Diana Orgain's Blog, page 4
September 23, 2021
Cereal Killer (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Eleven) Sneak Peek – Chapter One Continued
Did you miss part one of Chapter One?
From Cereal Killer
Chapter One Continued…
He let out a sigh. “So, that’s some background of why we don’t
want people to know we’re investigating. I told you that she received
some threatening notes?”
I nodded.
“We’ll look at them when we get to her house, but she told me that,
whoever this person is, they know she bought someone else’s grapes.
She thinks that may be the reason they’re harassing her.”
“A rival vineyard?”
He let out a sigh and turned up the air conditioning. “Maybe. Or
maybe an ex-boyfriend. Thomas.” His lips curled into a sneer. “I
always hated him. Smug idiot. He runs a local wine bar, and he
recently expanded his business—bought the building next door to his
bar and fixed it up as an all-inclusive wedding venue. Luz’s vineyard is
beautiful, and people rent it out for events, especially weddings.
Thomas is still in love with her and is trying to win her back, but he’s
also trying to undermine her business and poach her catering and
event contracts. It’s like he’s obsessed with her. The weasel.”
“How long ago did they break up?”
“About a year. And good riddance,” he muttered.
A white Prius appeared, driving the opposite direction. I clumsily
leaped out of the car and waved frantically, but I was too slow; the car
passed us by.
With a sigh, I sank back into my seat and closed the door.
“We could always walk,” he said.
I pointed to my pregnant belly.
“Then again, maybe not,” he conceded.
A horn beeped, and I turned around to see the white Prius pulling
in behind us. A heavyset blonde with a chin-length bob climbed out
and marched toward Vicente’s door.
We’re saved!
Sweet relief flooded me.
Vicente rolled down the window. “Hello, quierda,” he drawled.
“Thanks so much for stopping. We stalled out—”
The woman stared at us in unconcealed contempt. “Serves you
right driving around that fancy gas-guzzler.”
I furrowed my brow, and Vicente glanced at me in utter confusion.
“Gas-guzzler?” he practically sputtered. “This Beamer gets thirty-four
miles to the gallon on the highway.”
Her eyes bulged. “And do you think that’s going to save us from
climate change? Did you pay any attention to last year’s fire season?
To the hurricanes in the South? Why, you—”
“I’m on your side,” I interjected, shooting her a winning smile.
“Why, this whole trip I’ve done nothing but try to persuade Vicente to
get a more fuel-efficient car. Something like your Prius.”
Vicente glared at me, but I ignored him. This woman might be
crazy, but so far she was our only ticket out of this mess. If Vicente
wouldn’t charm some help out of her, I most assuredly would.
I rested a hand on my baby bump. “After all, I’m pregnant with
twins! You know what I told this idiot here?” I jerked my elbow
toward Vicente. “I said, What kind of world are we going to leave for our
children if we don’t all pitch in and do our part?”
The woman visibly softened.
I continued. “And it’s just killing me that we’re sitting here and
running the engine for the air conditioning—so many useless emis‐
sions! But I’ve had a complicated pregnancy, and my doctor has told
me I absolutely can’t overheat. Is there any way you might be able to
give us a lift into Golden? To Castillo’s Vineyard?”
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She stared at us for a few seconds, her eyes flashing between
annoyance and something kinder. Then she said, “I’m late for
a Go-Green meeting in Sacramento, but I’ll have cell service in a couple
miles, so I’ll call a tow truck for you.”
Good enough! “Thank you!” I exclaimed. “As soon as we broke
down, I sent a plea out into the universe for a good person like you to
help us out!”
She tried to hide a grin. “Sure, anytime!” Then she looked at
Vicente, and her smile turned to a glower. “And get a car with better
gas mileage!”
She stalked back to her Prius, and as soon as Vicente rolled up the
window, I burst out laughing.
“What was that?” he demanded.
“That,” I retorted, “was creatively getting us a tow truck. You
should know. You pull those sorts of tricks all the time—you just do it
by flirting and calling everyone dear in that accent of yours.”
“You threw me under the bus!”
“Under a solar-powered bus, maybe.” I grinned. “You’re just
perplexed that your charm got you absolutely nowhere with her.”
“How do you know she’ll even call a tow truck? Maybe she’ll get
madder and madder about my so-called gas-guzzler and change her
mind.”
“She’ll call,” I said, hitting the button to recline my seat. “Just you
wait.”
Sure enough, a half hour later, Vicente swore under his breath.
“Well, I’ll be.”
I sat up. A big white tow truck was rumbling our way.
“Thank goodness!” I sang.
The tow truck parked in front of us, and we both climbed out of
the car. Heat waves practically sizzled up from the ground, and I
immediately broke out into a sweat.
You could probably fry an egg on this road.
Vicente strode toward the truck, meeting the driver halfway.
“Vicente Domingo,” he said. “Thanks so much for coming!”
“Fred,” replied the driver, reaching out to shake Vicente’s hand. He
was tall, with sandy-colored hair and a kind demeanor. “Got a call
that you folks needed some help.”
Vicente looked mournful. “The car broke down. I’m going to my
cousin’s place—Castillo’s Vineyard.”
“Oh, you’re Luz’s cousin,” replied Fred, his smile broadening. “It’s
so nice to meet you!”
“That’s right,” said Vicente. “And this lovely woman is Kate, my
fiancée!”
Fiancée? That’s his cover story? I blanched and instinctively reached
to touch my wedding ring . . . but I’d taken it off two days ago when
the swelling in my hands and ankles had finally reached a breaking
point.
Oh, I could kill 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 CEREAL KILLER HERE
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Cereal Killer (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Eleven) Sneak Peek – Chapter One
From Cereal Killer
Chapter One
“But what do you mean there’s no cell service?” I wailed,
staring at my phone. Zero bars.
From the driver’s seat, Vicente Domingo flashed his trademark
smirk. Most women in most situations found his roguish,
tall-dark-and-handsome shtick charming. In the best of times,
I found it only mildly obnoxious.
This was not the best of times.
“No worries,” he crooned in his lilting Spanish accent. “I’m sure we
won’t be stuck on the side of the road too long.”
“It’s four thousand degrees outside!” I sputtered.
“You’re exaggerating by exactly 3900 degrees.”
The temperature gauge flicked from 100 to 101. I pointed to it.
“Make that three thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine.”
“Really—don’t worry, quierda. I’ll pop the hood and see if it’s an
easy fix.” He opened the car door, letting in a whoosh of heat.
“I’m not your love,” I muttered as he closed the door behind him. I
traced the BMW’s black leather seat. Shouldn’t a car like this be too
expensive to break down on us?
When Vicente Domingo—a rival PI—had invited me out to the
town of Golden to solve a mystery, I’d been excited . . . and a little
confused. But I definitely hadn’t planned to end up stranded twenty-
seven minutes from our destination, in ten-thousand-degree heat,
while more than seven months pregnant with twins!
How busy was this road, exactly?
After passing Sacramento, we took highway 49 toward Golden,
but a traffic jam a few miles earlier had sent us onto a back road
through the middle of nowhere. I tried to remember how many cars
we’d passed in the last few minutes. I hadn’t been paying close atten‐
tion, but I only remembered one other car.
Surely someone would happen upon us soon and we wouldn’t
roast out here like a pair of Thanksgiving turkeys.
Mmm, Thanksgiving turkey sounds good. My mouth watered at the
thought. Darn pregnancy hormones.
A minute later, Vicente popped back in the car, a wave of heat
following him.
“Don’t let out all the air conditioning,” I whined.
He closed the door with a little shrug. “We’re about twenty-five
minutes from my cousin’s house. I’m sure someone will give us a lift.
Luz is well known in town, and I’ve visited enough that someone will
recognize me. I spent whole summers here as a boy, when my grand‐
parents owned the winery.”
