Captain Cord relate the “excellent” shopping opportunities on Cayman appeared like any group on any boring tour. But they hadn’t heard the captain arguing with his first mate about devils and a Bokor and the Sarah Jane’s magic.

Polishing the ship’s brass and other bright-work brought Dayna close enough to pick up various conversations. Nothing interesting, until she spied Erin and Ola sitting together.

“Today will be our longest at sail,” the captain was saying. “We will anchor in the harbor at George Town, Grand Cayman, where you will find excellent dining plus martini bars, wine bars, ocean-front bars, and enough honest island music to spark a dance from even the most lead-footed amongst you.

Shuttles will be available the moment we land and will bring you back whenever you choose. Tomorrow…”

Dayna tuned out. Rubbing the brass rail in tiny circles, she had sidled close enough now to hear Ola.

“A gun! Girl, that was so bizarre.” The tiny bells at her ears and wrist tinkled as Ola gestured, laughing.

“Every shanghaied-sailor story I ever heard flashed through my mind,” Erin said. “Do other tall ships put on such a show?”

“Oh, sure, a show, but our cute captain could make his fortune on stage if he took a notion to give up sailing.”

Dayna wondered if showmanship was part of the job requirement. She wouldn’t like performing for a crowd. At home in her room, singing and dancing to her favorite tunes, okay, and teasing Erin about getting crazy with guys. She glanced down at her brazen t-shirt. She’d rather be bouncing over waves on a jet ski than jiggling on a dance floor.

“Cayman sailors,” the captain said, “have a very long seafaring tradition plying cargo vessels from London to the Caribbean. So it happened that during the peak of the sugar trade, the good Cayman women took over running the islands because their men were all at sea.”

“Your little sister kinda set you off last night,” Ola said. “I got enough kids and grands to know when feelings are stepped on, so it wasn’t that. But something your sister said got right up under your skin.”

Uh-oh. Dayna slowed her polishing rag to hear Erin’s answer.

“Ola! You were spying?”

“Hoo-eee, honey. Wasn’t no spying going on. You right there in the dining room, not ten feet away, everbody sittin’ around saw you jump up and storm out.”

Erin didn’t speak for a moment. When she did, her voice was softer. “You know how sisters are. I’m older, and we just don’t see things the same way.”

“Mmmmhmmm. I’m thinking you see things a lot deeper than most folks.” Ola handed something to Erin that Dayna couldn’t see. “Little sister tore right out after you, and left these on your table.”

The Tarot cards! Jeez, Erin was going to kill her now for sure.

“You know how to use those things, don’t you?” Ola said.

“They’re just cards,” Erin insisted, the same way she’d said it to Dayna last night. “Anybody can pick up a chart of meanings. They’re great fun at family gatherings, but that’s all.”

“Uhhh-huh. So much fun they make you turn white as a sheet and run away without dessert.”

Again, Erin didn’t say anything, but the captain was still spinning his Story Time yarn.

“Tomorrow, after one of Cookie’s hearty breakfasts, you’ll be on your own. The kitchen and bar will stay open, should you choose to remain aboard, but if you do you will miss the best diving and snorkeling to be found anywhere. If you’re bracing for adventure, Grand Cayman is it, surrounded by a wall that slopes off 2,000 feet deep in places. Less adventurous souls will enjoy the reef formations that stretch like coral fingers from the shore toward the deeper water. Easy, even for beginners. Expect tropical fish, turtles and stingrays to be your friendly swimming companions.”

“Listen, Chile.” Ola’s voice had also turned soft, and Dayna strained to hear. “I know a little somethin-somethin about spirits and visions. I saw little sister sucking face with that cute sailor who’s been serving us drinks all morning.”

“You saw—what?”

“No, now, it hasn’t happened yet. Maybe won’t happen atall, but they both yearning for it, which is why the vision come to me.”

“Dayna’s only sixteen!”

“And as sweet as a buttercup, but not too young for kissing. Put that aside, though. What I want to know is will you give me a reading?”

“I told you, I don’t—”

“I heard what you tole me. And I know what I know, so I’m askin you, please, would you give this ol’ lady a reading?”

“What about your visions? Don’t they tell you what you need to know?”

“They don’t show nothin about me, only about other folks. Mostly it’s like havin a mischievous sprite whisperin in your ear, sometimes truth, other times just nonsense.”

Erin didn’t answer, and Dayna saw Jase Graham looking her way, probably wondering if she was trying to rub a hole in the brass rail at that spot. The captain seemed to be wrapping up his patter.

“I predict we’ll be favored with smooth sailing today,” he said. “So grab a drink, a comfortable spot, and enjoy.”

The sounds of chairs and feet on the deck drowned out Erin’s response to Ola.

CHAPTER 10

In one way, my life is rather like a popular television series that surpasses the five-year goalpost then continues another ten years or so. Most of the cast has been replaced many times over, yet the main character keeps showing up week after week, a little heavier, a little grayer. A few more lines around the eyes, more sag in the jowls.

In my case, the gray hair is courtesy of Clairol Streaks N Tips, the jowls to professional makeup. Remaining thirty-four while your friends age normally requires a bit of smoke-and-mirror work. I stole the makeup case off a New Orleans stage actor in 1875, the same year Louisiana’s governor signed the “Mardi Gras Act,” making Fat Tuesday a legal holiday. That also was the year I discovered the true limits of my prison.

Leaving the Sarah Jane for more than a day and night would weaken me to the point of dying, this fact had already drilled itself painfully into my knowledge bank. Not that I might actually die, no matter how long I remain ashore or how long without food and water. Dying is not allowed. I may only wish I were dead.

After 160 years sailing the same waters, I once took in mind to venture up the North American coast. The Sarah Jane‘s stern scarcely had cleared the Bahamas Islands when a tornado snatched us up and set us back down heading the other direction. Not a true tornado, of course. I’ve not discovered what force this curse of mine sets in motion to keep me within the Caribbean and the Gulf waters, but the bloody fiend never sleeps. I’ve tried many times since, once sailing north, the next time south, and the same dervish plunks me back where I started.

One might imagine boredom would take hold when living extends two-hundred-plus years past an ordinary lifetime, and one would be right. My life can be as tedious as watching endless reruns of a television series. But there also are moments when I feel intensely alive. Pitting wits against whatever horror sullies my ship is certain to quicken my blood.

While the sun settled now on the far western horizon, we dropped anchor and passengers queued up for the launch ride ashore. Graham and any other mates up for shore duty would go along.

Having agreed to transport Ayanna to meet with her Shaman, I stood watching the mass departure and admiring the evening harbor when a somewhat strange feeling came over me. There is a moment during a strong tide when the sea sweeps away from shore as it builds for a massive wave. That sweeping-away business forms a vacuum of sorts, as if the sea is taking in a deep breath. I felt peculiarly now as if I and the Sarah Jane were caught in such a moment, and what was building could be the largest wave ever.

My ship’s magic, if one might call it that, travels with me in some small measure anytime I go ashore. If I engage in a game of chance soon after leaving the ship, my luck is incredibly good for a short time. I’ve known it also to briefly enhance a shaman’s natural abilities. But it’s unpredictable. To satisfy my own curiosity, might I be putting Ayanna in danger.

For safety, I wondered if I should deposit her at the Shaman’s door and take a taxi into town. Before I could decide, Ayanna arrived. We loaded into the dory and were off.

Buy the Book Now, because you’ll want to read it this weekend.

Bitch Factor – Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Eight Months Earlier, Sunday, May 3

Courtney Keyes looked at the room full of reeking flowers and darkly clad grown-ups standing around in hushed groups and thought a cuss word. She didn’t want to go into that room.

Courtney had never said a cuss word out loud, not even the D-word, because mama had about the best ears in the world. (“If I ever hear you girls talking filth, I’ll wash your mouth out with Tide.”) But Courtney thought cuss words plenty of times, especially the F-word because the she liked the sound of it.

This time, though, she wasn’t even specific. She tightened her lips and thought: Cuss word! Cuss word! Cuss word!

Ellie tugged at Courtney’s hand to get attention. “I want to see Betsy.”

“Okay, shhh. You can see Betsy in a minute.”

There were no other kids in the room, which meant she and Ellie would STAND OUT. Everyone would know who they were and whisper to each other as they walked by or cluck like their neighbor Mrs. Witherspoon (“I swear, those girls were so close, it must be awful for them, like cutting off an arm. Thank the good Lord of the little one still have each other.”)

“I want to see Betsy NOW.”

“Okay, Ellie. Just be quiet for another minute.”

One way Courtney was like Betsy was that neither liked to STAND OUT. Being the oldest, though, Betsy naturally took the lead, and sometimes she got to0 damn bossy, especially when Mama left her IN CHARGE. Courtney ignored her, which made Betsy really mad, but mostly Betsy had a magical way of making things happen without causing a fuss. Now Courtney was the oldest and wished she had paid more attention to her sister’s magic.

She slid her gaze toward the object she’d been avoiding, the long box on the table crowded with flowers at the back of the room. The COFFIN.

Having never seen a coffin before, except on TV, she expected it to be black. Instead, it was a pearly grayish-white, a puke color, but not as bad as black.

Betsy would hate being here today, being the center of attention, with everyone standing around whispering and walking by to look at her inside the box. Courtney wanted to yell, “Go away! She’s our sister. We want to be alone with her.” Of course, she would never do that.

“COURTNEY, I WANT TO SEE BETSY!”

Oh, fuck, Ellie, now you’ve done it.

But it wasn’t as bad as she expected. Only half the people in the room turned to look at them. Mama, surrounded by a knot of ladies, hadn’t even heard, and Daddy Travis was outside smoking with some men.

Courtney straightened her shoulders, clasped Ellie’s hand tighter, and started toward the coffin. Actually, Ellie had been pulling her toward the coffin all along; now Courtney stopped resisting. Too bad Ellie wasn’t the oldest. Ellie loved to STAND OUT.

Courtney avoided looking inside the box until she stood right beside it. She had never seen a dead person before, except on TV, of course, which didn’t count because everybody knew the actors weren’t really dead. She had a cat once that died. The cat didn’t look any different, except it got stiff. Then one time Mama ran over dog — Mama didn’t mean to, it darted right in front of her car — and the dog looked really gross, its head all mashed and bloody.

Mama said Betsy was run over by a car.

“Courtney, I can’t SEE!”

“Okay, Ellie, I’ll pick you up, but be quiet.”

First, she had to make sure it wasn’t too gross. She didn’t want Ellie having nightmares about her own sister. She peeked real quick —

and it wasn’t gross at all.

But it wasn’t really Betsy, either. More like a doll made to look like Betsy.

“COURTNEY…”

She picked Ellie up, and they stood looking at the Betsy doll in the coffin.

“Can Betsy come home now?”

“No, she can’t come home,” Courtney whispered. Now that she had finally made herself look, she couldn’t seem to stop looking. Was Betsy really in there? Or was this a big dumb doll someone had made to fake them out? And why the fuck had Mama made Betsy wear that pink dress?

Betsy hated that dress. She’d have wanted the purple shirt.

Hot tears crowded behind Courtney’s eyes, threatening to spill over. She blinked hard, willing them to BACK OFF. Betsy would hate knowing her sister was standing there blubbering over her.

“Betsy’s sleeping, Courtney. Wake her up.”

