Diana Orgain's Blog, page 5
July 16, 2021
Dying for Gold (Gold Strike Mysteries: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss Chapter Two?
From Dying for Gold
Chapter Three
I screamed as someone grabbed me from behind.
The light in the Wine Jug was nonexistent. Okay, you
could see, but barely. I always did better after my eyes had a chance to
adjust, but Ginger and Wendy tackled me before that happened.
Ginger giggled. “What are you so skittish about?” she shouted over
the band, Oro Ignited, which was playing on the small stage in the
corner of the bar.
Wendy dragged me to their table and poured me a glass of a local
white Zinfandel. The golden hills of California were fast becoming a
mecca for small wineries that couldn’t afford the high real estate
prices in Napa and Sonoma counties. It seemed that every day a new
tasting room was popping up, and we were the happy beneficiaries.
The wine was a bit too sweet for my taste, but it was cold, and I
wasn’t in a complaining mood.
“I found a bloody shoe in Jason’s trash.”
Ginger frowned. “Was it an old shoe or what? What do you mean
bloody?”
“It was a man’s shoe. New shoe. Expensive. It looked like there
were drops of blood on it. I told Jason about it, and when he went to
check it out, it was gone.”
Wendy refilled her wine glass. “Who cares about an old shoe?
What happened with Jason? Did he pop the question or what?”
I shook my head, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
Ginger reached for my hand. “It’s going to happen, honey. Be
patient.”
I nodded, trying to hide the disappointment that was surging in
my body. I swallowed hard, and before tears could come, I decided to
change the subject back to safe territory. “The whole shoe thing is
pretty weird, huh? I can’t believe Jason didn’t find it. I have to go look
again myself,” I said over the music. Suddenly, the band took a break
and I found myself still yelling, “Will you come with me?”
My face flushed as all eyes turned toward me. I smiled at the
neighboring tables and then sipped my Zinfandel.
The crowd got noisy again, and Wendy leaned in. “You mean go
back to Jason’s and poke around his trash? No way!”
Ginger flashed me look that I interpreted as she’d go with me later
when we dropped off Wendy. I nodded at her, and she winked at me
conspiratorially.
Wendy was too delicate to go digging in someone’s trash. Even if
that someone was my intended, or soon-to-be intended.
“Come on, you’re good at digging,” I teased her.
“Gold digging maybe.” She smiled and batted her false eyelashes
at me.
“Or digging for gossip,” Ginger added. “She’s great at that.”
“A girl has got to have special talents in life,” Wendy said.
I grabbed a couple of peanuts from the bowl in the center of the
table and a strange sensation tingled through me.
What if Jason was in danger?
Ben, the lead singer of Oro Ignited and friend to everyone in town,
sauntered over to us. “Evening, ladies. Evening, Frannie.” He flashed
me a strange, shy look that I couldn’t interpret, then turned his atten‐
tion to Ginger. “I heard your jewelry designs are the hottest fad in
town.” He took an empty chair from nearby, spun it around, and
seated himself at our table with his arms and chest resting on the back
of the chair.
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Ginger grinned as wide as the Cheshire cat. “Who, pray tell, told
you that?”
“My Aunt Jeannie was at the sale today. She brought a flashy
pendant, and now my mother is scheming to steal it . . . I mean,
borrow it from her.”
While Ginger made small talk with Ben, Wendy leaned over to me.
“So, what’s up? Why do you think Jason didn’t propose tonight?”
Her question poked at a sensitive part of my heart, and I suddenly
felt hollowed out. I would have much preferred to dwell on the
mystery of the bloody shoe than the mystery of the missed proposal.
I’d been so sure. All signs pointed to go, and yet . . .
I shrugged and felt my eyes start to fill.
Wendy grabbed my hand. “Oh, honey! Come on.” She pulled me to
my feet and led me to the ladies’ room. Under the fluorescent lights, I
looked like the wreck of the Hesperus.
“No wonder he didn’t propose! Look at me!” I yelped.
Wendy laughed and smoothed down my hair. “You be quiet. You
look fine.”
While Ginger had always been my closest girlfriend and had
nursed me through my shares of broken hearts, Wendy was a more
recent addition in my life. Being that she was married to my brother
and we worked together on a daily basis at The Nugget, I was finally
starting to feel like I could confide in her.
I collapsed onto the chaise in the ladies’ room and sighed. “I’m not
giving up. I’m still sure he’s the one, but he’s under a lot of pressure is
all. I think next week, after he gets the promotion . . .”
Wendy ran some tap water and wet a paper towel. She quirked a
brow at me as she pressed the towel to the back of my neck. “You can
have anyone in town, darling. I don’t want you to settle.”
