Diana Orgain's Blog, page 13
May 17, 2021
Murder at Yappy Hour (Roundup Crew Mystery Series: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss Chapter Two?
From Murder at Yappy Hour
Chapter Three
A commotion was building outside in the bar area. Beepo was
yapping relentlessly, Yolanda was alternating between calm,
soothing tones that I guessed were directed at Beepo and a
high-pitched, nervous tone that I figured was directed at the
baritone voice that was cutting in and out. Obviously, the
police had arrived.
I cringed. I had to get myself together.
Why had I called the police before figuring out Rachel’s involvement?
I turned my face into the stream of water and drank unabashedly
from the faucet. The water did nothing to relieve my nausea.
And what the hell was I going to do about the letter?
How many copies were out there? Fortunately, the guy hadn’t cc’d
anyone on the letter, but he had to have a copy on his computer. If
he’d threatened closing down Rachel’s bar, I could only imagine how
angry she’d be.
But even still . . . she would have challenged him . . . or hired a
lawyer . . . or something, but she wouldn’t have bashed him in the
head with her best bottle of merlot!
I ran the water through my hair, then turned off the faucet and
straightened. I evaluated myself in the mirror. Not only did I look like
a drowned rat, but the color had completely drained from my face.
Worse still, I looked like I had something to hide.
Prying open the door, I peeked out into the corridor.
The body was still sprawled across the sienna-colored terra cotta.
Disappointment wracked my body.
What? Had I been hoping the dead guy had been a figment of my imag‐
ination?
Yolanda was chatting with a tall uniformed officer with his back
toward me.
He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and when he turned
toward the sound of the creaking door, I froze.
In his hand was a sheet of paper.
Could it be a copy of the letter? How?
I cleared my throat nervously.
Yolanda smiled at me. “Maggie, come meet Officer Brooks.”
Officer Brooks leveled his gaze on me. My legs turned to Jell-O as
I stared back at his electric-blue eyes and square jaw.
Crap! Crap!
This was no time to be thinking of igniting my nonexistent love
life. This was the time to focus! Focus on getting that damn paper out
of his hand. Focus on getting Rachel out of hot water. Even if she had
dumped the bar on me, I still owed her that much at the very least.
I opened my mouth to speak but no sound came out.
Officer Brooks stepped toward me, shoving the paper into his
back pocket.
Shoot!
“Maggie?” he asked. “I understand you found the body here, along
with Yolanda. You have a key to the front door?”
Wait a minute. That was wasn’t right. I found the body with
Yolanda? No, she was here first. She found the body. I found her
straddling the body.
He was close to me, maybe only a few feet away, yet his voice
sounded distant. I shook my head, thinking it would help my hearing,
but now there seemed to be something wrong with my eyes, too, as if
suddenly I had no peripheral vision . . . as if suddenly things were
closing in on me.
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My hand shot out to the wall, knocking into the row of famous
dog portraits. The framed photos banged against each other, sending
the eight by ten of Gidget, the Taco Bell Chihuahua, crashing to the
floor. The autographed portrait of Rin Tin Tin was safe, luckily.
I steadied myself against the space vacated by Gidget and pressed
my cheek into cool stucco. I pulled at my shirt collar again, trying to
breathe deeply.
No, no, no.
Not a panic attack. I hadn’t had one of those since . . . since . . . Oh
no, don’t think of that! Think of the letter. Think of Rachel. Focus!
My knees began to buckle and rational thought abandoned me.
The pressing issue became getting air. I pulled at my shirt again,
trying to fan my face. I was burning up.
I had to get my shirt off.
The restroom suddenly looked miles away. I groaned.
Officer Brooks was at my side, his hand on my elbow. “Hey, are
you all right there?”
“So hot,” I said.
He smiled a lopsided grin. “I get that a lot.”
“What?” I asked, tugging at the bottom of my shirt and pulling it
up toward my face. The dim-witted thought of what bra I had on
flashed through my mind.
He pulled my shirt back down. “Whoa, whoa. What are you
doing?”
“No air,” I mumbled, trying to fan myself and wrestle my top off at
the same time.
Yolanda appeared next to us. She batted my hands away from my
shirt and slinked her arm around my waist. Officer Brooks joined her
and together they ushered me toward a bar stool.
I wrapped my arms around their waists.
Wait! Wait!
My hand was right up above his back pocket . . . right next to the
letter in his pocket. My finger grazed the paper.
Think, Maggie, think. Focus.
I tried to command my fingers to close on the paper, to grasp it,
pinch it, whatever it took! But my fine motor—oh, who was I kidding,
even my gross motor functions had totally shut down. We reached a
bar stool and I flopped onto it, nearly toppling over.
Officer Brooks steadied me, then said, “Put your head down.”
Hands guided my head between my knees.
I gulped in air. My racing heart slowed a bit and my vision
improved.
I chanced to put my head up, but a strong hand firmly kept it in
place. “Not yet,” the baritone said.
Oh, my hearing was better, too.
Now, how to get the letter?
I took a deep, calming breath.
Beepo appeared beneath my nose. We were eye to eye, nose to
nose. He bared his teeth. I bared mine. He growled. I growled back
at him.
The hand lifted from my head. “Did you just growl?” Officer
Brooks asked.
I kept my head down.
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF MURDER AT YAPPY HOUR HERE
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Murder at Yappy Hour (Roundup Crew Mystery Series: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two Continued
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss part one of Chapter Two?
From Murder at Yappy Hour
Chapter Two Continued…
“All right, you come talk to 9-1-1,” I said.
She reluctantly came around the bar, still clutching the dog, who
growled at me as they approached. “Hush now, Beepo.” She took the
phone from me. “Jen? It’s Yolanda. Maggie’s going to check for a pulse.
It’s Dan, you know? I came over early to meet with Rachel . . . no, I
don’t know where she is.”
I approached the man on the floor. Next to his bloody bashed head
was an oversized bottle of wine.
Dear God!
Someone had clobbered him in the head and the blow had killed
him. What kind of person would do something like that?
I knelt beside him and closed his eyes with my fingers, sighing at
the loss of life. He was definitely dead, there was no need to take a
pulse, but I grabbed his wrist anyway. When I lifted his arm slightly I
saw a paper on the floor, trapped under the man’s coat.
What was this?
I grabbed the slip of paper and saw Rachel’s name on it. It was
probably nothing and yet my stomach seemed to fill with dread.
I glanced toward Yolanda; she was still chatting with the operator.
Almost without thinking, I shoved the paper into my pocket.
Yolanda looked up. “Anything?” she asked, sounding almost
hopeful.
I shook my head.
“Just the police then, Jen. We don’t need an ambulance,” Yolanda
said. “Oh, you send one anyway?” She was silent for a moment, then
said, “Right, right. No sirens.”