I stared out the window. No trees lined this road, but there was a
small grove in the distance. If we ran out of gas and couldn’t blast the
air conditioning, we’d have to walk to those trees to find shade. I eyed
Vicente’s biceps.
He’d recovered impressively from a gunshot wound a few months
back, but still I doubted he could haul my pregnant rump if my knees
gave out.
And also…wasn’t this rattlesnake country?
What on earth am I doing here?
A few yards ahead of the car, a huge pile of rocks sat just off the
road. I stared at the rock pile, startled. For a second, one of the rocks
had looked just like one of those sun-bleached ox skulls they used to
set the mood in grim Wild West movies. I blinked a few times, reas‐
suring myself that it was just a white rock and not an omen of
impending doom.
“Worst case scenario,” Vicente continued, “it’s supposed to pour
rain sometime this afternoon. That’ll cool us off.”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Time to focus on something I
could control. I rubbed my temples.
The case. Might as well take the opportunity to talk more about
the case. “So, why exactly did your cousin want two PIs to come inves‐
tigate this vineyard thing?” I asked.
It was the question that had been nagging at me ever since Vicente
had explained the situation—someone was trying to sabotage his
cousin’s vineyard. First, there had been a few threatening notes. Then
an attempted break-in in the middle of the night. Then a ransomware
attack on the vineyard’s computer system.
The ransomware attack had been the last straw. It hadn’t worked—
Luz kept careful backups and had replaced her computer rather than
pay off the hackers—but she’d called Vicente for help.
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After a long pause, he said, “I asked her if I could bring a PI friend
with me. Her friends and neighbors know that her cousin is a PI, so
people will know something is up if I’m asking too many questions. I
figured we could tag-team and keep it quiet that we’re investigating
anything.”
“So we don’t tip off the saboteur? Won’t they expect Luz to bring
someone in to look into it?”
“Well . . . that’s part of it.”
I stared at him for a second. “Why don’t we want anyone to know
we’re investigating?”
He grimaced. “Luz . . . made a mistake with the winery.”
Suspicion bloomed in my chest. Crossing my arms, I asked, “What
kind of mistake? What have you dragged me into, Vicente?”
He clasped his hands together. “Nothing too terrible. Nothing ille‐
gal. This sort of thing really happens all the time, I’m told. Where to
start . . .”
“You could always try the beginning,” I deadpanned.
“The winery is very profitable. My grandparents bought the vineyard
in the 1970s from a winemaker who was struggling to get by, and they
turned it into something great. Luz chose to carry on the family busi‐
ness. Turns out she’s spectacular at it—she’s won several wine-of-the-year
awards, that sort of thing. Plus, she’s tripled the size of the operation
since she took it over. But she lost ninety percent of the harvest this year
and opted to buy another vineyard’s grapes and make the season’s wine
anyway—labeled as if it really came from her vineyard.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh . . .”
“It was a rolling blackout. She has a generator, of course, but every
vineyard in the region was scrambling for fuel to run the generators,
and she couldn’t get enough gas in time. So, most of the grapes
spoiled.”
“How awful,” I murmured.
“As I said, the vineyard is profitable, but that much expansion
means there is a lot of debt, too. They couldn’t afford to lose a whole
year. I wish she’d come to me before she made the decision. I would
have told her that her name was big enough to ride out the storm—to
just raise the prices on the wines that are coming of age, and to bottle
what little wine they could eke out of this year’s harvest . . . when
that’s ready to sell, market it as a super-rare special edition for thou‐
sands of dollars a bottle. But I guess she . . . was not so confident, or
didn’t think about that option. Companies order from her years in
advance, you see. I can only imagine she was worried about backing
out of contracts.”
“Mmm,” I said softly. “That doesn’t make it right, of course, but she
was in a hard position.”
“Yes, she was.” He slumped back against the leather seat. “In one of
our conversations about the blackouts, she said to me, ‘Vicente, what
if it happens again next year?’ She decided she needed to add solar
panels and batteries to go with them . . . not enough to run the whole
vineyard all the time, but enough to keep processing wine in an
emergency.”
“And that’s a huge expense.”
“Exactly. So I think she must have been worried about how to pay
for it. Would the bank extend her credit if they thought her business
was in trouble from a lost harvest? Would they call her existing debts
due? I don’t know.”
“What a mess.”
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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 CEREAL KILLER HERE
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Runaway Murder (Gold Strike Mysteries: Book Two) Sneak Peek – Chapter One
From Runaway Murder
Chapter One
“So how is the new job going anyway?” my best friend Vanessa
asked as she swung the cab into the station’s car parking lot.
It was already busy, people hurrying through the turnstiles, drag‐
ging their luggage or clutching a toddler’s hand. I couldn’t help but
smile. The hustle and bustle of the station always got my heart pump‐
ing. It reminded me of my time in Europe as a young adult, when I’d
splurged on a Eurail Pass after graduating college. I’d crisscrossed the
continent, meeting new people, drinking in experiences, and growing
beyond what I’d thought possible. And falling in love for the first time.
Yes, I fell in love with travel, Europe, and a sweet, sweet French boy,
Laurent.
Trains would forever equal excitement to me.
I got out of the cab without answering Vanessa and looked around,
my arm resting on the open door. I found the mix of old and new
intoxicating—the state-of-the-art commuter trains next to the luxury
vintage carriages that captured people’s attentions.
The scent of diesel clung to the air, the quintessential smell of the
station complemented by the aroma of summer. Whenever I smelled
diesel anywhere else, I was instantly transported back to the station,
back to huddles of eager people waiting to discover what their day
had in store for them. Back to the thrill I felt every time I stepped
onto the train.
The sun was high in the sky, beating down on us mercilessly, and it
brought with it that peculiar feeling of possibility and hope that
summer always brought. I raised my face, embracing the warm rays
with my smile, and I let the now-familiar sounds wash over me: the
chatter and excitement of the passengers, the whistle of the station
master, the gentle thrumming of the trains as they awaited their
guests. And in the background, my own train chugged, steam rising
up from the vent as it idled on its track.
I say my train, but of course it wasn’t mine. It felt like it though,
even then, after only two months of working on it. It’d already
become a second home to me, and one I’d fallen in love with. It was an
old-style steam engine, controlled by a brilliant team of technicians
and engineers, all wearing retro uniforms. Every day, we would wind
our way through forty miles of majestic redwood forests, scenic
mountain meadows, and over thirty trestle bridges in Northern Cali‐
fornia, and every day, it took my breath away.
Gold Country.
Me? I was the chef—the first ever female executive chef of the
Western Rails train, actually, and I had a passion for every part of my
job, from the train itself to the scenery around us and the luxury
experiences we offered our customers. I woke up eager to go to work
every day and to experience the adventure that lay before us, every
trip different than the last.
“Hello? Earth to Jessica?” Vanessa said.
“What?” I turned to face Vanessa, shaking myself out of my reverie,
but she was still in the car, calling from the driver’s seat. I bent down
and peered in. “Sorry, Ness. What did you say?”
Vanessa chuckled. “I asked how your new job’s going,” she said,
looking up at me. “You all right?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said. “Hey, I have an idea. Are you very busy
today?”
She shrugged. “Not super, for a change,” she said. “No bookings
until later on tonight when the train returns to the station. What’ve
you got in mind?”
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“You want to know how my job is going, right? Why don’t you
come along for the ride? You could do with the break—I know this
influx of tourists has been stressing you out—and if you’ve got no
fares booked, you might as well take a few hours off and enjoy the
countryside.”
“I’m not stressed,” she insisted.
I rolled my eyes. Of course, she was stressed. She was the only
cabbie in the town of Golden, and it was getting busier by the day. If
she wasn’t careful, she’d be on course for a nervous breakdown, and
that worried me. She’d never admit it though; she was far too pig-headed for that.
“All right, Ness, you’re not stressed,” I said to placate her. “How
about this then. I would like to spend some time with my best friend
since I haven’t seen her properly for weeks. There’s a stool in the
kitchen with your name on it, and I might even be able to scratch up
an extra burger or two . . .”