“I can’t wake her up, Ellie.”

“I can wake her!” Ellie lunged toward the doll in the box.

Courtney pulled away in time to keep Ellie from smacking the doll’ s face, but Ellie grabbed the side of the coffin and held on.

“BETSY, WAKE UP. LET’S GO HOME.”

A man appeared instantly beside them.

“Now, now, child. Elizabeth doesn’t want to wake up just now. Let’s let her rest a while longer.” His voice was low and friendly, but firm. The man loosened Ellie’s fingers and turned the girls toward a larger room with fewer people and more chairs.

Courtney had never seen the man before. He wore a black suit and looked like part of the furniture. She was glad he came along when he did. A few minutes later, she and Ellie were seated, each with a cinnamon sugar cookie and a plastic cup half filled with syrupy red punch.

“Will Betsy ever come home?” Ellie’s voice sounded smaller.

“No.” The doll in the box was not Betsy. Courtney didn’t know whether she believed in Heaven, but she knew Betsy was someplace good, because even when she was too damn bossy she was a good sister.

Courtney scooted her chair closer to Ellie’s. Ever since Betsy’s … accident … she hadn’t let Ellie get too far away. “Bad things always come in threes,” Mrs. Witherspoon had once said. Betsy getting killed was the first really bad thing that ever happened to them. A part of Courtney felt sure that what Mrs. Witherspoon said was only superstition, like “seven years bad luck,” when you broke a mirror, but another part of her had squeezed down around a terrible feeling that Mrs. Witherspoon might be right.

Daddy Jon, who was Ellie’s real daddy but not Courtney’s or Betsy’s, had said all three of his girls had special gifts. Betsy was a storyteller — a “philosopher,” Daddy Jon called her. Ellie was a performer. She loved to dress up in Mama’s high heels and put on a show when friends came over.

Daddy Jon called Courtney his “clairvoyant,” because she sometimes got these feelings that something would happen. Maybe if she had gone to school with Betsy that day, one of her feelings would have tapped her on the shoulder to warn, “Don’t let Betsy cross the street.”

“No,” she said again, smoothing Ellie’s dress. “Betsy won’t be coming home. Ever.” She felt a squeeze inside as she rubbed a tiny wrinkle. “But eat your cookie and drink your punch. When we get home, if you put on your pajamas without a fuss, I’ll read you a story.”

“A Betsy story?”

“Yeah.” Courtney blinked hard. “A Betsy story.”

Courtney had gotten one of her feelings when she looked at Betsy in the coffin — an awful feeling — that if she didn’t take special care of Ellie, another bad thing might happen.

Thanks for reading. Come back next week for Chapter 3.

Warm regards, Chris Rogers

 

Paradise Cursed – Snippet 11

CHAPTER 9

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” I kept my voice low but drilled Ayanna with the hardest stare I could summon. “You skive off on our busiest night then show up this morning scabby and late, with hangover breath and eyes like bleeding road maps. I’ve a mind to toss you over the rail and see if you’re as good at swimming as you are at piss-arsing about.”

We stood at the wheel, my steering hand calmly holding the ship on course, a golden morning sun beaming off the gentle swells, while my left fist secretly and furiously balled around a wad of her shirttail. Dressed completely in white today, long pants rather than shorts like everyone else, my first mate had twisted her long dark hair into a knot at the back of her head. No makeup. To anyone looking on, we were two sailors discussing the wind.

“Captain, I am not drinking last night. I am sick with the stomach.”

“Sick? Too sick to stop at my table for two seconds and tell me? You appeared well enough yesterday, spinning your story of why I should hire you.”

“I am not sick yesterday. Only last night.”

“Look at me.” I yanked the hem of her shirt and she turned to meet my eyes. “I should have trusted my first impression. I knew something was off with you. If you’re not a boozer, what the devil is your problem?”

She hesitated. Her lip quivered, and I expected tears to come next, but she surprised me, grimacing hard around whatever emotion she was hiding.

“Devil?” she said softly, pausing again before continuing. “Yes, my problem is a devil. A devil Bokor crosses me. I am needing the Sarah Jane’s magic.”

She had hinted at this yesterday with much better language skills. I’d noticed Ayanna purposely using Jamaican patois to charm the passengers, but now she was also slipping into it. From being stressed? Maybe she was one of the Sarah Jane’s chosen. She wouldn’t be the first to believe my ship possessed a power to be siphoned off like wine. Arguing with such believers was useless.

“Why not board as a passenger? Or hire on as a seaman without command duties?”

“You are not posting a cruise plan. One time you go to the Caymans, other time Puerto Rico, Saint Thomas, other time Roatan. As first officer, maybe I have a chance of…choosing.”

I laughed and let go of her shirt to stretch my cramped fingers. “Like what, mutiny? You were going to make off with my ship?”

Again, she hesitated. “Captain, I am needing magic.”

This time the crack in her voice held so much despair that I wished she would simply let the tears flow. I could deal with tears. Ayanna’s need, raw and compelling, was the sort of problem I’d come to anticipate and felt committed to help heal. Special-needs guests that somehow found their way to the Sarah Jane seemed the only point to my existence, helping them the only achievement that might appease whoever, whatever, had cursed me to live out eternity. But why did it have to be my first mate, the sailor I depended on most to keep the ship on course while I battled these weird occurrences?

In her defense, Ayanna had not lied. I need you as much as you need me, she’d said during the hiring interview. They say an angel rides the Sarah Jane. Some say a devil.

I’d seen examples of both. Apparently, extreme good and extreme evil danced merrily across time and space, randomly scooping up unwary humans in their eternal tango. Clearly,

Ayanna needed my help, so my lot for now was to go along.

“A shaman living on Grand Cayman,” she said, “possesses strong magic, maybe strong enough to break the Bokor’s curse.”

I’d heard rumors of this shaman’s strength. Perhaps he did have fierce magic. Surely not fierce enough to break my own curse—I’d been down that road too many times to be swept away by rumors.

The Caymans were a world of their own, however, with commercial lodges that provide shamanic rites to tourists. While the shamans who worked those venues were probably trained in certain medicinal cures, I had my doubts about their abilities in the darker arts. Ayanna might be chasing a fairytale.

Also, I sensed with a measure of certainty that Erin Kohl was somehow equally in need. As yet, I didn’t know the cause or extent of her fears, but she would spill them before this cruise ended. In earlier days, the Sarah Jane’s helping-magic, if one could call it that, had attracted pirates, refugees and other lost souls. When I ran the ship as a deep-sea fishing vessel, guaranteeing my guests would take home Mahi-Mahi, Wahoo, Barracuda, Black Fin or possibly a Marlin, fishermen from around the world sought us out. The fishing was excellent, because I know the Caribbean as well as I know the many ways one can die. One or more of my guests always brought a dark secret aboard, and the Sarah Jane’s magic would somehow unravel it.

My part was to listen for cues and hold tight to my sanity while assisting in whatever manner I was needed. So now I would apply all my resources to rescue Ayanna from a Bokor’s curse. But what if assisting my new first mate sent us in a direction that would endanger my passenger, Erin Kohl?

Dayna’s ears burned, exactly as Mom had always warned. Just beyond the wheelhouse, she scrubbed the deck listening to Captain McKinsey and Ayanna. In truth, the deck was clean enough to use as a dinner plate long before she was finished listening. And wondering.

What sort of magic was aboard the Sarah Jane? Did it have anything to do with Erin’s anxious behavior since boarding? If so, was it a good kind of magic or something that would harm her sister? And what the blazin’ heck was a Bokor?

The ring of a bell and the clatter of deck chairs being pulled into a circle on the upper deck told me Story Time had come. Aboard the Sarah Jane, Story Time is the occasion when I divulge to the passengers our cruise plan for that day.

Leaving Ayanna to mind the helm, I claimed my perch on a stool under a blue awning that shades a twenty-by-thirty-foot area near the bar and provides respite from our blinding Caribbean sun and the sudden showers that can douse the fun out of a gathering. The crowd chatter quieted and some thirty pairs of eyes watched me as other passengers drew their chairs near.

I found myself delaying my decision. In truth, we were headed toward Puerto Rico at the moment, where a morning’s sail would take us to the Virgin Islands, or an all-night sail to the Antilles, every island offering a distinctly different European spirit with tourist-pleasing shopping venues and water sports. Personally, I had a particular liking for Saint Eustatius. While still a lad serving under Stryker, we came to the island affectionately known as Statia shortly after plundering a ship owned by the Dutch West India Company. I smoked my first tobacco there and tasted my first sugar-laden cup of tea in months.

Today, we were not so far into our journey that we couldn’t easily change course. Another hour and that would not be feasible. Passengers had a right to know where the captain was taking them.

Holding the clapper silent on a heavy brass bell, artifact from the Sarah Jane’s early days, Jase sidled up.

“Did you spot her?” he asked pitching his voice to a furtive low, like a character from a spy novel. “The redhead in the t-shirt?”

“Of course.” Missing Dayna Kohl’s black shirt, with I KISS on the first date in bold white letters, would not have been possible, even if I didn’t have my eye on hiring her if she remained as enthusiastic at the end of our voyage as she was now. A voluptuous pair of rhinestone-emblazoned red lips positioned over Dayna’s left breast guaranteed she wouldn’t be missed in a crowd. “But don’t forget your job description, mate. Spread the charm around.”

“Can I help being a sap for redheads?” He let go the clapper and the bell rang out signaling again for Story Time.

On the trail of its peal, the shuffling of chairs and feet quieted. I raised my mug in the usual toast.

“To clear skies, balmy nights, the wind that blows, the ship that goes, and lifelong friends in the making. May our adventures together bring fellowship and return us safely home.”

As I spoke, my eyes sought out Erin Kohl’s. At present, I was only guessing that she carried a problem needing my attention. Unfortunately, her steady gaze told me nothing, so I made the decision. “Grand Cayman, our first island destination…”

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Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 15

CHAPTER 15

“You’re dating?” Bradley sounded intrigued as he smeared iodine on Booker’s lip, apparently more interested in his father’s love life than how he got the split lip.

“Sort of a friendship thing.” Having heard the boy’s assessment of Lauren’s violinist, Booker didn’t see any gain in saying he hoped his relationship with Roxanna would be more than friends. 

Capping the bottle, Bradley stared out the car window. Booker started the engine. They rode in silence for the long moment it took to circle a block, turn into the square, and park at the Gilded Trout.

“Did mom tell you about Rachel?”

Booker looked at him. “I don’t recall her mentioning the name. Rachel’s a friend of yours?”

“A girl I’ve been hanging with.” He popped the door open and jumped out, heading straight for the sporting goods store as if to ward off any further discussion.

Sixteen. Booker remembered being the same age when his first heart-thumping infatuation caught him unaware. He wondered if this Rachel might be connected to the crack found in Bradley’s drawer. Parenting was like wading barefoot through crab infested water. You never knew when they’d ignore you or when they’d pinch.

At the Gilded Trout, a string of brass bullet casings hanging from the inside doorknob clattered their entrance. The store smelled of machine oil and leather. Somewhere, an enthusiastic air-conditioner hummed. The cool air alone would entice a person to browse.

Spiner kept it well stocked, Booker noticed. Racks of neatly carded merchandise hung above shelves filled with boxes and bins. In the narrow aisles, posters floating near the ceiling on invisible wires advertised various brand names. Behind the counter, locked cases held guns, fine knives, and other expensive items.