Yolanda hung up and stared at me grimly. “I’m so sorry about this,
Maggie. I wish we could have met under more pleasant
circumstances.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “This is awful.”
“Where is Rachel?” Yolanda asked.
I wished I knew. Why had Rachel suddenly decided, mysteriously, to leave
town?
I glanced toward the restrooms, the paper burning a hole in my
pocket. I stood. “Um. She’s out of town. I’m going to check the
restroom.”
Yolanda’s free hand thumped against her chest. Beepo’s legs cycled
rapidly, alarm coursing through his tiny body. “Oh God! I forgot
about that. Should you? I mean what if someone’s hiding . . .”
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I waved a hand at her, hoping she would take it as a sign to calm
down and, more importantly, shut up. For God’s sake, it was bad
enough to find a dead body, did I have to be assaulted by a chatterbox,
too?
Now that was mean. I just need a minute of quiet to think.
“I’m sure there’s no one in there, Yolanda. I’m gonna check the
window and stuff.”
Yolanda came around the bar, squaring her shoulders. “I should go
with you. Safety in numbers and all that.”
I shook my head. “No, no. I . . .” What could I say to this woman?
I have to be alone to read this note and see if my sister is involved in a
murder?
“Uh . . .” I faltered. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Yolanda’s face softened. “Oh, honey.” She marched toward me,
Beepo yelping and snarling as she got closer. She linked her free arm
through mine. “I’ll hold your hair.”
I released her arm from mine. “I can manage.”
“I don’t blame you one bit. It is an awful, gruesome sight.”
“I’ll be okay. I need a minute.” I took a step away from her and
toward the corridor that led to the restrooms. She still seemed to
want to follow me. “Why don’t you pour yourself a brandy?” I
suggested.
Yolanda looked at me thoughtfully, then glanced back at the bar.
“Yes, you know, I think you have the right idea. A brandy. I’ll pour
two. We’ve had quite a shock.”
I nodded, keeping an eye on her as I pressed against the restroom
door with my hip. When she seemed suitably distracted, I ducked into
the bathroom and yanked the piece of paper out of my pocket.
Oh crap!
It was a letter from Dan to Rachel. I scanned it. Due to customer
complaints, as the manager of DelVecchio’s, he was threatening to file
charges against The Wine and Bark for serving alcohol to minors,
serving alcohol after hours, and becoming a “disorderly house.” Next
to each charge was a reference code to the Department of Alcoholic
Beverage Control regulations along with a possible penalty of a fine
or imprisonment.
In addition, there was a reference to a violation of the Environ‐
mental Health Statute 114030 regarding the harboring of animals
inside a food facility.
I shoved the note back into my pocket, suddenly feeling hot,
nauseous, and claustrophobic all at the same time.
Oh God, I was going to be sick, after all.
I tugged at my shirt trying to fan my face. It gave me no relief, so I
opened the bathroom window, then ran the water in the sink.
I stuck my head under the faucet and let the water run down the
back of my neck.
Breathe, Maggie. Everything is going to be fine.
Surely Rachel didn’t kill this guy.
Even if their fling ended badly and she didn’t like him anymore.
Even if he was . . . threatening her. . . .
Okay, so she had a motive, but . . .
I turned my head toward the water, letting it pour directly into my
ear, hoping it would drown out the memory of the sound of Rachel’s
voice as I recalled her famous joke, “Good friends will help you move, but
a sister will help you move a body.”
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF MURDER AT YAPPY HOUR HERE
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Murder at Yappy Hour (Roundup Crew Mystery Series: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two
Did you miss Chapter One?
From Murder at Yappy Hour
Chapter Two
Every neuron in my brain fired off at once, urging me to turn
tail immediately and run out the front door. But the neurons
didn’t seem to connect to any of my limbs, because I remained frozen
like a statue, hoping the woman wouldn’t notice me.
She was slim, wearing a short skirt and stilettos. And, of course,
she spotted me immediately. A small dog appeared from behind her
and began to bark, running toward me, its tiny nails scratching along
the terra cotta floor.
The woman let out a shriek and waved her arms around in a panic.
“Rachel! Oh my God, oh my God, Rachel. It’s Dan! I think he’s dead!”
She stepped over the body and came rushing at me in the dark. She
grabbed my hands, the pink Meat and Greet bag swinging between us.
“Thank God, you’re here,” she said. Then suddenly, she shrieked
even louder and released my hands as if stung. “You’re not Rachel!”
“I’m Maggie. Her sister.”
It was a common mistake. Rachel and I had the same athletic build,
were the same height, and had the same heart-shaped face. Physically
we were very similar, but the resemblance ended there.
“Oh! Oh.” The woman shook her head trying to make sense of
what I’d just said, but it seemed too great a task, because she started
shrieking again in hysterics. “It’s Dan Walters. He’s dead. I’m sure of it.
I think he’s dead.”
Dan? The manager at DelVecchio’s? Something tickled at the back
of my brain.
Rachel and Dan had had a fling last summer and she had been
complaining about him recently.
“I came early to meet Rachel. About the fundraiser,” the woman
said, reaching for my hand again and pulling me toward the man
slumped on the floor. “It’s awful. Come see.”
“Let’s call the police,” I said.
The woman watched me, but didn’t seem to register what I’d said.
“I came in through the back door. I brought the box of flyers.” She
pointed to a box near the body. “Then I saw him.”
I flipped on the bar lights, and suddenly the man on the floor came
into full color—at least the dark-red blood that had pooled around his
head did. He was large, had probably been very tall. He was wearing a
suit and had dark hair that was now matted against his forehead.
The woman and I both recoiled. She began to shriek again. “Oh my
God! Oh my God.”
I echoed her chorus, and pretty soon the both of us were in a state
of panic. I pressed my hands into my forehead, took a deep breath,
then chanted to myself, “Calm down, calm down, calm down.”
The woman noticed I’d stopped shrieking and nodded to the
rhythm of my chanting. “Yes, let’s calm down,” she said.
My mind reeled. What had happened? A freak accident or a
burglary gone wrong? Or something else entirely?
“Is there anyone else in here?” I asked.
The woman’s eyes grew wide. “Anyone else? I didn’t. . . you mean .
. .” She stared toward the corridor where the restrooms were. “The
killer could still be here?” she asked in a dramatic stage whisper.
I stared at her, suddenly nervously aware that she’d been standing
over Dan when I’d arrived.
Indeed. I could be looking at the killer
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A humming sound filled the room, causing us both to jump, and
the dog, a Yorkshire terrier, to bark.
It was the refrigerator coolant system kicking on.
Something warm and wet hit my ankle. I gasped at the sensation
and looked down. The small dog barked excitedly at me.