I raised my eyebrows at her as she thought through the offer, but it
was only a matter of seconds before she smiled sheepishly, shrugged
her shoulders, and agreed.
“Okay then,” she said with a girlish giggle bubbling from her lips.
“You’ve persuaded me. It’ll be nice to do something different. And you
can tell me what you think about my heist theories!”
I smiled at her as I waited, but she didn’t move. “So . . . you going
to get out of the car, then?” I asked.
“Oh, right!”
She threw her head back in a laugh, then clambered out of the car
and slammed the door closed. I loved Vanessa like a sister, but she had
never been graceful, and it made me smile to see it. It was typical
Vanessa. She was stout rather than big, and a good foot shorter than
me. Her yellow-blonde hair seemed always to be tied into a messy bun
and she rarely wore makeup, but at fifty-two years old, her cheeks
were still flushed with a youthful energy and her eyes sparkled with
laughter and delight.
I grabbed my bag from the back seat and flung it over my shoul‐
der, happy to have her accompany me for the day. I was not lying
when I said I hadn’t seen her for weeks, and I was beginning to miss
her company. Besides, I wanted to show her just what a magnificent
journey I made each and every day.
“So, heist theories?” I asked as I led Vanessa through the throngs of
people toward the staff entrance. I tapped in the security code and
listened for the click of the door unlocking.
“Morning, Jessica,” the guy on reception said as soon as I pushed
open the door. “And Jessica’s friend.” I guessed he’d seen us on the
security camera—at least, he always seemed to know who was
entering even before they entered. He had to be seventy if he was a
day, and I’d never seen him out of that chair. Bob knew everyone and
everything that went on in the station, and he never had a bad word to
say about anyone.
“Morning, Bob,” I replied brightly.
“Big day today,” he said, nodding at me with a serious expression.
“Yeah, but we’re ready for it,” I said. “You know us, Bob. Dream
team and all that.”
“You get ‘em, girl,” he said with a grin that reminded me of my
father. Girl was not a word often used to describe me anymore, not
with the fifty-five years I had behind me. From anyone else, it might
have felt patronizing, but from Bob, it was endearing.
“Big day?” Vanessa asked as we passed through the building and
out onto the platform.
“It’s the Annual Summer BBQ Excursion,” I said over my shoulder,
making it sound as grand as it felt. “The locals love it. I reckon we’ll
have a fair number of regulars on that train today. Greg says this
excursion is always a hoot.”
“I’m not going to be in your way, am I?” Vanessa asked, shooting
me a worried glance. “If it’s such an important day and all. Even I’ve
heard of the summer barbecue.”
“Don’t be silly,” I replied. “Everything’s already prepared. Besides,
it’s only barbecue chicken and corn on the cob. What could go
wrong?”
“Well, if you’re sure . . .”
“I’m sure,” I said firmly. “No getting out of it now, Vanessa Scott.
We’ve got some catching up to do!”
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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 RUNAWAY MURDER
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Runaway Murder (Gold Strike Mysteries: Book Two) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three Continued
Did you miss chapter one?
Did you miss chapter two?
Did you miss part one of chapter three?
From Runaway Murder
Chapter Three Continued…
“And no one thought to tell me this before we left the platform? I’ve
got a fridge full of barbecue food, for goodness sake!”
“You’re a clever thing, Jessie,” Greg said with that smug grin again.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“It’s Jessica,” I snapped. “And Penny is shucking a whole box of
corn as we speak. What…” I scoffed in shock and outrage, looking
down at the desk as though searching for an answer. “We’ve only got
barbecue supplies, Greg. You’ve seen the size of my kitchen. It’s not
like we can keep supplies for every time you change your mind at the
last minute!”
“Hey.” Greg held his arms in the air and shrugged. “If you’re really
as good as you say you are, it won’t be a problem, will it?”
He grinned at me, and I could feel myself beginning to seethe, my
nostrils flaring. I had to get out of there—and I had to come up with a
new menu, stat. I leapt up and swung around, yanking the door open.
“That’s it,” Greg said happily. “Back to work we go.”
I didn’t dare turn and say another word to him, because I knew it
would not be a kindly word. I marched from the room, enraged by
what he had done this time. It was as though he was purposely trying
to trip me up. It wasn’t even that I was particularly against the idea of
a champagne brunch, but he could have at least told me before I’d
prepped for a barbecue! And the way he talked about tourists as
though they were gods drove me round the bend, as if the townsfolk
—who were nothing if not loyal to us—were worthless.
I wasn’t far down the corridor before I heard Walter’s light foot‐
steps pattering behind me. He had a strangely small stride for a man,
and it made him sound a little like a child.
“Jessica!”
I spun around. I was not in the mood. “What is it, Walter?”
He winced at my harsh tone and again and offered me an apolo‐
getic shrug. “It won’t be as bad as you think. It may even work out
nicely. I know you like a challenge.”
I closed my eyes and sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Walter was a sweet guy, even if he was a little irritating at times. I
hadn’t meant to take my mood out on him.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just—”
“I get it, Jessica. It’s all right.”
“Well, I’d best get back to the kitchen,” I said.
“All right. Catch you later.”
Walter waved as he left, and I took a deep breath, nodding my
goodbye. Then I turned and returned to my haven.
“That’s another one who sends their compliments to the chef,”
Amy said as she walked backwards through the swinging door, a pile
of dirty dishes balanced in her arms. “Reckon they’ve licked the plates
clean!”
“Ew. That’s gross,” Penny replied, up to her elbows in suds as she
scrubbed the saucepans clean. I wouldn’t let them go in the dish‐
washer—my equipment was far too precious to risk having their
protective coatings stripped off by a machine.
Amy shrugged as she put the dishes down and then began to stack
them into the washer.
“They’re getting washed anyway, so what does it matter?” Vanessa
asked.
“As long as they enjoyed it,” I said, eyeing each of them as I stirred
the sauce on the stove.
“Said it was the best meal they’d had in ages,” Amy said.
“Not surprising.” Vanessa grinned. “Our Jessica’s the best when it
comes to cooking.”
“Thanks, Ness,” I said, looking fondly over at my friend.
“Smells good in here,” Amy said as she closed the washer door.
“What’s cooking?”
“Blueberry pie,” I said.
“Pie!” Vanessa raised an eyebrow. “Meeting with Greg really was
that bad, was it?”
“Am I that easy to read?” I asked with a mock grimace.
“I’d say no, but I’d be lying,” Vanessa said.
I laughed, then pulled the oven gloves from their hook on the wall
and opened the oven door. I embraced the heat that immediately
engulfed me, and the blueberry essence that swirled around in it. The
latticed pastry was a golden brown, and from the gaps, the fruit
bubbled enticingly.
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I pulled it out, closed the door with my hip, and was about to put
the pie onto the rack to cool. But the train lurched to a sudden stop,
jolting us, and I dropped it. It landed upside down, a splatter of purple
and blue spreading out across the floor.
All four of us froze to the spot, looking at each other in surprise.
My heart began to race. This wasn’t good. Whatever it was, it wasn’t
good.
“What the heck was that?” Penny asked.
“Language,” I reminded her, raising an eyebrow. “And I have no
idea.”
“Something wrong with the engines?” Amy suggested with a shrug.
“Someone on the track!” Penny said with a giggle of nervous
excitement.
“Don’t be so gruesome,” Vanessa said. “Signal stop, maybe?”
I looked out of the window to check where we were on the line.
We had stopped on a bridge!
“Definitely not signals,” I said, nodding out of the window at the
valley below us.
“Oh.”
The others looked as shaken up as I felt. There was definitely some‐
thing wrong.
“Just . . . Amy, go out there and keep everyone calm, will you? Act
like this is all perfectly normal, that it’s a routine stop. I’ll go find out
what’s happening. Vanessa, sit tight.”
“What about me?” Penny asked as I was about to push the door
open.