“Optimum,” Bradley said, glancing around.

Booker wondered if Spiner would inherit the entire business now that Fowler was dead, or if he’d have to share the proceeds with the family. Most partnerships included buyout agreements and substantial insurance coverage. Partners had been known to kill for less.

He steered Bradley toward the fishing tackle. The boy homed in on a fiberglass rod sporting a Pinnacle Deadbolt reel. Booker opened a tackle box and began filling it with lures.

“Fake worms?” Bradley scooped up a simulated meathead.

“Bass love ‘em.”

“Must be pretty dumb fish.” With a grin, he wiggled the lure before tossing it into the tackle box.

“Voracious, is more like it. They kill off every other life form in the lake. Plastic worms start to look pretty good, I guess.” Secretly, it heartened Booker to see Bradley get a kick out of gearing up. Like father, like son. For any activity he enjoyed, Booker couldn’t resist buying equipment. Lauren had called it toy collecting.

Gary Spiner, wearing another safari shirt, army green, and sporting a pocket protector filled with pens, looked up from the checkout counter. His jaw stubble had lengthened some. August had to be a mean month for starting a beard. Booker’d gotten the urge himself during one of the coldest, bleakest days of the past winter. At least twenty times he’d come close to shaving it before the chin hair felt natural to him.

The beard made Spiner’s bald head more glaringly naked. Fingering his own whiskers, Booker wondered if growing facial hair was a common practice among men of a certain age. Facing major life changes, usually upsetting and often uncertain, a man needed to feel in control of something. Beard growing fit the bill.

Spiner opened his mouth, to make a caustic comment, judging by the look in his eye. Then, his gaze shifting to Bradley, he closed his mouth and started again. “Can I help you?”

“My son and I are putting together a bass kit.” He almost felt sorry for Spiner. No merchant wanted to turn away business, but neither did he want to truck with a rival. And there was no doubt that Spiner knew Booker intended to cut in on his time with the best-looking innkeeper in Texas.

“Lures on aisle three, rods and reels on six.”

Exactly where Booker had been browsing. Spying a rack of archery equipment, he stopped to check it out.

“Look at this neat stuff,” he told Bradley, picking up a three-fingered leather glove, with the palm and most of the back gone. Beneath the bin, a handwritten sign boasted, “Best shooting glove I’ve ever used.” The card was signed “Gary Spiner, Archery Club President.”

“You’re into archery?” Bradley made it sound weird. Or antiquated.

“Locally, it’s popular.”

His son pointed his new fishing rod at a far corner. “Think I’ll check out the biker gear.”

Now why would the Gilded Trout carry motorcycle accessories? Booker guessed it made sense to be versatile in a small town, but as his son sauntered away toward a dangerous new interest, a gurgle of bile blazed in Booker’s stomach. If Brad Senior were in front of him right now, he’d wring the man’s neck. What had his father been thinking, giving the boy a Harley?

Realizing he had a death grip on the tackle box, Booker looked down at the overflowing contents. Lame goods compared to 700 pounds of roaring metal. Was he trying to buy back his son’s affection? Maybe. But if he and Bradley had spent the past four years together, the boy would already have all the fishing gear he needed.

Nevertheless, they had plenty for tomorrow. He closed the lid, set the box down, and tried on the glove. It fit. Under a wicked looking arrow point, a card read, “This broadhead took down the Wyoming moose mounted on the back wall. Chuck Fowler.”

Sure enough, a moose head occupied the center point of a row of hunting trophies. A comical looking creature, the moose. Booker had only seen them in zoos, and on that old TV show, Northern Exposure. He supposed they could be fierce, and certainly, they were big enough to do a man damage, but shooting one—wouldn’t it be like killing Bullwinkle?

A man-eating crocodile, now that would be an impressive trophy. Beneath the dead animals were framed photographs of archers decked out in their gear. A glass cabinet encased several very long unstrung bows, a half-dozen graduated arrows, and an assortment of leather accessories. A narrow plastic sign read: KYUDO YUMI. What did that mean?

“Thought you wanted bass equipment,” Spiner said, striding up beside Booker.

“Couldn’t help stopping to read these comments. I see you’re president of the Archery Club. Quite an honor.”

Spiner’s chest puffed out. “Your name’s Krane, isn’t it?”

Booker nodded.

“Saw you at Roxanna’s last night.” Spiner let that hang. “You’re a bowman?”

“Not yet.” Booker wasn’t keen on hunting, but he enjoyed a game of skill. Golf was all right, but he liked pool better. The shots were shorter. So were the games. Not nearly as much walking. He didn’t yet know about archery. “What does this club do, exactly?”

Wariness in Spiner’s deep-set eyes ebbed a bit as he caught scent of a big sale. “We meet once a month. Usually, a speaker comes out, talks about equipment, technique, good hunting locations. Guests can come in three times before they have to join.”

“I suppose everybody in the club’s a bow hunter.”

“People come out for hunting, but some just enjoy the competition.”

“Competition? Like shooting matches?”

“Games, field contests, tournaments. See,” he pointed to a rack of junior-size bows, “archery’s a family sport, like bowling.”

“I’ve never seen anybody kill a deer with a bowling ball.”

Spiner laughed. “Hey, that’s a good one.”

Life lesson number one in winning over the enemy: sneak up on him with a weak joke. He plucked a book titled Archery Basics off the shelf and flipped through the pages.

Photographs showed people from six to ninety having a good time plunking arrows into targets.

“I guess even a city guy like me can learn to shoot a bow.”

“Anybody can. Come out back. I’ll show you.”

They went through a door Booker had thought led to a storeroom. At the far right, circular targets were set up on hay bales. Painted stripes divided the floor into three lanes, and across from the targets a rack of bows and arrows hung on the wall. Signs above the racks read: Montana Longbow, Kodiak Recurve, Ultra Force Compound.

“We rent the lanes out, see, for target practice. Keep a few bows back here for demonstration. Come on over. Let’s see if we can find one to fit you.” Spiner lifted a Recurve from the rack and shoved it into Booker’s hands. “Fifty-pound, five-and-a-half-foot.”

“Doesn’t feel like any fifty pounds.”

“Not weight, draw force. Grip it here, see, where it’s shaped to fit your hand. Right there below center.”

Booker’s palm slipped comfortably around the bow grip. Suddenly he was nine years old, Geronimo’s scout, raiding the enemy camp.

“Come in here, now, with your arrow,” Spiner said, indicating a cutaway on the bow. “Pull the string to full draw and see if you can hold it for a ten count.”

The arrow seemed incredibly long. Booker fitted it to the string the way Spiner showed him and pulled. That part was easy enough. While Booker counted to ten, Spiner marked the arrow where it crossed the bow’s outer edge.

“Thirty-two inches. A long draw, but about right for a tall guy like you.”

Booker relaxed the string. Using the mark he made as a measure, Spiner selected a handful of arrows from the rack.

“This bow will do to get the feel of it,” he said. “But when you buy, you’ll want to come in five pounds heavier. See, the back and shoulder muscles strengthen up real quick.” He handed Booker an arrow. “Come on over to the lane. Shoot a couple.”

“What’s that one with all the hardware?” Booker asked. “It looks complicated.”

“Compound bow. Shoots like any other, but you get fifty percent more speed, and the pulley system allows the weight to relax at full draw.”

“Meaning what?”

“You can come in at draw point and hold longer. Hunters like that.”

“That’d been Chuck Fowler’s choice, then,” Booker guessed.

“Chuck? He used a compound or a recurve, depending on the occasion. Try this center lane here.”

Booker stood at right angles to the target, with one foot on the black lane line, as he’d seen in Archery Basics. Fifty percent more speed than what? He pictured a razor-sharp arrow traveling as fast as a bullet.

“Which bow do you use?” he asked Spiner, aligning the new arrow as he’d done before. The flights were white and yellow plastic, he noticed, rather than feathers.

“Compound. Faster, more stable, more accurate. Now start off a little high as you draw, then sight down on the bull’s-eye.”

Booker drew the string back, sighted down, and released it. The arrow shot off to the right, between the targets. The string smacked Booker’s forearm.

“Hellfire, Spiner! That took off a layer of skin.” He looked up to find the store owner swallowing a satisfied grin.

“Hurt like a sonofabitch, didn’t it? Sorry. I’ll get you a bracer.”

The man didn’t look a bit remorseful. Enjoying a spot of revenge for Roxanna, Booker figured.

With a leather arm guard strapped on, and one of those three-fingered gloves on his string hand, Booker stepped up to the shooting mark again. This time, Spiner showed him how to crook his fingers around the bow, holding the back of the hand straight and aligning the draw arm with the arrow. After a few minutes of practice, aiming high to allow for gravity, as Spiner showed him, Booker managed to hit the target. He could see how a person could get hooked. A man liked to test himself.

A half-hour later, Spiner’s checkout counter was piled high: a Shakespeare Yukon recurve, a dozen matched-weight wooden arrows with plastic vanes, which he could afford to break or lose while he was learning, quiver glove, arm guard and a copy of Archery Basics. He dropped an Archery Club brochure on top of the pile.

“Dad!” The tip of a fiberglass rod quivered above a row of shelves. “You gotta see this!”

Bradley rounded the aisle, and Booker suppressed a gulp: black leather jacket, matching boots.

“Quantum boss, right? Just like granddad’s.”

Yes, they were, except Brad Krane’s jacket still had his old gang insignia on the back. “A mite warm out there for leather, don’t you think?”

“Not going sixty miles an hour on the highway,” Bradley said. “Not in the South Dakota Mountains.”

The enthusiasm on Bradley’s face dissolved all Booker’s resistance.

“Pile ‘em on the counter, son.”

As soon as Spiner scanned the price tags into the cash register, Bradley scooped up the boots. “I’ll wear these home.”

He took off across the store, undoubtedly to find a place to sit down and change shoes. Booker hoped he hadn’t just made a big mistake, not saying how he really felt about the motorcycle. But he remembered being a rebellious teenager, his parents’ disapproval making him want a thing all the more. That’s what made it so hard to talk about this crack business. He couldn’t pretend to condone using drugs, yet if he vociferously voiced his opinion, as he was inclined to do, Bradley might pull a disappearing act as he’d done with his mother. Then where would they be? Maybe he should order one of those pamphlets he’d heard about on television, How to Talk to Your Kids about Drugs.

While Spiner rang up the total, Booker studied the trophy wall. Deer, antelope, elk, even a Rocky Mountain goat. Antlers, mostly, but a few trophies included the entire head, stuffed and glass-eyed. Chuck Fowler’s name was engraved at the bottom of several. A brass plate under a Whitetail deer read, “Aaron Fowler, age 12.” A twin to it read, “Jeremy Fowler, age 11.”

Other names appeared that Booker didn’t recognize. He looked for Spiner’s name, but didn’t find it. Littlehawk had scored a wild boar.

Somewhere in the back of his mind floated a picture of himself and Roxanna practicing together. In her dance routine, she’d used a recurve bow, like his.

A display of arrow points hung beside a row of various fletching samples.

“Which point would a person use for target shooting in the woods?” Booker asked.