“Ewwww!” I yelped.
The woman laughed nervously and bent to scoop him up. “Beepo!
Naughty, naughty.” She turned to me. “I’m so sorry. Beepo’s never
done anything like that before in his life!”
Beepo eyed me with his big, brown, watery eyes, in that way that
dogs have that made me feel like he could read my mind. He’d known
that for a split second I’d suspected his owner of something heinous.
The woman pressed the small dog to her chest. “We must call the
police,” she said, continuing on with her theatrical whisper.
I figured if no one had rushed out of the restrooms at us, then we
were probably alone with the body. I moved around to the back of the
bar and released the Meat and Greet bag onto the floor. I grabbed the
phone and punched in 9-1-1, then snatched a bar towel and wiped my
ankle.
The 9-1-1 operator answered. “What is the nature of your
emergency?”
“We need the police over at The Wine and Bark immediately,” I
said, tossing the soiled rag on the floor.
“Oh? Rachel? This is Jen. What’s happened? A robbery?” the oper‐
ator asked.
Even though Pacific Cove was a small town, I’d barely met anyone
in my few weeks here. Rachel, on the other hand, probably knew
everyone in town, even the 9-1-1 operator, it seemed.
“Not Rachel. This is her sister, Maggie. We have a dead body here.”
The operator gasped. “A dead body? Are you sure? Did you check
for a pulse?”
I looked up at the woman who was hovering by the door of the
bar. “Did you check for a pulse?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“No,” I admitted into the phone.
“Check for a pulse. I’ll hold,” the operator said. “Can you check for
a pulse?” I called to the woman. She gasped. “Oh no! I’m not touching
him.”
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF MURDER AT YAPPY HOUR HERE
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Murder at Yappy Hour (Roundup Crew Mystery Series: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter One Continued
Did you miss Part 1 of Chapter One?
From Murder at Yappy Hour
Chapter One Continued…
I walked on toward the Meat and Greet and entered the small
butcher shop, a bell going off as I stepped on the welcome mat.
A voice called out from the back. “I’ll be right with you.”
“No problem,” I called back, marveling at the selection on display.
There was a large butcher counter filled with prime cuts, and in front
of the counter was a delectable-looking collection of gourmet cheeses
and chutneys.
I noticed a small rack of greeting cards and picked one up. It was a
hand-painted watercolor rendition of the beach. Another was a
watercolor version of the town square. The sundial was depicted in
various cards. Some cards were of parts of the cove itself that I had yet
to visit, but most were studies of sea creatures. My favorites were a
close-up of a starfish, and another of a jellyfish, its luminescent colors
splashed across the card. They were all done by the same artist,
someone named Coral.
Something stirred inside me. Years ago, when life was simple, I’d
loved to paint. I probably was never as gifted or dedicated as Coral
— whoever she was—but maybe it would be a nice pastime again.
Life had been so busy in New York that I’d felt I’d almost lost
myself; maybe painting would help me put some pieces back
together.
“Thanks for waiting.” A middle-age woman in a butchers coat
appeared from the back of the shop and hustled to her place behind
the counter. She had unruly dark hair and dimples when she smiled,
making me smile back at her.
“No worries,” I said. “I just came in for a cut of meat for my uncle.”
The woman studied me a moment. “Your uncle? Who’s that? I
know everyone in town and I don’t think we’ve met yet.”
“My great-uncle Ernest—”
“Oh! Are you Maggie? Ernest has told me so much about you! His
little Magpie. He is so proud of you, and of Rachel, too. Well, the
whole town is proud of Rachel. What a doll, an absolute doll. How do
you like Pacific Cove?”
“Just getting settled in—”
“Yes, it takes some time. Are you staying at the Casa Ensenada
Apartments? Ensenada means cove in Spanish, did you know? Those
little apartments are so charming. Do you have one with a little patio
and ocean view?”
I laughed. After living in New York City for a stint, it seemed
unreal that a perfect stranger would not only know where I was
living, but actually know the layout of my apartment. “I do have an
ocean view.”
The woman smiled. “Lovely. Lovely. You’ll have to have a house‐
warming! We could do something fun,” the woman continued. “Like a
stock-the-bar party.” She wiggled her eyebrows at me.
“If I manage to get hired at Soleado, I’ll schedule a party immedi‐
ately,” I said.
“Oh! Have you applied to the new cruise line?” she asked. “Yeah.
Bookkeeper, but I guess in ship lingo its called purser.”
“Right. I hear you’re a financial whiz!” she said.
“I don’t know about that—”
The woman laughed, a low deep satisfied rumble that would make
anyone in earshot vibrate. “You’re just being modest! Rachel raves
about you. You should have her put in a word for you. They need
someone sharp. You have to deal with foreign currency and whatnot.
Now what can I get for you? Is Ernest feeling any better? We had such
a scare a few weeks ago. Is his appetite back?”
“He’s requesting a filet, so I think we can safely say he’s on the road
to recovery.”
The woman took a tray of meat from behind the counter and
placed a few cuts onto butcher paper. “I know he likes the marbled
ones. How many filets?”
“Two,” I said.
I hadn’t officially been invited to dinner, but I suspected Grunkly
would want me to stay. Besides, I didn’t have any other plans except to
hover over my phone waiting for a call from the cruise line. It’d be
good to get my mind off it for a while.
The woman wrapped up the meat and placed it into a pink plastic
bag. I paid and headed out into the bright sunlight, a cool ocean
breeze sweeping over my face. Thankfully the heat of the day was
finally relenting a bit.
My phone buzzed.
Soleado!
I pulled my phone from my pocket and glanced at the screen. It
was a text from Rachel.
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Maggie, I’m going out of town unexpectedly. I know its short
notice, but can you tend to The Wine and Bark until I get back? Yappy
hour is at 5pm. You have a key, don’t you? If not, ask Dan, the
manager at DelVecchio’s. xoxox
HOW STRANGE. THIS WASN’T LIKE RACHEL AT ALL.
She was going out of town? Where?
Why hadn’t she said anything about it to me earlier? While I had
no problem helping out my sister, I hesitated over dealing with the
dogs, as they never seemed particularly friendly to me.
I checked my watch; it was almost four thirty now. I fumbled with
my phone and dialed her number. I did have a key for the bar on me,
but something in my gut began to buzz with worry.
Her voice mail clicked on.
I left a quick message, “Hey Rach, what’s going on? I’m on my way
to the bar now. Hope you’re okay. Call me.” I made my way across the
cobblestone walkway toward The Wine and Bark. I dialed Grunkly
next. He picked up on the first ring.
“Hi, Grunkly, I got a message from Rachel. She needs me to cover
for her at the bar.”