I frowned. “I’m not settling! I love Jason.”
She nodded. “Of course you do. What about Ben? Have you
noticed the way he looks at you?”
I felt a surge of defensiveness. “I love Jason. He’s the one.”
She dabbed delicately at her lips. “Right. Ben and I were talking
earlier. He and I made a deal.”
“What about?” I studied Wendy’s reflection in the mirror, wondering
what was coming next. Ben had been best friends with my first husband,
but they’d parted ways more or less about the time of our divorce.
“He wants me to use my power of influence with Dale Myers to get
his band back on the main stage for Living History Day.”
I snorted. “What power of influence?”
Wendy laughed. “Well, I am in charge of all the costumes. Don’t
you think the threat of having everyone dance around naked is
substantial?”
We giggled. The kind of infectious, delirious laughter bubbling
through us after a stressful day was enough for us to slump together
and wipe the tears dry.
Taking advantage of her good mood, I said, “Come with me to
have a look in Jason’s garbage can.”
Wendy scrunched up her nose. “I told you. I’m not digging through
someone’s garbage.”
“You don’t have to dig through his garbage. I just want to see if the
shoe is there.” She looked unconvinced, but I laced an arm through
hers and pulled her out of the ladies’ room. “What are sisters-in-law
for anyway?”
“Not this!” she protested, but she didn’t untangle her arm from
mine.
“I won’t tell,” I urged.
She snickered. “Your brother would die if he knew I was digging
through someone’s trash.”
“I know, I know. You’re a gold digger, not a trash digger,” I teased.
She pinched my arm. “Shut it, sister.”
I laughed, but she only pinched harder until I said, “Ouch! Okay,
okay, I take it back, humorless.”
Back at our table, the entire band had joined Ginger for cocktails.
She was flirting outrageously with all of them, sitting on someone’s
lap while another guy rubbed her feet. I knew I’d never be able to
convince her to leave with us. Instead, I wiggled my fingers at her in
farewell. She made a phone receiver out of her hand and gestured that
she’d call me later.
Wendy and I exited the Wine Jug, the cool night air a reprieve
from the stifling atmosphere of the bar. We walked down the streets
of Golden arm in arm, Wendy chatting about the costumes she was
finalizing.
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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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Dying for Gold (Gold Strike Mysteries: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two Continued
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss part one of Chapter Two?
From Dying for Gold
Chapter Two Continued
He pinched the bridge of his nose as if the mere thought of
groceries or anything to do with cooking gave him a migraine. “I
dunno.”
“It’s okay. I can poach the eggs.” I grabbed a pot and filled it with
water as I brought him up to speed on the success of the sale and the
overall events of the day. I ended with telling him that Dale Meyers
was making life a living hell for the Living History Day.
Jason sipped his wine, then groaned. “Dale’s a nightmare. He’s
making my life miserable too.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
Jason looked like his thoughts were a million miles away, then he
said suddenly, “I’ve been so busy I probably haven’t even told you yet,
but my department head got transferred and now I report directly to
Dale. It’s him who’s going to decide if I get promoted or not.”
“Oh, Dale’s not so bad. I thought you guys got along. Wasn’t he the
one who hired you?”
Jason was a computer engineer who did his best work uninter‐
rupted. It was sheer misery for him to go into an office and meet with
the business team, but once he and Dale met, Dale had arranged for
Jason to telecommute, and Jason hadn’t stepped foot into the Sacra‐
mento branch in ages.
Jason paled. “Yeah. Seems like a long time ago, though. A lot’s
changed.” He suddenly looked depressed.
“Why don’t you go work on your project while I fix the eggs?” I
suggested.
His eyes lit up. “Oh . . . you don’t mind?”
“I’ll call you when dinner is ready.” I kissed his cheek.
He kissed me back, saying, “You’re the best,” then disappeared to
the front room where his laptop beckoned.
I proceeded to fuss about the kitchen and wipe down the counters
with a paper towel. When I went to toss the paper towel, I noticed his
garbage was full.
If things went according to plan, soon this would be our garbage!
Our New York garbage!
Oh, who cared if Jason was busy with work tonight. Soon we’d be
married. Of that I was sure.
I tied the kitchen garbage bag up and headed down the back steps
where the larger trash bins for his apartment were kept: a black one
for refuse, a green one for compost, and a blue bin for recycling. All
the bins were stationed along the alley next to his apartment building.
There was a little trail of dark droplets along the alley that lined up
right to the black garbage bin.
Yuk, someone must have had a leaky bag.
I popped open the lid of the trash can and spied a man’s shoe.