Spiner glanced at them. “Those are broadheads, for hunting. Most people use field points to practice, until they draw close on hunting season. Then the last couple weeks, see, they come in with whichever point they plan to use for game. To get the balance right.”

“The sheriff said Fowler was target shooting in the woods the day he died. Which one of these would he use? The one that killed the moose?”

“Chuck? Target shooting? That’s a good one.”

“What do you mean?”

Spiner laughed, shaking his head as if this was the weirdest tale he’d ever heard. He had wide yellow teeth, and the way his lips parted around them looked strangely obscene.

“First of all, Chuck was a natural. Didn’t think he needed to practice, except in contests and tournaments. Second, he sure as hell wouldn’t practice in the August heat, when bow season doesn’t open ‘til October. And third, if Chuck did decide to shoot targets, that mean sonofabitch would round up a pack of stray dogs to practice on.”

“He’d shoot at live dogs?” Booker regarded the fiendish-looking point, with its four razor-sharp blades. He felt a little sick.

Spiner handed Booker his receipt and credit card.

“Oh, yeah. Fowler would’ve used hunting points, and he wouldn’t miss.”

Buy the Book now, because you don’t want to miss what happens next.

Bitch Factor – Rediscovered

It was the early 1990s. My car was in the shop again, so I took a taxi to work that day. By nature, I’m not usually the first to strike up a conversation, but writing had changed that to some extent. I’d learned that it’s important to understand people, all sorts of people because, collectively, the information I gain from others becomes integrated in the characters of my stories.

I’d also learned to gather information about anything and everything I didn’t already know, because each of my characters comes from a background separate from mine. The tiny details I can learn from a person who

grew up in a different location from me, a different era, a different family, who work in a different profession, and enjoy different pastimes, such details bring an honest reality to my characters better than anything I might invent based on my limited personal experiences.

Do I carbon-copy characters from real people I know? Absolutely not. That would seem intrusive.

Instead, I accumulate a melting pot of material. I listen, I ask questions, I read, and all that material goes into the pot. When I’m ready to create a character, I dip into that wonderful stew and spoon out ideas to make their life, their upbringing, their history ring true.

Fans often have asked me if I ever worked as a bounty hunter, as Dixie Flannigan does in Bitch Factor and the other novels in this series. No, I didn’t. They ask if I studied law or worked in a law office. Yes, actually, for about a week as a temp in the secretarial pool. As a temp, I also worked at a newspaper, a bank, an insurance firm. Long before that, I held various jobs as a waitress, bartender, grocery clerk—all this experience goes into the melting pot.

So on this day in the taxicab, I asked my driver, “Is this what you do every day, drive a cab?” Surprisingly, he said, “Yes, but I’m also a bounty hunter.”

Wow. I’d never met a real bounty hunter before. And because my focal characters at that time were usually women, I asked the obvious follow-up question. “Do you know any women bounty hunters?”

“No,” he said, but I’ve heard there’s one in San Antonio who’s pretty good at it.”

Before I stepped out of the taxi that day, I knew the heroine for my next novel would be bounty hunter. I even knew her name: Dixie Flannigan. Why it popped into my head I’ve no idea. Though I’d already written three unpublished novels, this one I believed quite strongly would boost me over that seemingly impenetrable wall that virtually all writers repeatedly bump against.

It took some time to vault that wall, but it happened.

I owe a great deal to that unknown taxi driver. I owe even more to Jennifer Robinson and Peter Miller at PMA Literary & Film Management, Inc, who believed in the power of my writing , and to Kate Miciak, my editor at Bantam Books, who recognized Dixie as a fresh new voice in the literary marketplace. Finally, my heart and my thanks go out to the Independent Booksellers who made my first published book a bestseller.

In February 1998, Bitch Factor appeared in bookstores in the hardcover edition. A year later, it came out in paperback. For today’s readers, it might seem a bit dated, but reading it again for this second publishing, I feel it holds together nicely as a timeless heroine-driven thriller.

Every book I write is an exciting, demanding and often grueling, experience. Mostly, I enjoy writing. Sometimes I hate it. But as the saying goes, “I always love to have written.” For those few years after signing a contract with Bantam Books, I literally walked on air. Today, I’m much more grounded, yet I still feel a thrill of both pride and apprehension every time one of my books hits the market—and it’s fans like you who keep me writing.

Recently, Penguin Random House returned to me the publishing rights for Bitch Factor. What, I wondered, should I do with those rights? Too busy creating new stories, I left the question to mull in my subconscious.

Last night, it occurred to me: Why not pass along the “bounty”? For Dixie’s fans, both early and new, Bitch Factor will be serialized weekly on this blog, completely free and with my sincere gratitude to all.

With warm regards, Chris Rogers

Prologue

Friday, May 1, Houston, Texas

If Betsy Keyes had known about the car waiting at the curb that morning, waiting for the moment she stepped into the intersection, she would’ve worn the purple shirt. Purple was for special days, days she marked with stars in her diary. The most important days got the purple shirt and three stars.

Hopping over a jagged hump in the sidewalk, she shoved a hand in her pocket and pressed a thumb-sized metallic noisemaker: Click! Released it. Click!

Sometimes the dark secret Betsy held inside made her feel exactly like a teakettle about to boil over. Squeezing her toy clicker allowed tiny bits of worry to escape, like steam from a teakettle’s whistle. The shiny black cricket painted on top had worn thin from rubbing against her finger. Crickets were supposed to be lucky weren’t they?

Click, click.

But today’s worry wasn’t the bad kind. Today she would read her story to her sixth- grade classmates, which was worth two stars in the her diary, at least. The story was exceptional. The class would love it. … Betsy hoped they would love it. They would laugh, certainly, and clap.

A honeybee zipped from a smelly wisteria vine trailing a chain-link fence and buzzed past her hair. She dodged it, skirting a puddle from last night’s rain. Maybe she’d write a story about an angry honeybee that could only buzz-buzz- buzz, while its secrets stayed locked inside forever.

From the time Betsy was five years old, reading picture books out loud to her younger sisters, she’d known she would someday be a fabulous writer. She often skipped the real words and made up her own, inventing new adventures, new characters. Her sisters liked the made up stories best.

She wished Courtney and Ellie hadn’t played sick today. If they’d walked to school with her, she could have practiced her story. She’d whispered to them, before Mama went out to jog, that she didn’t think they were really sick. After all, they were both fine and Daddy Jon’s party last night.

An empty school bus rumbled past, snorting like an old bear. Betsy wrinkled her nose at the smell. Maybe she’d write a story about a girl bear with too lazy sisters.

She liked going to school early, before engine roar and car horns and the crossing guards whistle cluttered the morning with no ways. It gave her time to think about … things … like what she might have done to make a real daddy go away. She remembered his dark eyes and the way his hair flopped over his forehead like Courtney’s, but she could no longer remember his smile.

Click, click.

Sidestepping a pink and yellow buttercup that had poked up through a crack in the concrete, dewdrops glistening on its petals, Betsy pushed the empty feeling away. Today was for happy thoughts. As she neared the intersection, she recited the first line of her story over and over, because teacher said the opening was so important. It had to grab a reader and pull, like reeling in a fish.

Betsy was so caught up in her words, she didn’t notice the car waiting for the moment she crossed the street. She didn’t hear the engine ripping toward her until it was too late. As the shiny black cricket bounced from her hand, Betsy knew she should have worn the purple. Today was the last important day of her life.

HOUSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT

Accident Division

Recorded interview: January 4, 19 —I felt the bump and looked in my rearview mirror at the body lying beside the road.… I honestly thought the killing would end there.

Chapter 1

Wednesday, December 23, Houston, Texas

From the forty-seventh floor of the grandiose Transco Tower, the law offices of Richards, Blackmon and Drake command a panoramic view of the city. Dixie Flannigan scarcely noticed the view as she pushed through the mahogany doors. Pine needles clung to her denim jacket from shouldering a Christmas tree into the back of her pickup, and her hands smelled of pine sap. A janitor, lazily mopping an inch of water off the women’s restroom floor had refused to let her enter — even the men’s — and Bell Richards’ message had said hurry.

Pausing at the receptionist’s desk, Dixie tossed a green and red handful of Hershey’s Hugs on a document the woman was proofing. The military-strict assistant glanced up.

“Cheers, Sergeant!” Dixie grinned.

The woman’s scowl lifted almost a centimeter. “What’s cheery about adding another damned inch to my hips?”

The law firm had hired receptionist Sally Grimm, formal martial arts instructor, after a client stormed through the offices hell-bent on shooting the firm’s senior partner. Such mayhem would never happen on Sergeant Grimm’s watch. Today Dixie couldn’t resist trying to break through the woman’s armor — after all, ’twas the season to be jolly. Didn’t that include stone-faced door wardens? Leaning across the desk, Dixie lowered her voice.

“A copulation consultant once told me a woman’s chances of getting laid increase proportionately with the size of her derrière.”

Grimm’s thin lips twitched at the corners, then rippled into a tight, reluctant smile. Dixie beamed back at her, dropping a few more candies on the desk. As she continued down the hall, she heard a low chuckle, followed by the sound of a foil wrapper ripping open.

Turning the brass handle to Belle’s office, Dixie found the defense attorney on the phone, pacing behind her desk. High heels thupped into plush gray carpet, marking cadence with a Muzak version of “Little drummer boy.” Attractive, fortyish, and tough as boot leather, Belle Richards had once been described by Fortune magazine as Texas’ hottest female lawyer. Today Belle looked rattled. Her hair sprigged out where she’d been running fingers through it, her lipstick was bitten off, and her white silk blouse had a coffee stain on the left tit.

Dixie shed her jacket and settled into a red leather guest chair. She hoped the attorney hadn’t put her heart and soul into another case that was going sour. She and Belle had been friends since law school, and normally, Dixie didn’t mind rallying forces to help slay a few legal dragons, but at Christmastime, family outranked even the best of friends. On the long elevator ride to the forty-seventh floor, Dixie had practiced seventeen ways of saying “no.”

Ending her conversation with a “thanks, anyway,” Belle cradled the phone and pushed an open file across the desk.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy, Flannigan. Dann and I left the courthouse together only three hours ago, but I think he’s skipped.”

Dixie glanced at the file: Parker Dann, Intoxication Manslaughter, which was Texas Penal Code language for driving while drunk and accidentally killing someone. Evidently, he’d also left the crime scene — a hit-and-run case.

“Three hours is a short call.” She thumbed the file open to flip through the pages. “Tough spot in the trial for a holiday recess?”

Belle bit the last flake of color from her bottom lip.

“A very tough spot. The jury has my client ninety-nine percent convicted already. And you know how strong public opinion gets in the death of a child —”

“Foolish sentimentality.”

Belle ignored the sarcasm. “Dann can’t leave his house without being harassed, sometimes physically attacked. People throw eggs, beer bottles —”

“Baby killers make terrific targets.”

“Something in his eyes told me to call and check on him this afternoon.” Belle tapped the desk with the eraser end of a well chewed wooden pencil. “He was too cheerful, just too damn cheerful.”

“So you think he’ll run during the holiday break.”

Belle nodded. “Expecting no one to miss him until court reconvenes after New Year’s.”

“By then, he’ll be as gone as a spit in the Gulf.” Before Dixie resigned as a Harris County assistant district attorney, she and Belle had often found themselves opponents: Texas’Hottest Defense Lawyer vs. The State’s Courtroom Bitch, as one yellow press headline had put it.