“You clean up that ruined pie, please.”
The train was filled with questioning murmurs as I rushed
through the carriages on my way to Greg’s office.
“Jessica, dear, what’s happening?”
“I don’t know, Dorothy,” I replied, smiling down at the sweet old
lady who had put a hand out to stop me. “But I’m going to find out.”
She had become something of a regular of late, riding the rails for the
sheer pleasure of watching the wildlife. Her hands were covered in
heavy rings and she wore, as par for the course, a huge floppy hat that
I was sure must get in the way sometimes. And, of course, she had
binoculars hanging around her neck, and a book about birds always
clutched in her hand.
“Well, do come back and tell us, won’t you?”
“Of course,” I said. “You’ll be the first to know.”
“This isn’t a scheduled stop,” Carter cried from across the way. “I
demand to know what’s going on.”
“Oh, stop being such a grump,” Dorothy replied, looking at him
from over the top of her glasses.
Just then, we began to move again. I smiled as best I could. “You
see, all fine,” I said, then carried on down the aisle. They could argue it
out amongst themselves. Still, I could feel the lump in my throat
growing. I couldn’t put her finger on why exactly, but I knew this
unplanned stop was more than just a technical failure. When I finally
got to Greg’s office, he was talking animatedly with one of the engi‐
neers, so loudly that their voices could be heard from the corridor.
I pressed my ear against the door, but their words were too
muffled. I grabbed hold of the knob and burst into the room, deter‐
mined to know the truth. They both turned and looked at me, wide-eyed in horror.
“What is it?” I demanded. “What’s happened? Why has the train
stopped?”
“They’ve found a body, Jessica,” Greg said, his face drained of
color. “In the motorcar.”
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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 RUNAWAY MURDER
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Runaway Murder (Gold Strike Mysteries: Book Two) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three
Did you miss chapter one?
Did you miss chapter two?
From Runaway Murder
Chapter Three
I strode through the train’s rocking corridor. We’d pulled
away from the station and were slowly building up speed—
not that we ever went very fast. These trips were about sitting back
and enjoying the ride and forgetting the speed at which we lived the
rest of our lives. There was too much haste in the world. We needed
to learn to relax again.
My ponytail swung behind me as I walked, my head held high even
if my teeth were clenched in annoyance. He’d already seen me once
today, albeit briefly on the platform. What did he want to see me again
for? We’d butted heads on more than one occasion, and I was only
grateful that his office was about as far away from the train’s kitchen
as it could possibly be.
“Excuse me,” Said one of the passengers—on her way to the train’s
restaurant, probably. We often had early birds wanting snacks or light
bites to keep them going until we served the main meal later on in the
journey.
I smiled politely and stepped into the doorway to let her pass,
feeling the coolness of the air air-conditioning on my back. She was a
slight woman, compact, almost fragile looking, though the way in
which she held herself told me she was anything but. I’d bet she got
that all the time—people assuming she was weak simply because she
was small. Her skin was lightly tanned and she wore her hair in a
short, dark bob. But it was the way in which she marched down the
aisle of the train that caught my attention.
There was something odd about it. Something purposeful, like she
had somewhere to be. She acted more like a commuter than a day-tripper,
and it seemed to me to be such an odd attitude to have on a
luxury experience train like this one. I shook my head as I watched
her go through the door at the far end. It must just be the way she
was; some people found it difficult to relax.
I made my way through the rest of the train. When I finally
reached Greg’s office, I took a deep, calming breath before knocking
on the door.
“Come in,” he called.
I twisted the brass knob and stuck my head around the door, part
of me not wanting to go all the way into his office and hoping I would
not have to. It was a small, dingy room with papers and notebooks
everywhere. It was as far from the luxury of the rest of the train as
you could get, and I often wondered how Greg ever found anything in
all that mess.
“You wanted to see me?” I said.
“Yes, yes. Come in, Jessica. Sit down.”
He smiled bombastically at me, already looking smug, and I
reminded myself to just get out of there as quickly as possible. As I sat
down, I spotted Walter—the company’s computer guru—seated in the
corner, looking equally pleased with himself. I looked from one to the
other curiously.
“What’s going on?” I asked, a sense of unease growing in the pit of
my stomach.
Greg laughed. Actually laughed! It was a habit of his that I’d hated
when we were seeing each other, and I hated it even more now. What
sort of person laughs randomly like that? I bit the inside of my cheek,
reminding myself I would be out of the office and back in my beloved
kitchen before I knew it. I’d whip up a pie—I always liked to bake
when I was stressed, much to the delight of our passengers.
“Good news,” Greg said. “Good old Walter here has found a way of
doubling ticket sales.”
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“Has he, indeed?” I asked, shooting Walter a look. He shrugged
almost apologetically, and I had to remind myself that none of this
was his fault.
“Yes,” Greg continued. “You must have noticed how busy the train
is today?”
I had, he was right, but it was the Summer Excursion. “They’re
here for the barbecue,” I said simply. “Didn’t you say these excursions
were always popular?”
He laughed again and rubbed at the dark stubble on his chin that
always seemed the same length, no matter the time of day. “It seems I
was right all along.”
I paused, waiting for him to continue, but he obviously wanted me
to ask. I rolled my eyes. “About what?” I asked, trying to keep my tone
light.
“The tourists are hankering for a fancier feast than the one you
currently serve,” he said with a grin.
How did I ever find him attractive?
He was handsome enough, I supposed. It was his personality that
was the problem. His face was round, but not overly full, and he had
long, dark eyelashes over steely gray eyes. I used to feel butterflies in
my tummy whenever he looked at me through his lashes, but now I
could see it for what it was—an overused gesture that he knew the
ladies loved. It was useful for distracting them from his seemingly
ever-present smirk.
“Listen, Jessie,” he said, putting his elbows onto the desk and
pointing at me with his pen.
“Jessica,” I corrected.
“All right, Jessica,” he conceded. “I love your barbecued chicken,
corn on the cob, and baked beans as much as the next man, but I think
we’ve proven—with the sales—that it’s just not the fine fare our
consumers want.”
I hated that word: consumers. It turned our friendly, funny, warm
passengers into numbers on a spreadsheet. I wasn’t sure Greg ever
went out to meet them. All they represented to him was dollar
signs.
“But the townsfolk adore their Summer BBQ Excursion,” I said,
even though I’d said it a thousand times before. “You can’t take that
from them just because a bunch of strangers—”
“It’s not the townsfolk who bring in the money, Jessie—”
“Jessica.”
“If I may,” Walter said, interrupting in that nasally voice of his.
“The wine industry in Northern California is booming, thanks to all
those canyon fires.”
“And is that something to be happy about, Walter? The fires?” I
asked, looking aghast at his wide grin. He quickly swapped it for a
sympathetic frown, though his eyes were wide with panic. I suspected
he was not used to dealing with strong women.
“No, no, no.” He shook his head firmly, as though trying to
convince me. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. What I’m trying to
say is—”
“What Walter is saying is that with the area becoming the new
wine country, we’ve got a chance to grab hold of the market. The
place is filling up with more and more tourists by the day. We’ve got
to take advantage of that.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Jessie. It’s been decided.” He held his hands in the air
helplessly, like he wasn’t happy about the result. “We’re replacing your
simple meal with a gourmet champagne brunch.”
“Right.” I slapped my thighs then got up from my seat. “Is that all?”
I couldn’t bring myself to smile again. Not here, and not for Greg.
And I wouldn’t sit there listening to any more of his nonsense. If we
were swapping out the barbecue for fine dining next year, I was going
to make this last Summer BBQ Excursion the best there had ever
been.
“From today, Jessie,” he said, eyeing me seriously.
“What?” I could feel the furrows in my forehead as I glared down
at him. “What do you mean, from today?”
“I mean, today we’ll be serving a gourmet champagne brunch
instead of barbecue chicken and burgers.”
I gasped and fell heavily back into my seat.