The shoe might as well have been connected to an electrical
current, because it gave me a shock of unmeasured proportions.
What I’d considered to be garbage refuse alongside the trash can I
now realized were droplets of blood.
Oh my God!
What was a bloody shoe doing in Jason’s trash can?
I dropped the kitchen trash bag in the alley and studied the shoe a
moment, a thousand thoughts zinging through my head. I grabbed a
nearby stick and prodded at the shoe. When I moved it, blood
oozed out.
A chill zipped down my spine.
Whose shoe was this?
How did it get here, and why?
Suddenly, a loud bang echoed down the street and the thought
struck me that I might be in danger. I slammed down the lid and
raced back up the stairs to Jason’s apartment.
“Jason,” I screamed as I pushed open his apartment door.
He appeared at me side immediately and grabbed my arms.
“What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
I was shaking uncontrollably, adrenaline coursing through my
veins. “I went to take down your garbage . . . I . . . there’s a . . . and
some blood . . . I . . .”
“What? Slow down, Frannie. Calm down.” He hugged me to him,
the warmth emanating from his body soothing me as I took a deep
breath.
“I found a bloody shoe in your garbage can,” I mumbled into his
chest.
He pulled away from me and looked me in the face. “You found
some blood in my garbage can? It’s probably from the ground beef I
tossed yesterday.”
“A shoe. A bloody shoe.”
I must not have been making any sense, because he blinked at me,
then shook his head.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Frannie? Did you fall on the stairs and
lose your shoe?”
“No, not my shoe!” I sat on his couch and stuck out my Jimmy
Choo clad feet. “Someone else’s shoe. A man’s shoe.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe someone threw away an old
shoe.”
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“It looked new.”
He sighed. “Babe—”
“And there was blood on it!”
He waved a hand at me, dismissing my fear. “I told you I cleaned
out the fridge earlier. I threw out some ground beef. Probably the
blood from that dripped on it or something. Look, I have to get this
project done. Why don’t you just chill a bit? Have some more wine
and relax.”
“No! You have to go see. What if there’s somebody skulking
around downstairs!”
He made a face.
I felt like an idiot. He had work to do, and here I was probably
overreacting. Suddenly, my fear was gone, but I still needed to be sure
of what I’d seen.
He sat down on the couch and pulled me to him, embracing me.
“Babe, you know this promotion is important, right? It’s the way we
get out of this town and to the Big Apple.”
“I know.”
He pressed his lips to mine. “You do still want to go with me,
right?”
“Of course.”
“Will you feel better if I go and check out the bloody shoe?”
I laughed. “You’re making it sound like a stupid joke. Remember
the one about the bloody finger?”
He frowned.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s the one where the girl is alone and she gets
the call.” I made my voice low. “This is the bloody finger . . . and I’m
one block away.”
He shook his head. “It sounds like a pretty bad joke.”
“It is,” I agreed. “The girl gets the call three times and gets more
scared each time, and then a guy with a small cut on his finger arrives
on her doorstep and asks for a Band-Aid.”
Jason buried his head in his hands. “Worst. Joke. Ever.”
“I know. It’s Ginger’s favorite, and she’s probably told it a million
times since we were kids. Every Halloween especially.”
Jason rose from the couch. “Okay, I’ll check it out.” He made his
voice low and dramatic. “The bloody shoe.”
He left the apartment, and I paced.
Why was there a bloody shoe in his garbage can? I walked to the
front window of the apartment and looked out into the dark street.
No one seemed to be around. Certainly no one stalking the building
or anything else.
I grabbed my phone and sent a group message to Ginger and
Wendy:
NO PROPOSAL YET BUT FOUND SOMETHING STRANGE IN
THE TRASH.
Wendy texted back first.
A RECIEPT FROM A FINE JEWELER?
Ginger texted.
A USED NAPKIN FROM THE WINE JUG WITH SOME
FLOOZY’S NUMBER?
Before I could reply, Jason came back into the room. “There’s no
shoe in the garbage, Frannie.”
“What? It’s gone?”
He shrugged. “I guess so. Now we have the case of the missing
shoe.”
How could it be gone?
“Are you sure you looked in the garbage can? The black one. It was
inside, not on top.”
“Yeah, I looked inside. You left my garbage bag in the alley, by the
way, and Terrance’s cat was already clawing it.”
Terrance was Jason’s downstairs neighbor.
“Anyway,” Jason continued. “Since when do you take out my
trash?”
I shrugged, poured the last few drops of Chardonnay into my
glass, and shook the bottle, hoping for more. I didn’t want to confess
that I’d been fantasizing about domesticity, so instead I said, “I was
bored.”