“Oh, uh huh.”
It was his distracted voice. “Grunkly, are you watching a race?”
“No, it’s ten minutes to post,” he said.
That explained it.
“Have you seen Benny?” he asked.
I laughed. “Well, I didn’t run into him at the Meat and Greet.”
“Uh huh,” Grunkly said.
“I got your steak, though.”
“Great,” he said.
“But I have to go to The Wine and Bark—”
“No problem, honey. I’ll have a can of Dinty Moore stew.”
“All right. Should I save the steaks for tomorrow?”
“That’d be really nice,” Grunkly said with such a flat tone that I
knew he wasn’t listening to a word I said.
Nevertheless, I insisted on asking, “Do you know where
Rachel is?”
“Oh, Magpie, I got a call beeping in. I have to get it. It could be
Benny.”
Before I could say anything else, Grunkly hung up on me.
I sighed as I stood in front of the antique wooden door of The
Wine and Bark. It was painted blue and orange and had a “happy vibe”
practically pulsing right through it. I had to give Rachel credit, she’d
built the place from the ground up with limited funds and now the
business was thriving.
I laced the pink plastic bag around my wrist, then dug for the key
in my pocket. When I shoved the key into the lock, the first thing that
struck me was that I hadn’t needed the key after all. The door wasn’t
even locked.
Now that really isn’t like Rachel.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I pushed open the door
and stepped into the darkened bar. My eyes adjusted slowly, the
outline of the great L-shaped mahogany bar coming into view, then a
few tables with stools perched on top to facilitate mopping the floors,
and then near the back of the bar, right in front of the small corridor
that led to his and hers, the silhouette of a woman standing over a
body slumped on the floor.
Rachel, what have you got me into?
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF MURDER AT YAPPY HOUR HERE
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First Date with Death (Love or Money Murder Mystery Series: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three Continued…
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss Chapter Two?
Did you miss Part One of Chapter Three?
Chapter Three Continued…
The same makeup artist from the day before materialized. She
tilted my chin upward and began to apply foundation.
The gal doing my hair gave a garbled command through a
mouthful of bobby pins. I figured it had something to do again with
my posture, so I pressed my shoulders back and tried to study the
woman doing my makeup. Unfortunately, I only got a flash of her face
as she immediately went to work on applying my eye shadow.
Who did she remind me of?
They whipped me into readiness in short order and then I was
ushered over to the men’s house for the announcement.
I entered the mansion and was positioned near the fireplace
mantel. The men were all seated and watching me. Had it not been for
the unsettling feeling that was already descending upon me, it would
have been nerve-wracking to have the nine of them gaping at me. As
it was, I felt myself tense, gearing up for a fight. Like answering a call
during those few short years I’d been on the beat. You know the news
is never going to be good. It may not be fatal, but it’s never good.
The guys who’d been on the date the day before—Ty, Pietro, Scott,
and Edward—were all a bit ashen faced. The others were smiling and
goofing around with each other. They seemed completely unaware of
the disaster.
Hadn’t anyone told them?
Cheryl entered, but instead of addressing us she put on a headset
and made a beeline to the back of the set. She motioned for cameras
to start rolling.
Harris Carlson, our ever-fearless host, entered, clicking on a
champagne glass with a silver spoon to get our attention, apparently
oblivious to the fact that he already had it.
“Gentlemen. Georgia!” He smiled widely, almost blinding me with
his overwhitened teeth. “I understand that Aaron had an unfortunate
accident yesterday and he won’t be returning. So while that is
certainly awful news, the good news is that there will be no elimina‐
tion round.” He smiled again.
I surveyed Edward and Scott. They were looking at the floor. Ty
and Pietro were looking equally straight-faced and grim.
Nathan, a surfer with shaggy, long blond hair and killer blue eyes,
asked, “What happened to Aaron?”
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So they didn’t know.
“Aaron is in the hospital,” Harris said.
In the hospital? Was he alive?
My God, how had he survived?
At the very least he was either in a coma or paraplegic or both.
“Did he break a leg or something?” Mitch, a wealthy real estate
investor, asked.
Harris toned down the megawattage on his smile. “C’mon, guys,
you know I can’t disclose his medical information.”
Mitch sat up straighter and flashed me his own toothy grin. “Well,
don’t get me wrong. I hope he recovers fast, but that means I’m one
step closer to ending up with this lovely lady.” He wiggled his
eyebrows at me. “And then there were nine.”
“Yeah,” Nathan agreed.
I refrained from grimacing. Good God, one had just quoted an
Agatha Christie murder mystery and the other had exuberantly
agreed. I had to get out of here.
Harris cleared his throat. “We won’t be able to use the footage
from yesterday. So we’re going to refilm the first date. Sort of ‘re-create’ it.”
This time I must have visibly grimaced because the cameraman
normally trained on me panned to the fireplace. After a moment, he
refocused on me.
Re-create?
What the hell did he mean, re-create?
I felt my ire rising and I couldn’t wait for the shoot to be over to
confront Cheryl.
“And I should tell you that we have a new cast member. Sorry,
Mitch. Not one step closer to the lovely Georgia, but sort of like a
do-over.” He upped the wattage on his grin.
Do-over?
Aaron didn’t get a do-over. What the hell was going on?
Harris pivoted in his red Berluti loafers and motioned toward the
door. “Gentlemen, meet your newest competition.”
Two cameras panned toward the door. Another stayed trained on
me and the last on the remaining men in the room. Everyone’s reac‐
tion was sure to be captured and manipulated however Cheryl
thought would get the most mileage.
My mouth went dry and I suddenly felt light-headed.
It couldn’t be true.
Through the doors walked Paul Sanders, my ex-fiancé. He even
had the nerve to wear the tux he hadn’t worn to our wedding.
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF A FIRST DATE WITH DEATH HERE
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First Date with Death (Love or Money Murder Mystery Series: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss Chapter Two?
Chapter Three
Int. Library – Day
Aaron is looking directly at the camera, He’s in his late twenties
and dressed in a windowpane shirt and has boyish good looks.
His foot is repeatedly tapping and his eyes shift back and
forth.
CHERYL (O.S.)
So, Aaron, are you looking for love or money?
AARON
Love? Yeah, yeah, love . . . Um, I suppose everyone is looking for
love, but if you mean right now, like, here on the show . . . uh, I don’t
think a reality TV show is the right place to find love.
CHERYL (O.S.)
What if after you meet our contestant you fall madly in love
with her?
AARON
Oh. I’m sure she’s a wonderful girl. I mean, sure, she’s probably
great. Nothing against her. It’s just that I’m at a point in my life where
I really need the money. I mean, I really need it, okay?