“That’s what they’re all here for, Jessica,” Walter said eagerly from
his corner. I shot him a dark look.
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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 RUNAWAY MURDER
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Runaway Murder (Gold Strike Mysteries: Book Two) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two Continued
Did you miss chapter one?
Did you miss part one of chapter two?
From Runaway Murder
Chapter Two Continued…
“I’m considering moving here to start a new winery. I unfortu‐
nately lost my old one, which had been in my family for generations,
in the canyon fires earlier this year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Lyonel, but I have to get to the
kitchen.”
“I only have a few questions,” she said, stepping further into the
aisle.
Not one to be easily accosted, I took a step closer to her, making it
clear I wanted to pass.
“Mrs. Lyonel, the start of any journey is the busiest time. I will
come and find you later on during the trip, and I promise I will
answer all your questions.”
“Oh, but it won’t take long,” she said, pulling a sheet of paper from
her bag.
“Really, Mrs. Lyonel,” I said, more firmly this time. “I must get on,
but I assure you I will help in any way I can once the barbecue prepa‐
rations are underway.”
I took another step forward, and thankfully, Mrs. Lyonel stepped
aside, but not without a confused look on her face.
“Barbecue?” she asked, her voice high-pitched.
“Yes,” I replied as I passed her with a smile. “Today’s feast . . . The
Annual Summer Barbecue Excursion.”
I could feel her frowning at my back as I carried on down the aisle,
but I forced it out of my mind. Perhaps I had been a little harsh with
her; she’d been friendly enough, and she was only looking for help,
but I hated when people snubbed my friends
“She was a bit of a busybody, wasn’t she?” Vanessa muttered into
my ear, and my lips tightened as I suppressed a smirk.
By the time we got to the kitchen, I’d said hello to several more
passengers and been caught in two more conversations. As I put my
bag down on the counter and pulled my hair into a ponytail, I sighed
with the relief of being in the place I loved best—my kitchen.
“Your stool’s over there,” I said to Vanessa, nodding at the corner
as I slipped my chef’s whites on over my simple jeans and tee combo I
always wore to work.
I tied my apron around my waist and pulled my hat down from the
shelf, though I didn’t put it on yet. The passengers liked to see me in
the traditional garb, so I had one of those big puffy chef hats rather
than the simple, modern caps I was used to. I didn’t mind; it sort of
fed into the fantasy I’d had as a child—I’d always wanted to be a chef.
Before starting on the train, I’d worked in many different restau‐
rants, serving everything from simple fare to fine dining and every‐
thing in between. I’d catered for all the town’s big events for years too
—from Living History Day to the Fourth of July Parade. So when this
job came up, it seemed only natural that I applied for it—and even
Greg had to admit I was the best qualified out of all the candidates.
Vanessa looked around approvingly. “Nice place you’ve got here. I
can see why you like it so much.”
I stopped what I was doing and looked around too, unable to keep
the smile from my face. I sighed in satisfaction. I loved every part of
my job, but my kitchen was my sanctuary. Being on a train, it was a lot
smaller than any other kitchen I’d worked in, and at first, I wasn’t sure
how I’d cope with it. Now, though, I reveled in its compactness—
everything was at hand and in easy reach, and it forced me to be a lot
more organized.
And most of all, I loved the huge window that made up one wall,
countertops running just below it. As we made our way through the
countryside, it felt like I was cooking right there in the middle of the
forest. If I was having a bad day—which was rare now, admittedly—all
I had to do was look out over the valleys and I’d be in heaven again.
“You just wait and see what it’s like when we get going. You’ll be
itching to sell your cab and get a job here,” I said with a chuckle.
“Maybe it was the mayor,” Vanessa said, ignoring my idea. She
plonked herself down on the stool, hooking the small heel of her
boots on the ring around the bottom.
“The mayor? Why on earth would he want to steal the golden
spike?”
“Maybe he has money trouble,” Vanessa said conspiratorially.
“Maybe he’s in debt and has managed to keep it a secret. Think about it
—he had access to the spike, he knew the security routines, and no
one would suspect him.”
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“No one would suspect him because there was no way it was him,”
I said as I slid my bag into the locker under the counter. “I mean, come
on. Mayor Foster? No way.”
“Yeah,” she replied, looking down at the floor with her chin all
screwed up. “You’re right. He’s too much of a good guy.”
I pulled the door of the chiller open, then peered inside and
smiled; everything was there, just as planned. “You may be onto some‐
thing with the money troubles thing though. Maybe that would get us
to our thief.”
“Our thief?” Vanessa laughed. “Thought you weren’t interested.
They’ve got the best people on the job, remember?”
I squirmed. She’d got me. I always tried to keep out of these things,
but once I began thinking about them, I couldn’t stop. I loved a good
puzzle as much as Vanessa did, I just didn’t allow myself to indulge so
easily.
“Morning,” Penny sang as the door swung open and she sauntered
in, Amy just behind her.
“Morning, both,” I said. “Hope you’re ready for a busy day!”
“Always,” Amy replied.
They were my dream team, my hand-picked staff members who
helped make our little transcontinental restaurant a huge success. At
sixteen years old, Penny was a pot washer and an apprentice of sorts,
learning the tricks of the trade whenever we had a spare five minutes.
She was slim and pretty, with hair so blonde it was almost white and
bright blue eyes that shone with life.
At thirty-six, Amy was older and quite a bit more sensible. Her
hair was the color of chestnuts and her eyes the same shade. She’d
started off as a waitress, but now she was almost like a partner in
crime. She helped me shape the menus and select the best suppliers,
and she felt our wins and losses as keenly as I did. The three of us
worked closely together, as a team not a hierarchy, and that’s just how
I liked it.
“Morning,” Vanessa said brightly from her corner stool, making
Amy jump.
“Goodness,” she said with a laughing gasp. “You frightened the life
out of me.”
“I hope not,” I said. “We’ve got far too much to be getting on with
to be dealing with any lifeless bodies today! Anyway, this is my friend,
Vanessa. She’s coming along for the ride today. And I’ll warn you now,
she’ll have you both talking about that museum heist all day.”
“I reckon it was a group,” Penny said as she shrugged off her jacket
and shoved it in her locker. “I mean, no one person could have done it
alone, could they?”
“All these tourists don’t help matters,” Amy said. “I mean, it’s great
that Golden’s on the map and all, but when I was a kid, everyone
knew everyone. We even knew visitors by name! How can they even
hope to find the culprit when there are so many strangers in town?”
“See,” Vanessa said, shaking her head at me. “Everyone wants to
solve this case!”
“Can we at least work while we solve it?” I said, looking around at
my team. “Amy, you go get the dining rooms ready. Penny, there’s a
whole box of corn over there that could do with shucking.”
“Oh joy,” Penny said, rolling her eyes. “I do love shucking corn.”
“Hey, it could be worse,” I said.
I leant down and pulled a big saucepan from the storage cupboard
beneath the counter and put it onto the stove. I’d make a start on the
barbecue sauce, then get the chicken prepped. But as I opened the
chiller door, ready to pull out the ingredients I needed, the door
swung open again.
“What is it, Amy?” I asked, then turned and started. It wasn’t Amy;
it was one of the porters.
“Hey, Jessica. Sorry, but Greg wants to see you in his office right
away.”
“But I’m busy,” I replied.
He just shrugged. “He said it was important.”
I sighed but went anyway, and as I walked through the door, I
heard Vanessa mutter, “I told you so.”
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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 RUNAWAY MURDER
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Runaway Murder (Gold Strike Mysteries: Book Two) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two
Did you miss chapter one?
From Runaway Murder
Chapter Two
“Morning, Greg,” I muttered as I made my way up the
metal steps, my footsteps clanking as I went.
He didn’t move at first, asserting his dominance by making me
brush past him, I’m sure. But one quick glare from me had him
hopping onto the platform to give us space.
“Good morning, Jessica, and what a lovely morning it is, too.”