He crossed his arms. “Sorry I can’t entertain you, babe, but you
know—”
“I know. The promotion.”
He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close to him.
“One more week and everything will be different. I promise,” he whis‐
pered into my ear.
I pressed my cheek against his, the stubble of his beard scratching
my skin.
“Why don’t you go meet up with Ginger and Wendy? I won’t be
offended,” he said.
“No! I’m not going to leave you alone on a Saturday night!”
He laughed. “Babe. I got my work. I feel like I’m the one leaving
you alone. I’ll walk you to the Wine Jug.”
“You don’t have to walk me.”
“Are you kidding? I gotta make sure you leave.” He chuckled at his
joke, but it left me feeling unsettled.
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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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Dying for Gold (Gold Strike Mysteries: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two
Did you miss Chapter One?
From Dying for Gold
Chapter Two
At six p.m., we finally ushered everyone out of the store. Three
cases of champagne later, we’d rung in one of our best nights
for fine jewelry. Dad was grudgingly pleased, even if gold had taken a
back seat to fine stones for one day.
Ginger was beside herself, squealing every three minutes. “We
need to go out and celebrate!”
“I have a date with Jason,” I said, pressing my hand against my
tummy to quell the butterflies.
Tonight could be the big night!
“Right, right,” Ginger said. She glanced over at Wendy. The two
never went out without me, but it seemed that the day had been so
successful that they might be gearing up for it. “Well, do you want to
get a glass of Chardonnay with me over at the Wine Jug?”
Wendy shrugged. “Sure, why not? I’ve tolerated you all day. I might
as well tolerate you a little longer.” Ginger giggled as if Wendy had
been joking.
I pinched Wendy. “Be nice.”
Wendy laughed. “Okay, I’m just kidding. Besides we need to be
together so you can call us when you get your big news.”
I slipped my cell phone into my pocket.
“Don’t worry, I’ll call you guys. How late will you be at the Wine
Jug?”
“Late,” Ginger said. “We’re celebrating. We’re going to be late.”
Wendy glanced at her watch. “Well, my darling husband will be
home from the mine—”
Ginger grabbed Wendy’s arm. “No you don’t. If we go to the Wine
Jug together, you can’t ditch me.”
“I’ll walk with you guys since it’s on my way to Jason’s,” I said,
wiggling my fingers in Dad’s direction.
Dad, who was closing down the final till, said, “See you in the
morning. Don’t stay out too late.”
I hadn’t exactly told him that I expected Jason to propose tonight. I
knew Dad wasn’t very fond of the idea of Jason and me getting
married. Dad wanted me to marry again, sure, but Jason’s career goals
were not part of Dad’s overall plan. Dad had made it clear that he
wanted me to stay in Golden and run The Nugget, and Jason was in
line for a promotion and the new position included moving to New
York City.
As it happened, I personally loved the idea of moving to New York.
The Big Apple was glamorous: skyscrapers, fine dining, Fifth Avenue
department stores with designer names, theater, and opera.
All we had designer in Golden were secondhand goods sold in a
small store around the corner from The Nugget. If you wanted to do
any real shopping, you had to head down the Sierra foothills and into
Sacramento to hit a mall. But even then, it wasn’t nearly as sophisti‐
cated as New York.
Ginger, Wendy, and I walked the steep and windy streets of down‐
town Golden, passing the Chocolate Shoppe, the antique clocktower,
and the theater. Dusk was falling, and one by one, the vintage lamp‐
posts that lined the narrow walkways flickered on.
We stopped in front of the Wine Jug before saying goodbye.
“Call me first thing,” Ginger said, pushing open the door to the bar.
Wendy followed her in, but not before turning around and
mouthing to me, “Call me first!”
I waved at them and then proceeded up the hill toward Jason’s
apartment. It was strange that he and I hadn’t spoken all day, but
maybe it was because he had a surprise in store for me . . .
Like a proposal.
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I pushed the thought out of my mind. No need to go overboard
with anticipation. If the time was right, Jason would know.
I’d been married before, but only for a short time. We’d both been
straight out of high school and considered it a starter marriage. At
least that’s what everyone else called it, I think partly to make me feel
better. Being a divorcée at twenty-one is not exactly what a girl
dreams about, and it still broke my heart to think about how quickly
it all fell apart for us. But things were different now.
This time around it’d be forever.
I turned the corner on Jason’s street and climbed the rickety stair‐
case to his apartment. In real estate lingo, they’d call the staircase orig‐
inal, but in reality it was one board shy of a full disaster.
I pressed the doorbell, waiting for Jason to answer. After a
moment, the door flew open and my boyfriend appeared. There was
stubble on his normally clean-shaven cheeks, his shirt was wrinkled,
and he looked like he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours.