Dixie didn’t mind a good fight; justice demanded it. But after ten years as ADA, with one too many Bad guys beating the system, her bitch quotient had maxed out. Being a continual badass hardened a person, first on the outside, like a beetle’s armor, then on the inside. When Dixie felt her very core turning stone-cold mean, she hadn’t liked herself much. Now she was content working the legal fringes, rounding up bail jumpers and runaways. Someday she’d figure out what to do with the rest of her life.

She studied Parker Dann’s mug shot: thick brows, an insolent stare, a hard mouth. He looked guilty as hell.

“From Dann’s point of view, Flannigan, and considering the way the trial has gone so far, running could make sense. Sometimes justice is a damn poor gamble.”

In Belle’s eyes, her clients were never guilty. But Dixie remembered this case from local news reports. Driving while intoxicated, Parker Dann had allegedly struck and killed eleven-year-old Elizabeth Keyes. The cops found Dann’s car parked in his driveway, three blocks from the crime scene, front headlight smashed, the girl’ s blood and tissue on the bumper. Dixie was afraid her friend’ s loyalty might, this time, be misplaced.

A snapshot clipped inside the folder showed three brown-eyed, smiling girls seated on a brick hearth hung with Christmas stockings. The Keyes children, the photo was labeled, Courtney, Betsy, Ellie. Betsy, the oldest sat in the middle, arms spread wide to embrace her sisters’ shoulders.

Beneath the snapshot was a news photo from Dann’s arraignment — Betsy’s family in the courtroom, the mother wan and teary-eyed, the father flushed, angry. Courtney, about nine, perched at the edge of her seat, studying Parker Dann with serious eyes and a determined mouth. Wisps of dark hair had wriggled free from a tightly drawn ponytail to flop across her forehead and feather around her ears. One hand clutched the bench in front of her; the other arm rested protectively around her smaller sister, who sat solemnly turning pages in a worn picture book.

Dixie looked back at the Christmas photo, dated five months before Betsy’s death. Big grins spread across all three young faces. If Dann was guilty, he had ripped this family’s life apart and deserved whatever the jury handed down.

“I know what you’re thinking, Flannigan. It looks bad. Hell, I know it looks bad, but trust me, every piece of evidence against him is circumstantial.”

“The kid should have waited for an eyewitness before crossing that street.”

Belle tossed her a fierce glare, crossed her arms over the coffee stain, and thup-thupped behind the desk to stare out the window.

“The DA is still trying to come up with someone who saw Dann driving the car on the morning of the accident. And I’m still looking for a witness who saw somebody else driving Dann’s car.”

Belle had good instincts. Dann might actually be innocent — not likely, but possible. Dixie decided to ease up on the needling. “The DA’s staff could be digging as dry a hole as you are.”

“Could be.” Belle turned and slapped her pencil down hard on the desktop. “But that idiot will clinch a conviction by running.”

“Maybe he hasn’t skipped. Maybe he’s doing some last-minute shopping.” Which was exactly what Dixie should be doing. “Or tying one on. You’ve tried his favorite watering holes, I take it?”

“He swears he hasn’t touched a drop since the accident.”

“And you believe him?”

“Don’t be such a skeptic. People can change, you know.”

“Right. And the government can reduce spending.”

“It’s possible he’s out shopping or visiting someone … but he doesn’t have any family here — ”

“And you have a hunch.” Dixie grinned. In law school, she and Belle had both been chastised for listing to some inner voice that goaded them into inexplicable decisions. Ordinarily, she’d have been glad to help her friend follow a hunch. “Look, Ric.” Dixie hoped the college nickname would soften her refusal. “I have to pass —”

“Flannigan, I know this is the worst possible time, with the holidays and all —”

“— on this one. I’m already in Dutch with Amy for being gone at Thanksgiving.”

Bell sighed. “How is your sister?”

“Stubborn as ever. Still wants me to lead the kind of storybook life she does.”

“You’re all she has left. She doesn’t want to lose you.”

“Bullshit. Amy has a money-magnet husband and the world’s greatest son — who, by the way, will be disappointed as hell if I don’t show up on time for tree trimming in two hours.” Dixie hesitated. “Besides, the bail bondsman won’t issue a contract until Dann’s officially missing.”

“I don’t want the bondsman involved.” When Dixie frowned, Belle hurried on. “If we can get Dann back here before court convenes on January fourth, no one else will have to know—”

“Including the jury.”

“Especially the jury. Dixie, trust me, he won’t have a chance, otherwise.”

“Ouch! You sure know how to pass around the guilt.” Though she didn’t share Belle’s conviction of Dann’s innocence, she had to admit the jury would crucify him if they learned he jumped bail. “Despite my bleeding heart, I must remind you of one other minor consideration —”

“Your fee. Of course. I’ll pay it myself.”

Dixie raised an eyebrow. “You?” Belle Richards could squeeze a buck hard enough to make George Washington weep green ink.

“Well … not me, personally, but Richards, Blackmon and Drake.”

“Which means it ultimately comes out of Dann’s substantial retainer.” Dixie’s grin widened. “Now that’s a bit of irony I can appreciate.” She skimmed Dann’s background sheet. It listed seven residences in five different states in the past three years. “A drifter.”

“A salesman. And a damn good one, according to his tax returns.”

“Forty-two years old. This doesn’t mention any exes.” One of the most frequent places to find a skip was with an ex spouse.

“Never married.”

Dixie looked up. “Is he gay?”

Belle shrugged. “He tried to hit on me.”

“No priors?”

“Picked up twice for DWI —”

“And you want to put this hairball back on the road to kill another kid?”

“He’s innocent, Flannigan, until proven guilty. Remember?”

Dixie shook her head. “You’ll always be a soft touch, Ric.”

Dann’s file listed next of kin in Bozeman, Montana, and a second contact in Canada — a long haul if he decided to head for home ground. Most Houston’s skips beat feet for the

Mexican border, scarcely a day’s drive, but since Dann wasn’t local, he’d probably opt for familiar territory. If so, it’d take some heavy traveling to round him up and get back in time for dinner on Christmas night.

“Look at it this way,” Belle persisted. “If he’s skipped, then he’s already on the street where he can ‘kill another kid,’ as you put it. The only way justice can be served is if we bring him back to stand trial.”

“Yeah, well, you know what I think of Texas justice.” Dixie slid the Christmas snapshot of the Keyes girls from under its paperclip and compared it to the news photo taken the previous May in the courtroom, the two girls looking bewildered and older than their years. Her mouth filled with bitterness. It galled her to know the man who killed Betsy was running free while the family sat with an empty chair at the Christmas table this year.

She turned the snapshot over. On the back, and big, loopy, girlish script was written, The Keyes 3 — 2gether Forever.

“You know I wouldn’t ask you to do this,” Belle coaxed, “if it wasn’t important. I hope you can find him quickly —”

“Ric, he’s probably draped over a bar stool within a few blocks of his house. Which means that if I decide to look for him, this will be the quickest ten thousand bucks I ever made.”

“Ten thousand?”

“He’s out on a hundred thousand dollars bail, right? At ten percent, you’re getting my preferred customer discount.”

“On second thought, I hope he gives you a merry damn chase.”

Dixie got to her feet. “Tell you what. If I find this guy tonight, I’ll keep him tucked away nice and tight until midnight on January third. That way you can worry all through the holidays and feel grateful as hell when he walks in before the judge drops his gavel.”

Glancing at the darkening sky beyond Belle’ s window, Dixie headed for the door. If she wasn’t home when Amy arrived, the evening would start with Dixie’s feeble apology, and she hated that. She hoped to enjoy a pleasant evening with no arguments.

“You would really do it, wouldn’t you?” Belle said. “Keep Dann hidden away and let me sweat.”

“Just want you to feel you’re getting your money’s worth.” She closed Dann’s file and slipped the Christmas photo into her pocket.

“Flanni?”

Dixie raised an eyebrow at the familiar nickname.

“If I’m wrong, if Dann really is guilty, he won’t be easy to bring in. He’s already facing a manslaughter charge. Adding one more felony to his record won’t seem too high a risk to a desperate man. He could be dangerous.”

“Don’t let Amy hear that. She already worries too much.” Dixie snapped a rubber band around the folder.

“Dixie, this case —”

“I’ll let you know later tonight whether you’ll need to find another skip tracer.” Dixie grinned and rained a few Hershey’s Hugs in the middle of Belle’s desk. “Meanwhile, sweeten up, Ric. It’s almost Christmas.”

But as she pushed through the mahogany doors, thinking of those two dark-eyed girls with a dead sister, Dixie’s own holiday spirit fell like loose gravestones.

Thanks for reading. Look for Chapter 2 next week, right here on My Blog.

JUST SAYIN’ …

Coca-Cola was first, and still leads the rest.

Maytag is still known for lasting durability.

Johnny Cash and Janis Joplin were decidedly different.

Where do you fit?

Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 14

CHAPTER 9

Booker awoke hungry and agitated. He’d gone to bed expecting Fowler’s grotesque corpse to bob up in his nightmares. Instead, he spent the night dreaming of an auburn-haired Indian maid in red and blue jogging shorts.

It wasn’t in him to leave the problem of Fowler’s murder alone, now that he had an interest in the outcome. But what did that mean, exactly? Among the seven-hundred-odd residents at Lakeside, he hardly knew a soul except Emaline, which might be a good thing for a self-appointed snoop. No loyalties.

He glanced at his clean kitchen. Cooking would mess it up. He couldn’t stomach cold cereal this morning, and the one banana in the fruit bowl had black spots. Too bad Roxanna didn’t serve breakfast.

One drawback of living at Lakeside Estates was the ten-mile drive into Masonville for such essentials as food and gasoline. The only enterprises allowed inside the estates were golf, horse stabling, the US Post Office, the interdenominational church, and the Caribou Lodge, which included a restaurant, private club, and a few rental cabins. On the upside, the absence of commerce reduced the number of strangers roaming about.

Booker sniffed the aging banana. The lodge served a decent breakfast, and hadn’t Emaline suggested the Fowler family might drop in?

Dressed in his baggiest, most comfortable jeans with a faded blue t-shirt advertising an obsolete Kodak film, he drove around Turtle Lake. The Lodge sat on the main road, about a quarter mile inside the front gates. A Coushatta architect had designed the building of local rock and bleached pine that blended as gracefully with the landscape as the purple wildflowers lining the front walk. Pine and rock continued inside, softened by Apache blankets, Hopi pottery, and intricate fabric art.

Booker entered the Caribou restaurant scanning the crowd as he took a chair. No “mousy little schoolteacher,” as Emaline had described Sarabelle. No young man who might be Aaron or Jeremy Fowler. Booker supposed it was too early yet. If he were the one identifying a body, he’d put it off as long as possible.

Pete Littlehawk, a person Booker had hoped to avoid, strolled from the kitchen carrying a tray of silver bowls filled with plastic cream containers. He began placing them on the tables.

Booker could think of no one who just plain irritated him more than Pete. If the club owner wasn’t bragging about a whopping big fish he caught last week or the fine deer he shot, showing the antlers on the wall to prove it, he was trying to talk you into a bet, usually on the horse races.