“What’s got into you this morning?” I asked.
He was always either far too happy or far too irritable, never in
between, although part of me was convinced he acted the tempera‐
mental boss for my benefit.
“Can a man not be happy at work, Jess?” he asked.
I just shook my head and walked past into the waiting area as
Vanessa pulled herself up. Greg Kendrick was one of the less pleasant
parts of my job. He was the train’s chief conductor and general
manager—and my ex-lover.
Our affair had been brief, and long before I took the job on the
train, but there was no escaping the fact that it had happened. I hadn’t
been in the best of places after my divorce,—and even though my two
kids and my stepson had long ago flown the nest, I’d still felt guilty
divorcing their father. Greg had been a nice distraction from all that,
but boy, had it come back to haunt me when I started working on this
train.
Whenever he disagreed with me or refused to entertain my ideas—
which was often enough—I wondered whether he was punishing me
for ending things when I did. I quickly put that thought out of my
mind, though. Greg was a lot of things, but he was always a consum‐
mate professional. He loved that train as much as I did, and after two
months on the job, I was beginning to get a handle on him and his
temperament.
Vanessa widened her eyes as she looked at me, and I shot her a
questioning look back. When we were halfway through the first
carriage on our way to the kitchen, she spoke over my shoulder.
“He still holds a torch for you,” she said.
“Who? Greg?” I tutted. “Don’t talk nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense,” Vanessa insisted. “Did you see the way he
looked at you?”
“Anyway, about that heist,” I said, knowing full well it would divert
the topic.
“Yes, about that . . .”
Her crazy criminal theories were a whole lot better than her
romance theories, and she was wrong, anyway. The only person Greg
held a torch for was Greg himself, and even if he did still have feelings
for me, they certainly weren’t reciprocated.
“You’ve seen the Batman movies, right?”
“Er . . . yeah, I think so,” I replied, having no idea where this was
going.
“You know that grapple hook thingy he uses to swing from
buildings?”
“Yeah,” I said slowly.
“I reckon our thief had one of those.”
I snorted with laughter. “So, he breaks into the museum, snatches
the spike, then climbs up onto the roof, throws a grapple hook, and
swings to safety, all without anyone noticing? In a tiny town like
Golden?”
“Well, think about it,” Vanessa urged. “The spike is what? Five,
maybe six inches long? Small enough to fit in a pocket. He’s already
set off the alarms, and the security guards are walking the perimeter,
right? There’s no way he was getting out through the front or back
doors. From the roof is the only way.”
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“She’s not wrong,” a voice said, and I stopped, surprised.
It was Carter Osborne, one of the train’s regulars. I often
wondered what he did with his life, because he didn’t seem to work
much, other than writing his great literary novel that never seemed to
get any further than a page or two. He was a short man with thick
glasses and an overbite. He liked to talk too. While he was friendly
enough, he liked most of all to share his ideas on how to improve the
train—new seat covers, a different event, music piping through the
carriages. He even went so far as to advise the engineers on how to do
their job—much to their irritation.
“Morning Carter,” I replied with a smile. “Nice to see you today.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said. “One of my favorite days
of the year, this. And your friend is quite correct; there’s no way the
thief would have got out through the front of the building.”
Vanessa puffed up. “Thank you very much, Mr. . . .”
“Osborne. Carter Osborne,” he said, holding a hand out. Vanessa
shook it gratefully, throwing me one of her I told you so looks.
“Enjoy the day, Carter,” I said chuckling and tugging on Vanessa’s
arm to encourage her further into the train.
“Now, he seems like a very nice guy,” Vanessa said.
“Only because he agreed with you,” I said with a chuckle.
“Regular?” she asked.
“Yep. A writer. Or he’s trying to be, anyway. He signed up for this
scheme where he gets to ride the rails for free in return for a bit of
social media publicity, but he’s got, like, two followers or something.”
“He’s not as daft as he looks, then,” Vanessa said. “Free train rides
and no work. What’s he writing?”
“Who knows?” I said. “I’m pretty sure his ideas change by the day!”
The interior of the train had been designed with luxury in mind.
At the head, there was the motorcar, where all the workings were. It
was hot and loud and full of activity for the entire journey. The next
carriage housed Greg’s office—somewhere I found myself often—and
a small infirmary that was, thankfully, rarely used, along with guest
facilities. There were two passenger coaches with carpeted floors and
leather couches, all facing inward. The windows were draped with
blue velvet curtains, held back by golden ropes. After that was my
domain: two restaurant cars and the kitchen.
“All right, if not a grapple, then what?” Vanessa asked.
“Good morning,” I said brightly to a couple who seemed deeply in
love, snuggled together on one of the couches and gazing out of the
window. “Maybe he flew, Ness?”
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” Vanessa replied, shaking her head.
I pulled open the oak-paneled door at the end of the coach, step‐
ping over the join and entering the next.
“Okay, okay,” I said, holding my hands in the air. “In all serious‐
ness, then. How he escaped is not all that important, is it? I mean,
surely where he is now and who he is are the questions we should be
asking.”
“Fair point,” Vanessa conceded.
About halfway through this coach, a woman leapt up from her seat
and blocked our path. She was tall and well-dressed, perhaps fifty or
so years of age. Her hair, though graying, had been twisted into an
elegant knot, with strands hanging down to frame her face. She held
herself proudly, hands clasped neatly in front of her, and given the
state of her dress, I would say she was a paramour of the finer things
in life.
“You must be Jessica Preston,” she said. “The chef. Your reputation
precedes you.”
She thrust her hand in my direction, and I stared at it for a
moment before taking it and shaking it slowly.
“Thank you. Yes, that would be me.”
She waved her hand in the air dismissively. “My name is Mrs.
Beverly Lyonel, and I’m visiting Golden from Napa. I was hoping to
ask you a few questions about the town.”
“You a journalist or something?” Vanessa asked. “Because if you
are, you’ve got to write about the museum heist.”
Mrs. Lyonel offered her a weak smile, an unconvincing one, and
that irritated me. She turned to face me again, making a point that she
was talking to me and me alone.
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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 RUNAWAY MURDER
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Runaway Murder (Gold Strike Mysteries: Book Two) Sneak Peek – Chapter One Continued
Did you miss part one of chapter one?
From Runaway Murder
Chapter One Continued…
“Excuse me,” a young woman said, slipping past us and through the
crowds. I stepped out of the way.
“You’ve heard about the heist, right?” Vanessa asked, pulling me
back to the conversation we hadn’t quite started earlier on.
“Of course I have,” I said, moving out of the way of a well-dressed
man pulling an enormous trunk. He looked like something out of the
1920s, like I’d somehow stepped back in time, and I stifled a chuckle.
How delightful!
“Hey,” I said. “Would you like a hand with that?”
“Sure,” he replied. “Thank you.”
I leant down and grabbed the handle on the far end of the trunk,
swinging my bag around my back. “Where to?” I said once it was in
the air.
“Luggage locker,” he replied, nodding over to the small room in the
far corner. “I had to check out of my hotel early this morning. I sure
was glad when I found out I didn’t have to lug it around with me all
day!”
“Yeah, there are some pretty great resources here at the station.”
Vanessa ran ahead of us and opened the door. “And I hope you don’t
mind my saying, but I love your trunk.”
“Not very convenient, like these modern ones with wheels,” he
admitted. We put the trunk down and he grinned as we straightened
up. “But I never was one for all things modern. Thanks for your help.”
“No worries,” I said. “Maybe catch you later.”
“Morning, Jessica,” another man cried as soon as we were back on the
platform. He was suited and booted and ready for a long day in the office.
He waved a hand in the air. I waved back. I never had learned his name,
and I didn’t really know how he’d learned mine, but he was on this plat‐
form every morning at the same time, and he always said good morning.
“So, what do you think?” Vanessa asked, hot on my heels as I
worked my way past people.