I awoke in the RV and peered out the door, we were back in Los
Angeles, parked outside the mansion that the men lived in during the
shoot. I was only allowed to have dates there, I couldn’t move in any
of my things. I couldn’t cook or shower there and I certainly wasn’t
allowed to sleep in the incredible master suite.
How cruel was that? So close, and yet so far away.
At least there were no cameras in the bus. I could actually have a
moment of privacy. But only a moment, as it seemed that every other
second there was someone banging around outside or on my door.
One of the bangs was accompanied by Cheryl’s voice singing out,
“You awake, Sleeping Beauty?”
I swallowed past the dryness in my throat. “Come in.”
Cheryl poked her head through the door. “Good. You’re alive. You
need to be at the men’s house in an hour. Harris Carlson is going to
make an announcement.” She eyed me. “Christ. Get into hair and
makeup. No one wants to see you like that!”
She let the door bang behind her.
I lay back down.
Harris Carlson was the host of the show. Surely “his” announce‐
ment was something that Cheryl and the other producers wanted to
tell the cast at the same time. What would happen if I refused to go?
How had we gotten to L.A., anyway? Had I really slept the
whole way?
And had SFPD really let us leave? The preliminary findings on
Aaron must have pointed toward accidental death. Of course. What
else could it have been?
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Before I could contemplate things further, my door opened again
and Becca came in.
“I was told you were given the warning call by the queen herself.
You can’t ignore her, you know. We need you now. You look like crap
and we’re not miracle workers.”
She pulled me up by the wrist.
I moaned as I got to my feet.
“I don’t wanna—”
“Oh, spare me.” She pushed me toward the small toilet at the back
of the coach. “I don’t wanna do a lot of things, either. Most of all I
don’t want to send you to makeup until you brush your teeth.”
I grudgingly stripped and stepped into a freezing shower. Becca
was yelling at me, so I didn’t have time to wait for the water heater to
kick on.
Fortunately, the cold water helped snap the grogginess out of me.
What was Harris Carlson going to tell us? With any luck he’d tell
us they were canceling the show. But wait: if that were the case, I
wouldn’t have to go to hair and makeup. How could we continue to
film after what had happened? How morbid.
My thoughts turned to Aaron. Had the rest of the cast been told
about him? How could we possibly play this off for the cameras? The
thought made me sick.
I shut off the water and toweled dry.
When I emerged from the bathroom, I spotted the outfit that
Becca had laid out for me. It was the same violet halter dress I’d had
on the first evening. Why in the world would they put me in the same
dress?
I stepped out of the bus into bright L.A. sunlight and felt the sting
on my eyes as if I were Count Dracula himself. I looked around for
Becca, but didn’t see her. I was anxious to pepper her with questions
about the previous day and also what was going on now.
I made my way toward the tented area that doubled as hair and
makeup. I sat in a fold-up camping chair and a gal with an enviable
dye job went to work on my hair. She mumbled something to herself
about my posture and I sat up straighter.
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF A FIRST DATE WITH DEATH HERE
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First Date with Death (Love or Money Murder Mystery Series: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two Continued…
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss Part One of Chapter Two?
Chapter Two Continued…
Scott didn’t take the hint. “I gotta see the footage the camera crew
took. Unbelievable!”
My disgust overtook me and I said, “How ghoulish.”
Scott looked over at me, seemingly surprised that I’d overheard
him. A lopsided smile filled his face. “You think that’s ghoulish? Hell,
nobody gets out alive.”
I made a mental note: Scott would be the first to get the boot.
The fireman concluded that I had not suffered any physical
trauma. Any trauma I felt was purely psychological. What else
was new?
When he left, Edward searched inside my refrigerator and pulled
out a bottle of water.
Scott peered over Edward’s shoulder into the fridge. “What? No
beer?”
Edward ignored him and passed me the water along with a small
white pill.
“What’s this?” I asked, fingering the tiny tablet.
“My personal stash,” he replied. “Consider it a fast prescription
fill.”
Scott oohed. “Give me some of that, man. I’ve been traumatized,
too.”
“Undoubtedly, but your trauma was too long ago to fix now,”
Edward said. He turned to me. “Don’t worry it’s only a valium.”
“No,” I said.
Why this guy was a walking drugstore?
Ordinarily, I’d have grilled him about it, but since we’d just
witnessed a man plummet to his death… Oh, God. What if it had been
foul play?
The thought made my head ache.
No, it had been a dreadful accident. I kicked off my shoes and
climbed under the covers.
The door to the RV popped open again and Martinez stuck his
head inside. “We need statements from each of you.”
Scott and Edward both got up.
Scott squeezed my foot through the blanket. “I’m glad you’re all
right.”
“Oh, you have a heart after all?”
He pinched my big toe. “I’m sorry; I got off on the wrong foot with
you.”
Martinez cleared his throat and indicated that officers were
waiting outside. Scott and Edward left the RV, the paper-thin door
banging repeatedly against the wall as the wind whipped it out of
Scott’s hand. Martinez reached out and secured the door.
When he was sure they were gone he asked, “What the hell are you
doing on a reality TV show?”
I moaned.
“Are those two of the guys you’re supposed to be dating?”
I covered my head with the blanket.
After a moment I said, “Are you here on official business?”
“Of course,” Martinez said.
“I fail to see the relevance of my dating life, then.”
Martinez grumbled. “Okay, tell me what happened.”
I cataloged the events for him, as though they had occurred to
someone else and not me. I supposed that was some stupid defense
mechanism. After all, the last thing I wanted to do was cry in front of
him and have that get back to Paul.
Martinez took notes and when I finished, he asked, “You say
someone pushed you?”
I frowned. “Pushed me? No, no. Well, not really. I mean, someone
did press against me, but I assumed it was Cheryl just trying to get the
scene going.”
Martinez looked down at his notebook. “Was there an order you
guys were supposed to jump in?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Who was supposed to jump first?” Martinez asked. “Was it always
supposed to be you and Aaron?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t think we were supposed to jump together. I
thought there was a safety distance issue. Anyway, I assumed I’d go
last, but maybe I made that up.”
I was starting to feel fuzzy around the edges.
“I think the cowboy wanted to go first. But the witch told Aaron
and me to go,” I said.
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“Who’s the witch?” Martinez asked. “Becca?”
I laughed. Only it lasted a little too long and bordered on hysterics.
I collected myself and said, “I’ll tell her you said that. I meant the
other witch, Cheryl.”
Martinez made a note. “I’ll talk to her again.”
I sighed. “Yeah, there’ll be a lot of talking. Lawyers, insurance
people, even the supes from the city will get involved, I bet. Maybe
even his royal highness, the mayor. You suppose he’ll want a little PR
out of this horrible accident?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Seems like he always wants publicity.”