Lakeside Estates had laid in a quarter horse track near the stables, right off the highway. The track wasn’t registered with the racing commission, and betting wasn’t strictly legal, but people did it anyway. Pete Littlehawk owned three racehorses and, from Pete’s bragging, Booker figured he also owned a piece of everything at Lakeside that smacked of sports and profit.

To avoid making eye contact with the lodge manager, Booker opened a copy of The Lakesider Bulletin. Chuck Fowler’s picture occupied a chunk of the front page. Surprised, and wondering how a weekly newsletter had worked so fast to publish Fowler’s obituary, he noticed the date: last Wednesday’s edition. The story told about Fowler winning a local golf tournament. Pete Littlehawk had come in second.

When his meal arrived, eggs, sausage, and hotcakes, a hearty country breakfast, Booker cheered up some and turned his attention to eating. Tomorrow, he’d worry about cholesterol.

Midway through his hotcakes, a clipped tenor voice called out, “Mr. Krane! Man of the hour! Man who discovered the Turtle Lake terror!”

Littlehawk settled his wiry body onto a chair across from Booker.

“If you’re talking about Fowler’s body, Pete, it was Pup who discovered it.”

“True enough. But Pup’s your dog, you know, and you were with him. You’re a celebrity!”

Regardless of how much he disliked the man, when Littlehawk grinned, with a flash of even white teeth so wide it threatened to dislodge his earlobes, Booker couldn’t help grinning back.

The club owner wore his long black hair pulled tight at the nape and wrapped with a length of rawhide. Dark, narrow-set eyes and wide cheekbones hinted of Native American ancestry, but his thin nose and pointed chin gave him an urban mean-streets look Booker thought might be closer to the truth. Littlehawk grinned a lot. Booker wasn’t sure what that said about the man.

“Chuck, you know, came here for breakfast last Sunday. Sat right there, in that chair you’re in now.”

“This chair?” Booker wasn’t superstitious, yet his stomach clenched around the bite of hotcakes he’d eaten. “You’re certain it was this chair?”

“Sure, sure.” Littlehawk looked around. “Well, maybe that one over there. But it’s a better story, am I right, you coming in and taking the very chair Chuck sat in before he died?”

Booker grunted. “You don’t want to be inventing stories, Pete, not about Fowler. At least, not until the sheriff finds his killer.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Pete’s brow wrinkled around the thought for a moment, then he grinned again. “What a drama, huh? Murder, right here in our own little village. Starring my good friend, Chuck.”

He didn’t sound particularly broken up about it, Booker noted. “You said he was here on Sunday. Remember what time?”

“Eleven o’clock. The sheriff already asked, and I had to remember back. We stop serving breakfast at eleven. My cook had put chopped steaks on the grill for lunch. He crabbed about messing up his schedule, but Chuck wanted his ham and eggs, and he was a good customer, so I talked to the cook. Told him to put biscuits on the plate, too.”

Booker glanced at his watch. He’d placed his own order well under the wire, it seemed. “Was Chuck with anybody?”

“Sure, sure. Jeremy, that’s his son. They came straight from the golf course. Good boy, Jeremy, you know, but quiet.” Littlehawk chuckled. “Or maybe he can’t get a word in, his father being such a big mouth.”

“Could you hear what they were talking about?”

“Hunting, golfing, fishing.” Littlehawk shrugged. “What does everyone talk about? Oh! The turkey shoot! That had to be it. The Fowlers’ always go out for the Grammon County

Turkey Shoot, even Jeremy. He’s not much on hunting, not like his brother, Aaron. That’s the older boy, a salesman like his father, but cars, not sporting goods. Chuck gave Jeremy a part-time job at the Gilded Trout, wants him to learn the business while he’s still in school.”

Booker was never quite sure how much of the club manager’s gossip was based on fact. Littlehawk did love telling a good story. “How does Jeremy feel about learning the sporting goods trade? I heard he’s interested in theater.”

“Back-talked his dad some. You know kids. Jeremy’s been working all summer, and when school starts, he wants to quit. His dad said to work Saturdays, keep his hand in. Get used to earning his own way.”

Mopping up a pool of syrup with his last bite of hotcakes, Booker wondered if Littlehawk eavesdropped as thoroughly on all his customers. Gossips could be useful, if you learned to decipher truth from tall tale. In any case, his cook served a hell of a good breakfast. “Remember how long they stayed?”

“Naw, I got busy.” Littlehawk lowered his voice. “Are you really helping the sheriff investigate?”

“Who told you that?” Already knowing the answer.

“Emaline stopped in on her way to the Pro Shop.” Grinning, the club manager pointed to Fowler’s picture. “Too bad Chuck missed that story. He liked seeing himself in the news.”

Then he frowned, as if remembering something. “Well now…you know, Chuck sat here reading The Lakesider that morning. Stayed long enough to finish his breakfast. Jeremy didn’t eat.”

“This story says you and Chuck both placed in the tournament. Did you play golf together often?”

“Naw, not together, only in the same tournaments. Hey, now, you and me, we could play a game, am I right? You like golf? I love golf. A small wager on the side, make it interesting? What d’ya say? It’s early, not even really hot yet.”

Right, Booker thought. If it’s August in Texas, it’s hot. Morning or night didn’t make a fig of a difference.

“Thanks, Pete, maybe some other day.” Actually, he’d considered spending more time on the golf course to get some exercise, but Littlehawk never engaged in sports without money changing hands. Booker wondered how much had changed hands with Chuck after the golf tournament.

He picked up his check and counted out a tip for the waitress—Kitty or Kippy. Three college students alternated shifts, but he’d never put names with their faces.

Littlehawk bussed dirty dishes from the table and headed for the kitchen, flashing his toothy grin over his shoulder. “Next week, we’ll have that game, Booker. You and me!”

Paying his check, Booker scanned the room again. Only a few tables were filled. No sign of Sarabelle or her boys, but Melinda McCray, the real estate agent who’d sold him the lots on either side of his house, sat alone at a corner table, cell phone at her ear. He’d been intending to stop at her office and find out when he could expect to receive his property deeds. He paused at her table as she held the phone away from her and stared at it.

“Ms. McCray, mind if I join you for a moment?” Then remembering that they had done most of their dealings over the phone he added, “I’m Booker Krane.”

“Why doesn’t this thing work?” She punched the button and frowned at the digital readout. “No service.”

“Mine never works here either,” Booker commiserated, “not until I’m five or ten miles outside the gates.” A cell phone tower was being built at Lakeside, the site already cleared, but the number of residents didn’t qualify them as a priority on the cellular company’s hit list.

Littlehawk passed by carrying vases of fresh flowers.

“You can use your cell phone, Melinda, at hole number five on the golf course,” he called.

Booker remembered hearing that local quip, the only cellular reception allowed at Lakeside is at the fifth hole. Never had he been desperate enough to walk over and try it.

“There’s also a pay phone upstairs,” he told the realtor.

She looked at him as if suddenly realizing he was there, then consulted her watch, a slim gold band with diamonds surrounding the face.

“I’m waiting to show a property at nine-thirty. But I have a few minutes, now, don’t I?” Composed and professional in a pale pink linen suit, fashionably accessorized and tailored to fit her short, nicely rounded figure, she looked up at him. “Oh, yes, Mr. Krane, that strange but lovely three-story frame house overlooking Turtle Lake. You’re not thinking of selling, are you?”

A sleek cap of salon-blonde hair framed her attractive face and bottle-green eyes. She must be wearing colored contacts, Booker decided. Surely eyes didn’t come that shade naturally. He wondered if the world looked greener to her.

“I’m not selling,” he said, pulling out a chair. The Caribou had comfortable chairs, but heavy. He settled his bony butt onto the seat and asked her about his deeds, which she promised to check on. “In fact, I’ve been wondering about the lots across the road from mine. There’s a For-Sale sign with your agency’s name on it.”

Her green eyes narrowed.

“I know the property.” She studied him while pouring sparkling water into her glass from a plastic bottle. “What did you want to ask? Whether the price will drop now that the owner is, well…deceased? The estate will have to be settled.”

“Deceased? You mean, those lots belonged to Chuck Fowler?” Emaline had said he’d been buying land around the county for years.

Melinda lifted her gaze to someone approaching behind Booker. Figuring this was her prospect, he rose from his chair. Then her eyes grew round and her back stiffened.

Booker turned to find a pale, scrawny woman followed by two young men. The woman’s gray-blonde hair was tied in a tight knot with a navy blue ribbon. She wore a blue print cotton dress, limp and sleeveless. One of the boys had the same scrawny build, the same pale coloring. The other boy had his mother’s stern chin, but was older, heavier, barrel-chested, and sported a mane of tawny chestnut hair that must look much like Chuck Fowler’s had in younger years. From Emaline’s description, these folks had to be Sarabelle, Jeremy, and Aaron.

“You!” Sarabelle spit the word at Melinda. “How dare you show your face in here? You’re the reason my husband’s dead.” The woman’s neck muscles tightened like steel cables above her thin shoulders. Ash gray eyes, hard as granite, had pinned Melinda to her chair. “Enjoy your diamond jewelry, slut. Enjoy your fancy car and your expensive clothes, because that’s all you’ll ever get. It’s over now, and you lost.”

The older of the two men seem to be biting back harsh words of his own. Aaron, Booker figured.

“Mama.” He laid a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Don’t talk to her. Let’s wait outside for the sheriff.”

Sarabelle pulled away from him. A web of cruel lines surrounded her thin lips.

“Why should we wait outside? We have a right to be here. She’s the intruder, the trollop your father’s been whoring with, spending money on like water down the gutter. She’s the one who should leave.”

But even as Sarabelle spoke, she stepped closer, blocking the seated woman’s path.

Melinda’s mouth quivered, as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t get the words out. She’d half-risen from the chair and looked ready to run, given a chance.

“Mama,” Aaron said again, angry gaze trained on his father’s mistress, “don’t get yourself worked up over this piece of fluff. We don’t even know yet if the man they found is Pop.”

Sarabelle laughed, a brittle cackle.

“Oh, it’s him, all right.” She leaned closer to Melinda, like a bird pecking at a choice worm. “I saw it all, slut, saw it in a dream, saw him telling you he’d never leave his family for a whore. You couldn’t stand it. You killed him. Couldn’t have him for yourself, so you killed him.”

Spittle sprayed Melinda’s face. She raised a hand to wipe it away, and that seemed to give her the strength to speak. “You are wrong. I—”

Smack! Sarabelle struck like a rattlesnake, slapping Melinda so hard, her head snapped back and the chair skidded. Her cheek reddened in four finger-size welts.

Booker thought it was time somebody intervened. Others in the restaurant were rubbernecking but seemed too stunned to move. The sheriff would be welcome now. Or the club proprietor.

But Littlehawk’s dark gaze followed the drama from the kitchen doorway, where he stood barred from interaction by a tray of bottles in his hands. The waitress looked aghast.

Jeremy Fowler hung back as if wanting to be anywhere but here. Aaron looked ready to land the next blow.

With a resigned sigh, Booker bellied up to the role of mediator. He stood and gently took Sarabelle’s elbow. “Mrs. Fowler, this is no time—”

Aaron’s fist came so fast and so hard Booker thought lightning had struck. He flew backward into a table, knocking it over and sprawling flat. The heavy chairs toppled around him.