“About what?” I asked over my shoulder, and she tutted loudly.
“The heist, of course!”
Ah yes, the heist. It had been on everyone’s lips since it happened,
only two nights earlier. Golden’s small but historic museum had been
broken into, and someone had stolen the golden spike the town had
been loaned to commemorate the transcontinental railroad’s 150th
anniversary.
“That spike was 17.6 karats. Er . . . is . . . wherever it’s ended up.”
I laughed and flicked my long black hair over my shoulder. I had to
keep it tied up when I worked, so I liked to wear it down whenever I
could.
“Yes, I saw the exhibit too,” I said before parroting the words that
had gone around the town ever since we received news of the arti‐
fact’s arrival. “Driven into the First Transcontinental Railroad by
Leland Stanford himself in 1869.”
“And now someone’s stolen it!” Vanessa squeaked.
I stopped and turned to look at her, both amused and endeared by
how much she cared. The news had rocked the town to its core, and
Vanessa did love a good mystery, but this one seemed to have gotten
to her personally.
“Yes, it’s an awful business,” I replied. “But they’ll find who did it
and return the spike to its rightful place, I’m certain of it. Golden PD
will put the best people on the job.”
I rubbed her arm and smiled at her, then turned and continued
through the station. I could almost hear her rolling her eyes at me
before she started walking again.
“Best people my a—”
“Vanessa,” I warned with a chuckle.
“Arm,” she insisted, pulling up beside me. “I was going to say arm!
And anyway, who cares if they’ve Sherlock Holmes himself on the
case. Doesn’t stop us theorizing, does it? I do love a good theory.”
I snorted at that, unable to stop myself, but I didn’t answer. I was
sure to hear all her wild and wonderful theories throughout the day.
“Good morning, Jessica,” a woman said, a thick bag strap across
her chest as she strode across the platform. Mary was a ticket collec‐
tor, and bright and breezy as always.
Vanessa stopped and looked all around her, her face crumpled in a
question.
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“What is it?” I asked, turning back to her.
“Everyone knows you,” she said.
“Golden’s a small town,” I replied with a shrug. “And I’m here every
day. It’s nothing, really.”
I said that, but in truth, I loved that everyone knew my name. It
gave me that warm feeling, like I belonged. I liked to nod a greeting at
the track inspectors gathered around in their hi-vis jackets, looking as
though they were discussing something of great importance. I said
hello to a conductor as he climbed aboard a train, and again to the
signalman at the end of the platform. Along with all the passengers—
both known and new—we felt like a true community, almost a town
in our own right.
“Well, anyway,” Vanessa said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”
“The heist?” I asked as we skipped down the steps to the under‐
ground tunnel—a must to get to our own platform. It was quiet down
there, as it always was, the walls and ceiling insulating the space from
the noise above. It was echoey, too, so when Vanessa spoke again, I
jumped and threw a hand to my chest.
“The security must have been terrible,” Vanessa said. “I mean, it’s
understandable in a small town like Golden, but you’d think they
would have kicked it up a notch, given the spike was there.”
“This way,” I said, turning and trotting up a set of steps.
“Even so, I reckon the person who did this was experienced. Must
have been, right? He—or she—has done this before. I think . . .”
She stopped talking as we came out onto the platform. It was busy
here, too, though less so. There was a relaxed atmosphere, people
milling around as though on vacation, smiling and chatting to each
other and making friends. And there, gently puffing away, was the
train.
“It’s . . .”
“Beautiful?” I suggested.
“Impressive, certainly.”
She had seen it before, of course, but never up close. I always loved
to see people’s reactions when they first saw it. It was an old train, but
it had been revamped and brought into the modern world. It ran on
steam, but inside it had all the features of a brand-new train. And
from the outside, it looked as though it had just rolled out of the
manufacturers for the first ever time.
The station master blew his whistle—two short puffs—a first
reminder to get onboard. The end door opened, and out leaned the
general manager, Greg, holding onto the handle. He grinned wildly,
then looked at us.
“Come aboard, ladies. Come aboard.”
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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 RUNAWAY MURDER
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July 17, 2021
Prams and Poison (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Nine) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three
From Prams and Poison
Chapter Three
Despite the slight chill in the air, it was a glorious day. The
sky was the perfect crystal blue you only find in California,
and even Paula’s spirits seemed to soar as we hurried past the packed
out dog park at Alamo Square Park.
“You brought Paws here yet?” I asked, gesturing toward the
running dogs.
“Just once,” she said, “but I need to come back. He had so much fun
meeting the other dogs. That’s actually how I met Glenn and struck
up the conversation about the upcoming renovation. He was waiting
for his bus, and I was out with Paws.”
We reached Postcard Row on Steiner Street, and Paula laughed
giddily. “I just can’t believe I was even considered for one of these
jobs,” she said as we took in the Victorian architecture and bright
colors—buttercream yellow, light and dark blue, bright red and faded
burgundy, mint green. She motioned toward one of the houses, where
a light-haired man paced in front of a garage. “That’s Glenn, with the
black sweater.”
She waved as we approached, and he raised an eyebrow at her as if
daring her to explain the delay.
“I was beginning to worry you weren’t coming,” he called as we
crossed the street, threading our way through the multitude of
tourists and locals who had come to gander at Postcard Row on such
a beautiful day.
But Paula maintained perfect poise and professionalism. “I wasn’t
coming,” she said, “until you texted. I thought Carrie had canceled the
meeting, but once I got your message, I figured I’d better come and
sort it out.”
She showed him the text, and he furrowed his eyebrows.
“Carrie sent this?” he asked, sounding like he didn’t believe her.
Paula clicked into Carrie’s contact profile and showed him her
number.
He rubbed a hand over his two-day stubble. “Well, I’ll be damned.
That’s strange. We’re still negotiating and don’t have signed contracts,
or anything. But she didn’t tell me anything about Andy turning down
the buyout. We have his permission to tour through the house—he
confirmed last night. Carrie wasn’t set to talk to him today, I don’t
think. Let me call her.”
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He made a phone call and stepped closer to the house. Paula and I
glanced at each other and shrugged, and I turned to study the sea of
humanity passing through this perfect slice of San Francisco. No
reporters—looked like Glenn and Carrie had managed to keep the
renovation quiet so far. Two big tourist groups were taking photos of
Postcard Row from the other side of the street: one group was full of
rowdy American teenagers, and the other seemed to be a group from
China, if I was picking up the language right from this far away. A
young couple walked a beautiful Goldendoodle into Alamo Square
Park. A little girl in a stroller dropped a handful of crackers on the
sidewalk, and a regiment of pigeons dove for the food.
I loved San Francisco.
Paula tapped me on the shoulder, and I spun back around. Glenn
was walking toward us, shaking his head.
“I left a message,” he said, “but I don’t see any reason why we
shouldn’t go in and take the tour. I have the permission in writing
from Andy and . . .” He stared up at the house.
“And what?” Paula asked.
He glanced back at us, a worry line creasing his forehead. “That
message just didn’t sound like Carrie to me. It almost makes me
wonder if someone stole her phone.”
My ears perked up at the possibility of a stolen phone. That was
smaller stakes than my usual cases, but since I was between jobs . . . I
reached out to shake his hand. “I’m Kate Connolly, Paula’s friend,” I
said. “I’m just here to help her out today, but I’m actually a private
investigator.”
He nodded, his eyebrows shooting up like he was impressed.
I didn’t say more than that about my PI career—just letting on that
I was a PI was enough to get people talking if there was anything
suspicious going on. It was how I’d landed quite a few of my jobs.
“Shall we go in, then?” asked Paula, tapping her black leather port‐
folio case.
Glenn led us up the stairs and unlocked the front door.
Paula and I shared a look of wide-eyed excitement a moment
before we followed him inside.
“It needs a lot of work,” Glenn said apologetically.