“Who do you think will be the P.I. officer assigned? Kristen?”
“You know we don’t get involved with that. Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters.”
Even as the words tumbled out of my mouth I knew Martinez was
right. I was no longer a public information officer. I’d been canned for
releasing unauthorized information to the public. I’d been asked by
the media about departmental overtime and potential steps to reme‐
diate the expense. At that the time I thought I was simply giving my
opinion, but I soon learned that I wasn’t allowed an opinion. At least
that’s what was made clear to me by the newly appointed police chief.
He’d claimed that the overtime forecasts were confidential. City poli‐
tics at it’s finest.
First, I’d been put on administrative detail, a.k.a. the rubber gun
squad—where careers go to die.
Then, after my Skelly hearing, when the review board found me
not guilty and recommended I be returned to my post, the decision to
terminate me had ultimately been the chief’s. The board only provides
“recommendations.” The chief, who reports to the mayor, makes the
final decision even if it contradicts the review board.
I was asked to turn in my badge and gun.
Boom. Big mouth = career over.
Martinez tapped my arm. “Hey, you sure you’re okay? Seems like
you’re kind of spacey.”
My eyelids felt heavy, but I managed a nod.
“How come you haven’t called Brandi?” Martinez continued. “She’s
hurt, you know, that you guys don’t talk anymore. She wanted me to
tell you that just because you and Paul aren’t together doesn’t mean
she dumped you.”
I cringed.
Brandi was Martinez’s wife. As soon as Paul and I had begun
dating, she’d attached herself to me, thinking that because Paul and
Martinez were best friends, their significant others should be best
friends, too. Problem was, I had a best friend—since middle school—
and I’d never liked Brandi.
At that moment, Becca burst through the Prevost coach door. She
barely acknowledged Martinez and hopped into bed with me. She
scooped me into her arms.
“Oh, my God, Georgia! It could have been you!” She showered the
top of my head with kisses. “It could have been you,” she repeated.
Martinez mumbled something and left.
I closed my eyes and the entire day flashed through my mind.
It could have been me.
Something nagged at me. The makeup woman I hadn’t placed . . .
who was she? My mind was becoming increasingly fuzzy.
The coach seemed to be getting darker; either that or I was having
a hard time keeping my eyes open.
“I’m exhausted,” I murmured to Becca.
“No doubt. It was shock.”
I turned over. “I think I need to crash for a bit.”
“Yeah. Sleep. It’ll do you good.” Becca said.
I prayed, I’d have a deep sleep and wake up a different person with
a different life a million miles away.
Ridiculously, a smile came over my face. “At least I’m done with
the show now.” I sighed, relief wafting over me.
The last thing I heard before dozing off was Becca saying, “Done
with the show? Oh, no, honey, they’re not letting you off the show. Do
you know what this kind of thing does for ratings?”
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF A FIRST DATE WITH DEATH HERE
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First Date with Death (Love or Money Murder Mystery Series: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two
Did you miss Chapter One?
Chapter Two
The journey back to the bridge felt endless. My eyes were
glued to Aaron, dangling beside me, and I couldn’t stop
myself from shouting repeatedly, “Aaron! Aaron! Answer me. Aaron!
Respond, damn it!”
Then suddenly I was moving up and he seemed to be at a stand-still,
maybe even descending.
What was going on?
Oh, God, was there another malfunction?
Would they drop me, too?
I stopped flailing and gripped the harness, as if gripping it would
make me more secure somehow.
Aaron’s body made its descent, the Coast Guard boat motoring
directly underneath him.
They must have determined that the Coast Guard would have the
fastest emergency response.
Taking a deep breath, I realized that I hadn’t stopped screaming
long enough to inhale. The water was now a great distance away, but I
continued to shout in vain, and by this point, I don’t think I was
saying anything intelligible.
The vague thought that I was in hysterics floated across my mind,
as if someone else had put it there, as if I were someone else and not
this shrieking woman.
My body was hoisted over the railing of the bridge and, despite the
hands gripping at me, I immediately collapsed onto the deck.
Pressing my cheek to the cold metal, I could feel the hum of the
traffic reverberate through my body. My screams subsided and I
found my voice matching the hum of the bridge in an odd, regressive,
self-soothing manner. I was shaking uncontrollably and because I was
splayed out on the deck, the sway of the bridge was more
pronounced, aggravating my nausea.
Another thought, as if spoken from somewhere outside my
head, commanded me to pull myself together. I stopped
humming and fought to get my legs under me. I tried to stand
up, but hands were pressing me down, a voice calling for a
blanket.
“Stay here; don’t try to get up,” the voice said.
I couldn’t identify the voice and I certainly wasn’t going to obey it.
Not now that I seemed to be getting myself back on track.
I pushed against the hands and flipped over. It was the doctor,
Edward, trying to restrain me. I pounded my fists against his chest.
“Let me up. I’ve got to get to Aaron.”
“He’s with the first responders.”
“I’m a first responder!” I yelled in his face.
“So am I,” he said, calmly putting a hand on my forehead and
pressing my head back on the deck.
So that was it? I was a victim? Someone in need of rescuing?
“No! No. I’m fine,” I said, swallowing back vomit.
“Right, I know,” he soothed. He was holding my wrist and I real‐
ized he was taking my pulse even as he said, “You had a shock. I just
want to be sure.”
I leapt forward, shoving my elbow into Edward’s chest. This
classic self-defense maneuver pushed him far enough from me that I
was able to get to my feet. But it didn’t dissuade him from charging
me and grabbing me in a bear hug.
I punched at his shoulders fruitlessly. “Let me go!”
“No,” he said. “I won’t.”
I buried my face in his chest as sobs racked my body.
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He held me and stroked my hair, whispering soothing platitudes
into my ear.
I was vaguely aware of the commotion around me. Cheryl yelling
into her walkie-talkie, the crew rushing around, and the police sirens,
but God help me, I was also aware of my body’s reaction to Edward’s
touch.
His chest felt strong and solid. His body gave off a radiating heat
that enveloped me, making me feel safe.
I could barely feel my legs beneath me and I realized Edward was
holding me up. I tried to speak but no words came out. I was dizzy
and desperately trying to hold on to consciousness.
Don’t faint now, for God’s sake! a voice inside my head warned.
Nonetheless, Edward picked me up and began to carry me toward
the north side of the bridge, where our crew vehicles were parked.
Two police cruisers pulled to a stop.
A different kind of dread flooded me.
Would Paul respond to this call?
I recognized Martinez in one of the cruisers. I squinted at the
other car. It was Wong. They stepped out of their respective vehicles
as if in an orchestrated dance. Glancing at each other and communi‐
cating like cops, without words. Wong ran toward the crew and
Martinez cut Edward off.