His head hit the hard tile floor. One chair smacked his eye. Booker lay still, hoping the bees buzzing around his brain would settle without stinging him. Thinking he’d finally met the Fowler family, and weren’t they a marvel? And then decided to take a nap.

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Paradise Cursed – Snippet 10

“Grab a halyard, sailor, and put some muscle on it.”

“Yes, sir!”

Seeing the aft sail unfurl and stretch slowly upward, Dayna stopped in awe. To everyone else, this was just another day, she imagined, or a fun romp, but for her it was the unfolding of a dream she’d nourished since the moment she stepped foot on the Elyssa, long out of service and now a tourist attraction but still a tangible piece of a world she couldn’t get enough of reading about.

“Pull!”

Dayna squeezed in beside Ola on the main sail line—mains’l, she corrected herself—and wrapped her hands around the thick braided rope.

“Now don’t you look as sunny as a spring chick,” Ola said in greeting. “Where’s that sweet sister of yours?”

“She’ll be here soon.” Dayna felt certain Erin would want to chronicle their first day for her blog. “Probably putting her camera gear together.”

“Tripe and rubbish, girl. Can’t get the bed off her back I’m thinkin.”

“Pull!”

The shout came from Jase Graham, standing tall and sexy, sandy brown hair flying in the wind, arms folded importantly across his solid chest as he snapped out the order. He looked as fierce as his boyishly handsome features would allow.

“Drop that camera and lend a shoulder,” he told a passenger, then shouted again, “Pull!”

Startled, the man looked around for a line that didn’t already have a dozen pairs of hands on it.

“Step lively there, mate,” Jase told him.

The man grabbed hold.

“Pull!”

Dayna felt the rhythm as they heaved hard on the line then grabbed another handhold farther along and pulled again. The snap and rustle of the canvas as the wind caught it was like music. With the aft sail now aloft, the bow began to swing around the mooring. The murmur of approval that rippled through the crowd was a whisper compared to the shout of pure joy Dayna wanted to let loose. She clamped her lips tight, not wanting to let on how green she was.

“According to what I read,” she said to Ola, “the Sarah Jane doesn’t use an auxiliary engine to get underway.”

“No modern sailing gizmos on Cap’n McKinsey’s vessel, nosir.”

“It’s going to take excellent seamanship to work our way out of this busy harbor.” She wondered who was at the helm. The captain hadn’t come around yet, and the second mate seemed to have vanished. She spotted Erin with her camera and raised a hand to wave at her. “Ola, have you sailed on other —?”

A gunshot ripped through the crowd chatter.

“Pull!” Jase Graham was waving a pistol. Huge and menacing, it had materialized out of nowhere. A thin wisp of smoke curled from its barrel as he pointed it straight at Erin.

“Lend a shoulder there, sailor.”

In the sudden silence that swept the ship, an angry growl rumbled up the gangway. Dayna turned to look and sensed every head on the ship turn, as well.

Leaping to the deck was a terrifying specter of matted hair topped by a filthy tri-corner hat, braided beard tied with colored ribbons, and all of it sparking fire. Daggers, pistols and swords were lashed to colored sashes that hung from his shoulders and waist. With vicious force, his cutlass sliced the air.

“Slackers, eh?” A graveled voice completed the riveting manifestation. “There’s no quarter aboard this ship for slackers.”

He aimed his weapon at Erin, the nearest passenger who was not engaged with the sails, but then waved it menacingly at others.

Someone laughed—nervously, Dayna thought.

“Quiet on the deck!” The specter pointed his cutlass at Dayna, the blade stopping just short of her nose.

“You lot. Pull!” he said.

Gripping the rope tight, she, and everyone on her line, leaned in and pulled with all their might.

From somewhere came a wail of music… was that bagpipes?

“Pull!” shouted Graham.

Rising higher up the mast with each heave, the mains’l bellied out into dawn sky. Then hoisting became next to impossible…until someone must’ve steered her into the wind,

because the sail luffed, emptying its load, and Dayna felt the line move in her hands. Quickly, she heaved into it again and, finally, the mains’l rose to full mast. A seaman ahead of her cleated the halyard.

Dayna stood for a moment just staring, breathing the sea air and feeling incredible.

Now the jibs. Moving fore to take her place on another line, Dayna noticed other passengers standing around relaxed or staring toward the open sea. And ahead of her the largest jib was already up.

“She’s cast off,” someone shouted.

So the anchor was up. The crew must have set the sails. Passengers had merely been treated to a rousing show and a sense of being part of the action. Okay. She’d learned something. Today’s tall ships were more about entertainment than performance. Nevertheless, she still admired the seamanship, and someday she’d be part of it.

As the ship glided gracefully toward a blue and pink horizon, Dayna looked for the pirate — the specter could only have been Edward Teach, old Blackbeard himself. Even knowing it was playacting, she had to admit he’d given them all a good fright, and the farce had jolted everyone alert. Now he was talking to Erin.

Meanwhile, crew and passengers alike sang along with a mournful bagpipe rendition of “Amazing Grace” played through the ship’s speaker system.

“We’re away, girl!” Ola wrapped a plump arm around Dayna. “The historic Sarah Jane is under sail.”

Glad to have someone close who took as much pleasure in this moment as she did, Dayna hugged Ola’s generous waist.

“I’m glad we’re sailing together. Have you seen the Blackbeard act on other ships?”

“My goodness, yes, but none as good as this. Mark my words, this’ll be a cruise to post for all your friends to enjoy. You can bet I’ll be spinning yarns. ‘Nanna, tell me a story,’ and my grand-young-uns’ll get an earful.” Ola shook with laughter. “Smell those cinnamon buns? Nothing makes a body hungrier than fresh sea air, and I’m never one to show up last at the breakfast table.”

The bells at her ears and wrist tinkled brightly as Ola joined the other passengers headed toward the dining hall.

A cruise to post for your friends. Absently, Dayna picked up a line and coiled it in clockwise loops, securing them in her left hand, for stowing.

She had shoved last night’s weirdness down deep in her mind, unwilling to let it spoil her first day at sea. But as she continued to neaten up the deck, she watched the captain— never mind his Blackbeard garb, those gorgeous blue eyes gave him away— talking to Erin, and the whole puzzling episode came back in living color. Erin’s over-the-top reaction to the tarot cards made no sense. She had always been open about her interest in fortune telling, though she wouldn’t call it that. What their dad referred to as Erin’s “Twilight Zone tales” made for great party entertainment, and Dayna had thought of them as amazing party games until Carla’s accident. And now Erin was acting weird since the moment they boarded the ship.

When only about two feet of line remained, Dayna wrapped it around the middle of the loop, forming a figure eight, and finished it off.

“Nice job,” said the cute sailor who’d shown them their room when they arrived. His own coiled line in hand, he nodded toward the cleats on the nearest mast. “I’m guessing you’ve worked a sailboat before.”

As she hung her coil over a cleat, Dayna gave the sailor her best smile. What would he think if she told him she’d never even stepped foot on a sailboat? Maybe some secrets were best kept under wraps.

Together, they finished neatening up the deck, neither doing much talking but enjoying a quiet camaraderie, while Dayna’s mind kept stealing away to the changes in Erin’s attitude since they boarded the Sarah Jane. If her sister was as miserable as she’d seemed last night, then as much as Dayna wanted this cruise, maybe they should jump ship at the next island.

“Break time. Come on, I’ll show you where the crew eats.”

As they walked, he reminded her his name was Victor, “but call me Vic.” He’d crewed on a tall ship the summer before, but this was his first time on the Sarah Jane. Dayna liked him and wondered what the cards would say about their chances of discovering the ship’s secrets together.

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Here Lies a Wicked Man-Snippet 13

CHAPTER 8

They sped along the winding road to Lakeside Estates, the Wrangler’s headlights bouncing off trees and fence posts as Emaline took each curve at a near miss.

“You sure are quiet, Booker,” she yelled. “Supper backing up on you?”

“Why didn’t you tell me Roxanna was a showgirl who knows how to shoot a bow?”

“What, and spoil a good joke?” She snorted. “Tell it straight, she was a stripper. Anyway, I knew you’d spot those pictures. Roxanna’s not a bit shy about ‘em.”

“Since an arrow killed Fowler, you know she’ll be suspected.” Booker had wanted to remove the blatant evidence from the wall and shove it under the nearest chair cushion until the real story of Fowler’s death was sorted out. He refused to believe the innkeeper’s involvement, no matter how good a marksman Pocahontas was. “You didn’t tell the sheriff, did you?”

“He’ll find out soon enough. You can bet we’re not the only snoops who’ve seen those pictures.”

Booker groaned. “We’re in bow-hunting territory, as you say, so there must be other crack shots around.”

“Dozens. You gotta admit, though, if anyone has the looks and charm to win over a jury, it’s Roxanna.”

“Jury? You already have her on trial?” Yet, hadn’t he been treading the same water himself? If his own thoughts strayed so easily in that direction, how could he expect the sheriff to think otherwise?

The truth was, he didn’t want Roxanna mixed up in Fowler’s murder because he’d decided right there in the inn tonight to do some old-fashioned courting. Four years was long enough to be alone. Back in the city, buried in work, he’d enjoyed being free of Lauren and was in no hurry to suffer another mistake. A few brief romances—nothing serious. Yet shouldn’t a new life include a new love? Meeting Roxanna Larkspur had ignited a spark even before those pictures turned up the heat.

Neverthless, knowing her all of two hours, could he be certain she wasn’t a charming murderess? What did TV cops always look for? Motive, means, and opportunity.

“Roxanna’s been in Masonville only a few months,” he mused aloud. “She probably didn’t know Fowler. Wouldn’t have any reason for killing him.”

“Then again, maybe she did.”

Waiting for Emiline to put more bait on that hook, Booker gritted his teeth. For a woman with opinions covering every occasion, she was being infuriatingly close mouthed.

“What reason might that be?” he said, finally.

“During your chat tonight, did Roxanna tell you about falling in love with the old house, then seeing the For-Sale-By-Owner sign and deciding Providence must have guided her?”

“Something like that.”

“Apparently, she left out one part. Chuck owned the house. He’d been buying properties around the county for years.”

Booker stifled another groan. Had the innkeeper omitted that detail on purpose? “I suppose Fowler carried the note.”

“Yep. Easy terms, too, but I heard talk that he was pushing Roxanna to fork over the balance of her down payment.”

Hmmm. Down payments were usually paid in full. “Any money she owed Fowler will still be owed to the estate.”

“Probate takes time, Booker. She needs the inn to turn a profit soon.”

“You think she killed Fowler to buy time? I can’t believe she’s that cold-blooded.”

“Why not? Never mind, it’s written all over your face. Anyway, money is power, and Chuck had plenty but wanted more, especially when Mars squared his Saturn in Taurus. If they argued over money—”

“All right, she had means and motive. What about opportunity? Running that inn must keep a person tied down. Did the M.E. speculate on time of death?”

“Like we already figured, sometime between Sunday, after Chuck’s golf game, and early Monday morning.” In the darkness of the Wrangler’s interior, Emaline’s face was only a pale shadow, but he could hear the grin in her voice. “Masonville Bed and Brunch closes early on Sundays.”

“Sounds like you want to pin this murder on Roxanna.”