He wasn’t wrong—the paint along the stairs was peeling terribly,
and I was pretty sure the trim had been last updated in 1965. Plus, the
wood floors were pretty scuffed. But the further in I walked, the
harder it was to keep a huge smile off my face.
I loved it.
“I want to keep its distinctive Victorian character,” said Glenn, “but
also fit well with a contemporary aesthetic. Light and airy, you know.
Open it up inside a bit, maybe. I think we’ll maybe knock out that
wall”—he gestured to a wall that seemed to separate a kitchen from a
formal dining area—“and we’re going to do some substantive remod‐
eling of the bathrooms and kitchen. But other than that, we’re mostly
looking at working with the existing structural quirks and just
making it . . . pretty, you know. Saleable.”
Paula had opened her portfolio and was scribbling notes on the
legal pad inside. “We’re definitely going to want to fully restore the
wood floors throughout,” she began.
“Oh, yeah.” Glenn grimaced. “There’s a ridiculous orange shag
carpet in the bedrooms on the second floor. And you should see the
kitchen.”
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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 PRAMS AND POISON HERE
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July 16, 2021
Dying for Gold (Gold Strike Mysteries: 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?
From Dying for Gold
Chapter Three Continued
Even though I tried to focus on her chatter, my mind was on the
bloody shoe. When we turned the corner to Jason’s block, a chill crept
up my spine. What exactly was I going to do with the shoe if I
found it?
We entered the alley, and a cat hissed at us, then ran off.
A black cat no less.
Wendy screeched, “Bad luck!”
I poked her in the ribs. “Don’t worry about that. It’s the neighbor’s
cat.” I said it to calm her down, but the truth was I was superstitious
too.
The alley was curiously clean. There were no drops of blood like
before. It was as if someone had scrubbed the concrete clean.
I flipped open the lid of the black garbage can.
There was no shoe. There wasn’t anything, not even garbage.
“How weird! It was here,” I said to Wendy.
“Where?” she asked.
“The place is spotless. Garbage pickup isn’t until Monday,” I said.
“Somebody must have picked it up,” she answered.
I looked through the other bins quickly. The recycling and
compost bins were half-full and seemed the same as before. “It doesn’t
make any sense. Does it?”
“No,” she said. “It doesn’t make sense that you would drag me out
here to look at an empty trash can.”
I poked her shoulder for her to be quiet, but she was just getting
started.
“It’s like the time you hauled me over to the Dress Stop to
rummage through the sales bins when the sale was already over. Do
you remember? Or the time—”
I pulled out my phone and quickly dialed Jason, glaring at Wendy
and shushing her as I left a voicemail for Jason.
“He didn’t answer,” I said. “I’m going to go up and see if he’s okay.”
Wendy flashed me a look of concern. “Why wouldn’t he be
okay?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure he’s okay. That’s not what I meant. I guess
I’m just freaked out.”
She shrugged. “I know you were hoping for a proposal, sweetheart,
but sometimes the men, they keep us waiting. Give him some space.
Do you know how long it took your brother to propose?”
I wasn’t about to get into this conversation with Wendy again, so I
said, “Speaking of which, George is probably back from the mine and
wondering where you are.”
“Right. I’d better go.” Wendy wrapped her arms around me and
gave me a squeeze. “Walk me to Pine?”
Pine Street was only a short way down the street, and from there
we’d head in different directions. We walked in silence, then said
goodbye at the intersection. I knew she’d asked me to walk her this
way so that she could ensure I’d head home instead of going back to
Jason’s.
I watched her leave, and when she rounded the next corner, I
doubled back toward Jason’s apartment. It wasn’t worth discussing
with Wendy. She didn’t understand that I needed to see him again.
I rounded the corner and sat on the steps of his apartment house
and called his cell again.
No answer.
He was probably working, and it would be pushy of me to intrude.
After all, I’d already called him twice. Still, the matter of the garbage
being whisked away was bothering me. What if something had
happened to him?
No, I was being ridiculous.
I fidgeted on the stairs, not knowing whether to go up or not. I
imagined Jason surprising me at the top of the stairs with a ring.
Although he had been rather standoffish tonight, could it be he had a
black velvet box hidden somewhere in his apartment and was waiting
for the right time to ask me?
He was probably waiting for his promotion. Maybe he’d surprise
me with the news of the promotion and then pop the question. Yes,
that’s probably how it’d go down. Jason would make reservations at
the local chophouse for Friday night. That seemed fancy enough. It
wasn’t New York City fine dining, but at least they had white
tablecloths.
Then Living History Day on Saturday; it could be my going away
party from Golden. All my friends would be there, and maybe Oro
Ignited would play after all. I’d be able to say goodbye to everybody in
style with a big fat diamond on my hand.
Oh, where was Jason?
I dialed his number again.
No answer.
Forget it. I climbed the steps to his apartment and knocked at the
door. “Jason?”
Silence.
He’s probably wrapped up in his work.
Still. I had to at least see him one final time before heading home.
My forgetful computer genius kept an extra key under his mat. It
seemed that all he could keep track of were formulas and advanced
algorithms. Forget about keys and wallets. I unearthed the key, stuck
it in the door, and slowly pushed it open.
I peeked my head in. “Honey.”
No answer.
I tiptoed into the apartment. It was eerily quiet.
“Jason?”
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Still no response.
I walked to the living room; his laptop was still aglow.
Where was he?
He’d probably gone out to get something to eat. Maybe he was at
The Spoon, our local burger joint, enjoying a greasy cheeseburger and
all the fries he could stuff into his face.
I turned on my heel and headed toward his bedroom, still calling
out to no avail, “Jason?”
Before I could push open the door to his bedroom, my phone buzzed.
Jason’s face illuminated the screen. “Hello?” I said into the phone.
“Frannie, where are you?” Jason asked.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“I’m at the Wine Jug looking for you.”
“Oh! I came back to your place. I was worried about you,” I said.
“My place?”
Was I imagining it, or was there a tone of panic in his voice?
“Yeah. I used your key from under the mat. I got worried about—”
“Worried? Uh . . . stay there! I’ll be right back,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Sit on the couch in the living room. I’m coming right now,” he
said.
“Alright, honey, no problem.” The cell phone reception started to
get spotty, our connection sputtering and cracking. “I’ll see you in a
minute,” I said, ready to hang up.
“Wait for me in the living room,” he said again.
“Right,” I agreed.
“My bedroom’s a mess,” he added by way of explanation.
“Don’t worry about that,” I said.
Why was he all nervous and panicked? Was he hiding something in there?
A black velvet box, perhaps?
We hung up, and I couldn’t resist. I pressed my palm against the
door to his bedroom and pushed it open.
The room was not messy at all. In fact, it was the opposite of
messy. It was nearly empty.
The bed was made and a few file boxes were sitting between the
closet and his nightstand, as if he’d been packing.
That was strange.
My stomach flip-flopped, an odd feeling spreading from my torso
into my throat. Certainly he was planning on proposing, he was just
packing up getting ready for our move to New York. That had to be
right. He was packed up to move with me . . . with me, not without me.
Right?
I carelessly opened one of his dressers. It was empty—no socks,
underwear, or small velvet box.
No!
There had to be a mistake. Jason wasn’t going to leave without
proposing. He was going to propose; we were moving to New York
together. I knew that.
I slid open the mirrored door of his closet. Two dark suits hung
side by side like lost, forgotten soldiers. The rest of his closet was
packed up.
I swallowed the dread bubbling up inside my throat.
God bless it!
He was going to leave! He was leaving me in Golden. He was
taking off to New York after the promotion on his own. He hadn’t
said anything to me about packing.
A mixture of sorrow and rage boiled inside me. I kicked the trunk
by the end of bed.
Was the trunk empty too?
Without hesitation, I yanked open the lid. An unexpected sight
burned my eyes, and a bloodcurdling scream escaped my throat,
leaving me woozy and aghast. Inside the trunk was the shoeless body
of Dale Meyer.
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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 FYING FOR GOLD HERE
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