“Is that Georgia Thornton?” he asked.
Edward nodded. “I’m taking her to her RV.”
“Does she need medical attention?” Martinez asked, grabbing at
my hand.
I squeezed his hand. “Hey, Marty.”
“I’m a doctor,” Edward said.
Martinez ignored him and called for an ambulance into the
walkie-talkie attached to his shoulder.
The fact that I was on the wrong side of things struck me hard. I
was the one who was supposed to be communicating with SFPD, but I
was no longer one of them . . .
That realization drew an involuntary noise from my throat, some‐
thing akin to keening.
“You look like hell, Thorn,” Martinez said.
I regained my composure and said, “Thanks. So kind of you to
say.”
Martinez smiled. “Okay, if you’re still able to be a smart-ass, I
think you’ll live.” He raised his eyebrows at Edward. “’Course, I ain’t
no doctor. Why don’t you take her to the RV like you said and I’ll
check on you guys in a minute.”
Edward nodded as two more patrol cars pulled over. I glanced at
them: Lee and Schrader.
Everyone would now be responding to the code Martinez had
put out.
No Paul yet, though. Thank God.
“Where’s Paul?” I asked Martinez. “Will he be here?”
I cringed. The last thing I needed was for Paul to show up and, yet,
my voice had semibetrayed me. It almost sounded hopeful.
Martinez’s walkie-talkie crackled. “He’s in court today.”
A shudder went through my body. I took it as relief, but Edward
said, “I need to get her warmed up before she goes into shock.”
He didn’t wait for Martinez to respond.
Inside the coach, Edward wrapped me in a blanket and squeezed
my hand. “Do you have any brandy here?”
“What?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It calms the nerves.”
“I thought that was an old wives’ tale,” I replied.
The door to the RV banged open and the horror writer, Scott,
stood there.
“How’s she doing? The medics are here; they want to take a look at
her.” He looked around at the white carpet and the mirrored ceilings.
“Feels like Vegas in here.”
A uniform peeked in. It was a firefighter I didn’t know. He asked
me a series of questions.
I answered as best I could, while eavesdropping on Scott and
Edward.
“Holy cow! I couldn’t have written something like that! Did you
see him splat against the water?” Scott asked.
Edward frowned and shook his head, motioning in my general
direction.
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF A FIRST DATE WITH DEATH HERE
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May 10, 2021
First Date with Death (Love or Money Murder Mystery Series: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter One Continued…
Did you miss Part One?
Chapter One Continued…
The crew was urging us toward the edge of the bridge. We didn’t
have time to dillydally, as the show had been granted special access for
the shoot. Bungee jumping was not ordinarily allowed off the Golden
Gate Bridge due to boat traffic, but the producers had been able to
close down the shipping lanes for one hour. Everything is for sale in
San Francisco.
Car traffic, on the other hand, was still open on the bridge. Every‐
thing may be for sale, but even Hollywood has a budget. It was
nerve-wracking and noisy to have the cars whizzing by.
“If you’re nervous, maybe someone else can go first,” Ty offered.
Cheryl said, “Someone needs to go, for God’s sake. We need to get
the show on the road. Aaron, want to go?”
Aaron looked surprised and Ty seemed relieved.
“Uh, yeah, certainly. Love to,” Aaron said, although he looked
unsure.
Cheryl turned to me and shouted, “You, get over here and watch
him jump. We need the shot.”
I don’t know what I’d imagined when I thought about possibly
finding love on this show, but it certainly hadn’t included this
six-foot-tall blond woman yelling at me constantly. In fact, she’d never
even entered my mind and now she seemed never to leave.
Aaron took his place near the edge of the bridge and I stood next
to him. The crew maneuvered around us, although one camera
remained trained on my face, my every expression being recorded for
posterity.
I hoped I didn’t look nauseous. I certainly felt it.
Despite the tech people assuring me it was safe, jumping off the
bridge was the last thing I wanted to do.
Down below I could see the Coast Guard boat hovering, one of the
conditions the City of San Francisco had put on our use of the bridge.
Cheryl hadn’t cared about the condition. In fact, she’d used it in
negotiations for the show, requesting two cameramen be allowed to
board and film our jumps.
“Are you ready, Aaron?” I asked, remembering to smile for the
camera, but fearing it came off more as a grimace.
Aaron returned my smile, only his seemed genuine. “Oh, yeah. I’ve
been jumping before. It’s really a hoot. Feels like you’re flying.” He
grabbed my hand and said, “Georgia, will you jump with me?”
Before I could reply, he turned to the tech. “Is her line ready?”
I heard the tech say, “She’s—”
The din of traffic seemed to grow, a car honking at precisely that
moment.
Then someone touched the small of my back and Cheryl yelled,
“Action!”
Aaron let out a war cry and leapt, still squeezing my hand and
pulling me forward. Someone pushed sharply on my back. I was off
balance, trying to stay on the bridge.
Aaron didn’t release me and his momentum propelled me forward.
I slipped off the railing, falling with him, our hands finally disen‐
tangling.
The wind howled furiously at me. I howled back. My face tight,
completely stretched with the force of gravity, my own saliva
streaming across my checks as I screamed. Aaron was screaming, too,
only his yells were ones of sheer delight.
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His arms were flung out from his sides and he held them horizon‐
tally, imitating a plane.
We were soaring through the air like birds—only birds on a sharp
descent, toward water that looked like a sheet of solid glass.
Adrenaline surged through my system, everything registering in
slow motion: Aaron’s expression of pure joy, the sunlight reflecting
off the water and blinding me, the sound of the boat nearby.
The Coast Guard.
We were speeding, rushing closer and closer to the water. My
breath caught in my throat, gagging me. I fought the impulse to retch.
How close to the water were we supposed to get?
When would the cord tighten?
What had the tech said?
All my mind could process was the water seemingly racing
toward me.
And then, suddenly, my cord pulled taut and my descent stopped. I
bounced up, the water receding rapidly. The negative g-force playing
havoc with my stomach.
Out of nowhere a horrific crashing, splashing, screeching sound
pierced my ears.
Water shot upward.
I pressed both hands over my mouth and tried to keep the blood‐
curdling scream inside, but failed.
Aaron had hit the water.
His bungee cord finally tightened and snapped to position, but he
was already underwater.
I continued flying upward, the distance between Aaron and me an
eternity.
It felt as if I would crash right through the bottom of the bridge.
And then my descent began again, water rushing toward me.
Dear God, would I crash into the water, too?
I was paralyzed with fear as the cord tightened and then the water
raced away. Then I was falling again, zooming toward the water, now
my nemesis beckoning me, luring and tempting me to give up the
fight.
The cord tightened one last time and I came to an abrupt stop,
suspended above the bay—so close I could feel the salt spray on my
skin.