“I want it pinned on whoever did it, before everybody in town starts suspecting everybody else. Nothing like misplaced suspicion to make people edgy, seeing trouble where it doesn’t exist. Not the best disposition for golf, either, I can tell you. Nervous people make bad golfers. Leave divots on the tee boxes, nick up my putting greens—”

“What were you and the sheriff so cozy about tonight?”

“I told him you wanted to help with the murder investigation.”

Booker couldn’t suppress this groan. “Ahhh, Emaline, why would you tell him that? I never said that.”

“The sheriff needs your experience, Booker. Ringhoffer’s a good man, but he’s saddled with youth and that Leo impetuosity. He’s already champing to arrest somebody. You wouldn’t want it to be the wrong person, would you?”

Meaning Roxanna. Booker’s mind wrapped around the memory of his last investigation. Even when evidence started piling up against the bank’s chief financial officer, Booker hadn’t recognized any personal risk. Pressed for a rapid report of findings, he’d worked late into the nights, his laptop computer taking him deep into departmental records and finally to an ingenious scam no one in the bank suspected. Even now, Booker could feel the old surge of excitement. He loved the game. He couldn’t deny he loved the equipment and credentials that enabled him to snoop into the most private files. Only when he found himself staring into the black hole of a .22 revolver had he recognized the physical danger.

Booker’s mind shied from the memory, and he wiped a slick of sweat from the back of his neck. No way he could nose around in a murder investigation. Yet, something about the innkeeper brought out the Galahad in him. She seemed to need protecting.

Then again, recalling the way Roxanna handled the snake and lasso in those photographs, not to mention the bow, maybe she could take care of herself. Many a murderer had possessed striking blue eyes and a winsome smile. “Do you think the sheriff will seriously consider Roxanna a suspect? Is he the sort to focus on a newcomer instead of the people who elected him?”

“You’re a newcomer, too, Booker. About the same age as Chuck. Maybe you two had a run-in somewhere, and you decided to settle an old score.”

He gaped at her. “That’s crazy.”

“No, it’s the way people think. See, these folks have known one another for years. Some of them grew up together. Why would a person who knew Chuck all his life pick last Sunday to murder him?”

Good question. “Something must’ve changed. Or somebody got fed up with things not changing and decided Fowler was an obstacle.”

“Saturn and Uranus. Any time a stable situation takes a quick and sudden turn, you can bet your nine-iron those two planets are in the picture. Look for a natal chart with Saturn and Uranus conflicting and you’ll have your murderer.”

“If that’s all it takes, why don’t you gaze into your crystal ball and reveal the killer’s name?”

She sighed as if weary of lecturing an idiot.

“It doesn’t work that way. Probably thirty percent of the county residents have Saturn and Uranus in conflict.”

Booker decided to ignore that tangle of logic. Money or passion, that’s what drove people to crime. Gary Spiner would likely gain from Fowler’s death: partners usually carried insurance on each other.

“There you go, being quiet again,” Emaline said. “So quiet I can hear the gears grinding away in your head. Mercury in Scorpio, Booker Krane. You’re compelled to root around in a problem until you dig it out in the open where you can pick at it.”

He couldn’t deny the urge to probe at a knotty situation, and no one would have to know he was poking around. He could be discreet. After all, how could he pursue a…friendship…with Roxanna without knowing for certain she was innocent? A stab of adolescent longing told him the right woman might have finally strolled into his life. He

wanted to grab her and hold on.

“Emaline, you’re acquainted with everybody. Who else would have reason to kill Fowler?”

“I’d be happy to run down the list for you, but here we are at your house, and my bedtime’s calling.” She brought the Wrangler to a jolting stop beside his Buick.

“It’s not that late. How long could it take?”

“Long enough that I’m not letting you talk me into it. But the sheriff told me Sarabelle and the boys are driving out tomorrow to identify the body and record their statements.

Betcha a nickel they stop at the Lodge for breakfast. Isn’t the victim’s family always at the top of the suspect list?”

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Paradise Cursed – Snippet 9

“Erin! Don’t stalk away from me.” Hurrying to catch up, Dayna wished that for once she could’ve tamed her impatience. “We need to talk about this.”

“Stop meddling in what you don’t understand.”

“You’re my sister. It’s my duty to meddle when I see you hurting.”

“Paul is history.” Erin veered toward the leeward rail. “He’s forgotten. So there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Good riddance, but I’m not buying it. He was a jerk, sure, and I never understood what you saw… but you loved him.” The moon cast a shimmery beam on the sea and a soft glow on her sister’s face. Seeing the fear that replaced Erin’s anger, Dayna winced. “Anyway, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Ignoring the fact that you have some sort of, I don’t know, clairvoyance, prescience—”

“That’s crap. I read charts, cards, a competence anyone can acquire. It doesn’t make me psychic.”

“I just don’t get why you’re so upset about it. You said the prediction that Paul would cheat on you came from delineating his astrological profile, exactly as you’ve done for hundreds of other people. Why were you so astonished when it came true?”

“It wasn’t a prediction. A profile is just a…an array of characteristics. Like you—pushy, persistent, mouthy, inclined to butt in where you shouldn’t—but you can learn not to act on your inherent buttinskiness. And right now would be a darn good time.”

“Carla’s accident wasn’t a characteristic. You saw it in her cards, but you’ve told me the cards aren’t specific about when, how, or exactly what will happen. Yet you knew, didn’t you? You told her not to go to work. And she didn’t, but she went to the mall, and tripped on the escalator. That’s why you were so upset, because you thought the danger would be in the building where she worked. The cards couldn’t give you those details. You saw it in a vision or a dream or —”

“Dayna! Stop.” Erin’s hands gripped the ship’s rail so tightly they looked like claws.

“Sis, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve seen the way you look when you wake up with one of your dreams, and it worries me. Maybe if you stopped fighting it so hard…” Dayna didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“I know you mean well.” Her sister turned finally and looked at her—then her gaze flicked past, and she was staring over Dayna’s shoulder with an expression of pure terror.

“What?!” Dayna turned to look.

She saw nothing except the ship’s deck and rigging. No one was there. Yet her sister was shaking.

Excusing myself from the dinner table as gracefully as possible, I followed the Kohl sisters a few minutes after they exited the dining room. They had appeared to be distraught, and while I tried to steer clear of clashes among passengers, this might be one of the special cases I’d come to expect.

After a brisk stroll forward, nodding a greeting to other strollers, I found the ladies standing halfway along the port rail. It was Erin Kohl’s profile in the moonlight that grabbed my attention first, the fine straight nose, the sensual lips, then I noticed her rigid stance.

The two women stood squared off at each other. I advanced, donning my dispute-settling persona.

“Are you ladies all right?”

“My sister—”

“We’re fine,” Erin cut in, before Dayna could finish her sentence.

Erin did indeed look fine, more so in the soft glow of the moon, but Dayna’s young face was etched with the harsh lines of confusion and fear. I put a hand on her elbow.

“If someone was hassling you, I’d like to know. A member of my crew, a passenger…”

“Honestly, we’re fine,” Erin said.

I decided to drop it. Whatever the problem, it clearly was private, and privacy on a small ship was too easily compromised.

“Just remember, you can come to me with anything,” I said to Erin. Then to Dayna, “Will you be ready for duty at first bell?”

The girl looked at her sister, clearly worried about something. But like most youngsters, worry fell away with the prospect of excitement. When she turn her eyes at me they

beamed, transforming her whole face in an instant.

“Even sooner!” Red curls bounced as she bobbed her consent. “What time is first bell, exactly?”

“Five a.m. Report to First Mate Ayanna.”

“I’m on it!” Still beaming, she sketched a hasty salute and darted away.

In Dayna’s absence, the lightness of the moment faded.

“Five a.m.,” Erin said, a thickness in her voice that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “I didn’t realize we were on such a tight schedule.”

I smiled, vainly pleased to hear the subtle change that suggested she was as affected as I by the subliminal attraction we seemed to be sharing. Unlike crew, passengers provide an acceptable dalliance, since they expect shipboard romances to end as swiftly as they start.

“Don’t worry if you sleep in,” I said. “There’s another bell at six for breakfast.”

“And if I sleep until nine?”

“Then you’ll miss the best cinnamon rolls you ever put in your mouth. Yet there’s always eggs.”

A raindrop struck my face. Erin winced, and I saw a glint of moisture on her nose. Just a shower. Nothing to worry about, but I wasn’t eager to take chances. On the Sarah Jane, a heavy rainstorm could mean real danger.

“C’mon. You’ll be drenched.” Grabbing her hand, I dashed toward the cabin I’d seen Dayna enter.

“I thought this was the sunny Caribbean,” Erin said as we ran.

“Light rainfall for ten minutes or so happens most evenings about this time. Storms can be brutal, but they’re blessedly rare.”

At her door, she opened it and stepped quickly inside then turned back.

“Thank you for the escort. Guess I’ll see you at breakfast.”

When the door closed, I stood staring at it, still captivated by the magnetic tug of Erin Kohl’s subtle resemblance to Remi Babineaux and reluctant to break the fragile connection with a time long past, a time as invigorating and fulfilling as it was heartbreaking. Gentle raindrops continued to dampen my shirt, and I realized the hand that had clasped Erin’s wrist was closed tightly, as if to retain the remnant energy of her touch. I shoved my fist into my pocket. With another wary glance at the sky, I dashed back to join my dinner guests for dessert.

CHAPTER 8

Dayna heard the five a.m. bell and sprang awake. Forgetting she was on the top bunk, she swung her legs over the side and nearly fell when a loud metallic rap-ta-tap sounded on the cabin door.

“Everybody on the sheets!” someone yelled.

“Sheets?” Erin said drowsily. “I’ve got sheets, I’m on sheets…what’s…?”

“The lines, Sis. Ropes.” Startled fully alert now, Dayna heard the knock again, not as loud, probably at the next cabin. She jumped down. “They want us to help hoist the sails.”

“You’re kidding.”

“The Sarah Jane has twelve sails, over twenty-six thousand square feet of canvas, and I think we’re running short on crew.” She entered the head and closed the door.

“I didn’t sign on as crew,” Erin called. “I’ll sleep till the next shift.”

Not wanting to be late, Dayna had slept in the fresh clothes she planned to wear that day, but brushing her teeth seemed to take forever. Reading in the brochure about helping to cast off and sail, she’d worried it was just part of the color, the sales pitch. But this was real, and she didn’t plan to miss a thing.

“Sis, let’s move it,” she said, swatting her sister on the butt in passing.

Then she was out the door and savoring the awesome adventure she’d wheedled and bargained and jollied her way into. The sun had scarcely cleared the horizon but already the deck was alive with people, grabbing at lines. A southeast wind, about seven knots she guessed, blew her hair. Dayna didn’t know which way they were headed, but in any case the aft sail would be raised first. Sure enough, she looked aft and spied Captain McKinsey shouting orders as crewmen took up the lines and passengers scurried around to help.

Stepping carefully to avoid getting tripped among the uncoiling ropes, she looked around for the first mate. Ayanna was nowhere. Instead, she spied the second mate, Jase Graham.

“Pull!” she heard someone shout.

As Dayna drew closer, she decided Graham looked as if he’d had a long night with too many rum swizzlers. His face looked drawn, with purple shadows under his eyes.

“Dayna Kohl reporting for duty, sir. Did the captain—?”

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