I filled my lungs with air and screamed. I kicked and thrashed
about, trying to break the harness that had just saved my life. Aaron
was so close to me, I needed to grab him and pull him out of the
water. I was vaguely aware of the Coast Guard boat nearby, the sound
of the engine revving, the fumes of the diesel gagging me.
I heard the crackle of the Coast Guard’s radio and then Cheryl’s
voice frantically shouting, “Hoist him up! Holy Christ! Hoist him up!”
I raised my head and was surprised to see the Coast Guard boat so
close. Without words the entire crew had sprung into action. But one
camera was still trained on me. The other camera zoomed in on
Aaron.
I felt a jolt and realized I was being raised back toward the bridge.
“No, no, stop! Let me go—I can reach him!” I yelled.
Then the hoist on Aaron’s harness began to crank and he was
lifted out of the water.
His dripping, lifeless form hung like a rag doll from the bungee.
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF A FIRST DATE WITH DEATH HERE
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First Date with Death (Love or Money Murder Mystery Series: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter One
Chapter One
The bungee-jumping harness bit into my shoulders and legs
as I looked over the railing of the Golden Gate Bridge. To
say the water looked frigid was an understatement. The whitecaps of
the bay screamed out glacier and hypothermia.
“You’re not in position,” Cheryl, the producer, yelled.
I felt the camera zoom in on me. They needed an extreme close-up
of my every facial expression so they could broadcast my terror to the
world. Magnify my embarrassment and mortification.
One of the techs said something to Cheryl and she shouted, “Cut!”
The cameraman lost interest in me.
“Why am I doing this?” I asked Becca, my best friend and the
assistant producer on this godawful reality TV show, Love or Money.
“To find your dream man,” Becca answered.
“I found him already, remember? Then he left me at the altar.”
A makeup artist appeared at my elbow and applied powder to my
nose.
“Dream men do not leave their brides at the altar,” Becca said.
“Clearly, he was not the one.”
I studied the woman brushing powder on my face. She had beautiful
chocolate-colored skin, a straight nose, and eyes so dark and
intense they looked like pools of india ink. She looked familiar, but
before I could place her, she turned and walked away.
“I thought you always liked Paul,” I said to Becca.
“I did until he left me at the altar,” Becca replied.
“He left me.”
“Me, too. I was standing right next to you in a stupid tulle and
taffeta dress. Anyway, enough about your horrible fashion sense—”
I laughed.
“Even if you don’t find your dream man here,” Becca continued,
“focus on the cash prize. You need it.”
She was kind enough not to add “since you were fired,” but I felt
the sting anyway. If anyone had told me, six months before, that I’d be
on a reality TV show looking for love and/or money, I’d have called
them 5150, a.k.a. clinically insane. But here I was, ex-cop, ex-bride-to-be-with
a broken heart and broken career—looking to start over.
Ty, one of my “dates,” sauntered over. He was wearing jeans and
boots and his trademark cowboy hat. A bungee harness crisscrossed
through his legs. Despite the harness, or perhaps because of it, he
looked hot. Although I was hard-pressed to think of any outfit that he
wouldn’t look hot in.
“Are you nervous, Miss Georgia?” he asked.
I found myself absently wondering if he’d wear his hat while
bungee jumping.
He reached out tentatively and touched the back of my hand with
a single finger. “Miss Georgia?” he repeated.
I suddenly became aware of the camera rolling again and snapped
to attention. “Yes. I’m nervous. I thought I’d get to pick the dates, but I
didn’t. I would have never picked this. Only a lunatic—”
I heard the producer, Cheryl, grumble.
I wasn’t supposed to say anything negative about the dates, of
course. They were supposed to look authentic, so that the audience
wouldn’t know that I had absolutely zero control over anything. The
crew would have to edit out my last comment.
Ty seemed to notice the same thing because he replied smoothly,
“I’ve always wanted to bungee jump.” His lips quirked up in an irre‐
sistible manner. “And now we get to do it off this beautiful bridge.”
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Cheryl, who was standing behind him, smiled. He’d just saved the
scene. She liked him.
Well, in those tight jeans and boots, and with the cute southern
drawl—who could blame her?
I glanced around at the others. They seemed ready to go and had
started heading my way. It was inevitable, once someone started
showing interest in me, that the others would follow—like a pack of
dogs fighting over a lone piece of meat.
Bungee jumping off the bridge was my first date, and I’d selected
five of the ten eligible bachelors—or not so eligible. The gist of the
show was for me to pick a guy who was emotionally available for a
relationship, someone who was on the show for love.
During casting, each guy had given a heart-to-heart interview with
the producer, Cheryl Dennison. They’d confessed whether they were
ready to be in a relationship. Five guys were searching for love; five
guys weren’t. Because I’d worked for SFPD, somehow Hollywood
thought I’d be able to figure out everyone’s motives.
I had my doubts.
If I picked the right guy, we’d split $250,000. If I picked a guy who
was emotionally unavailable he’d walk off with the cash prize on his
own and, maybe worse, a piece of my heart.
America would be privy to the interviews. I’m sure those clips
would expose me as a fool along the way.
I pictured Cheryl’s editing staff. As soon as I said someone was
cute or hot or sweet, she’d revel in playing a clip of the heart-to-heart
where he told America all the reasons he couldn’t fall in love. That
kind of thing would be great for ratings.
The guys I’d asked on this date were the ones I suspected might be
on the show for the cash. Best to eliminate the fakes ASAP.
I’d selected Ty, the cowboy, because at the first night’s cocktail
party I couldn’t actually get him to tell me what he did for a living.
Edward, the hot doctor—tall, with dark hair, a great smile, and a
wonderful gentleness about him—had to have student loans from
med school up the wazoo.
Scott, the brooding writer, wrote horror stories—I hoped to read
to get an idea about him. He was mysterious and supersexy, with a
tight body and a bit of a swagger, and he had a shaved head and dark,
piercing eyes.
But who made any money as a writer?
Aaron, the investment banker, looked like the boy next door.
Clean-cut, respectable, and polite.
I wouldn’t typically peg investment bankers as needing money, but
something about Aaron was unsettling, as though he had some
desperation vibe wafting off him.
And then there was Pietro, the Italian hunk with an accent that
drove me wild.
I’d invited him because I had a weakness for accents, and weakness
must be sought out and destroyed at any cost.
Everyone was suited up and ready to go. My harness felt so tight I
thought I might explode out of it. It was cutting into my shoulders
and crotch—certainly not a woman-friendly look. But I didn’t
complain for fear they would make it too loose and I’d slip out of it at
exactly the wrong moment.
Was there no happy medium for me?
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF A FIRST DATE WITH DEATH HERE
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