Ah! My computer genius.
I pressed my lips to his. “What’s going on, Jason? You’re a mess.
Did I wake you?”
He dragged a hand across his blond hair. “No, um, I’ve been work‐
ing. You know, I’m focusing on that promotion, so I was . . .” He
shrugged his shoulders. “Did we have plans for tonight?”
“Yeah.” My heart sank. He’d forgotten our date altogether. So
much for a proposal. “I thought we were going to have dinner.”
“Oh.” He looked befuddled. “Um.” He scratched his head. “I think
I’ve got a box of pasta somewhere. You want to have spaghetti and
sauce?”
“Hmm. Spaghetti and sauce sounds appetizing,” I teased, poking
him in the ribs, but he looked more offended than happy.
“Come on in,” he said.
I followed him into his apartment. There were papers strewn
across his coffee table, and his laptop was open and buzzing.
Jason did a little a jig and rotated his body so that it blocked my
view of his screen. He seemed a little jittery.
Why was he acting so strange?
“Are you even hungry?” I asked.
“I could eat,” he answered. “You know, I can always eat.”
He padded over to the kitchen and waited for me to follow. He pulled
open the refrigerator door. There was a half-full bottle of Chardonnay
and a carton of eggs. Aside from that, the refrigerator was empty.
“I cleaned out the fridge earlier,” he said.
“Do you want to go out to eat?”
“Out?” He suddenly looked ashen. “Uh, you know, I’m working on
this project. I don’t think I have time to go out. I’ll miss my deadline.”
“Well, I could fry a couple eggs for us,” I said, ignoring the unset‐
tled feeling creeping into my heart.
He rocked from his toes to his heels and then back again. “If you’re
hungry, that’s fine. Or we could order takeout.”
Jason was always ordering takeout, the ultimate bachelor. I figured
one day when we were married, I’d show him what a regular Martha
Stewart I was. I could cook with the best of them. I opened the small
cupboard that made up his pantry.
“Let’s see if I can find some beans and salsa or something. I’m sure
I can make something yummy out of those eggs.”
“No, don’t bother. It’s kind of a hassle to cook.” He pulled out the
bottle of Chardonnay and poured a glass for me.
“It’s only a hassle to cook if you’re not hungry,” I said.
“I am hungry,” he admitted.
“Well, then I’ll make something.” I rummaged a bit more through
his cupboard and came up empty-handed. “If you had some chorizo
and peppers, I could make you Huevos a la Flamenca.”
“I love it when you talk sexy to me,” he said, pouring himself a
glass of Chardonnay.
I socked him in the shoulder. “It’s not sexy, it’s Spanish.”
“Same thing.”
“I guess we’ll have to settle for fried eggs. You do have oil, don’t
you?” I asked.
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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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Dying for Gold (Gold Strike Mysteries: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter One Continued
Did you miss part one of Chapter One?
From Dying for Gold
Chapter One Continued
Oh, good. She could go bug Wendy about getting pregnant soon
and that would get me off the hook for the moment.
“Over there,” I said, pointing toward Wendy’s slender form. “No
baby bump yet . . .”
Wendy turned toward me as if she’d sensed we were talking about
her. I winked and wiggled my eyebrows, indicating that Mrs. DeLeon
was about to descend on her.
She gave me her best “you’ll pay for this” look, then smiled as Mrs.
DeLeon approached.
I took the opportunity to slip to the back and dial my boyfriend,
Jason. We’d been dating for almost a year, and he’d recently been
hinting around the idea of marriage, asking my ring size and whether
I preferred white gold or yellow.
Which actually was a silly question for a gold heiress. While gold
could be many colors, including black or purple, nothing compared to
those flakes colored like the sun. But hey, if being agreeable to pink or
red gold would get a ring on my finger, I was all for it.
In fact, Jason had been mysterious about this evening. He’d
mentioned a romantic dinner and a surprise.
I dialed his number and waited for him to answer. It rang four
times, and then his voicemail kicked on.
Where was he?
It wasn’t like him not to pick up.
Maybe he’s shopping.
I imagined him haggling with a jeweler across the glass counter.
No, that wasn’t likely. Surely if Jason was getting ready to propose,
he’d have asked Ginger to design the ring. And yet, she hadn’t
mentioned a thing.
Footsteps approached, and I tried to hide the smile that was
bursting through.
Wendy appeared before me. “What are you grinning at? Siccing
Mrs. DeLeon on me?”
I laughed. “Oh, Wendy. Sorry. I couldn’t resist, plus she was
pestering me about when Jason is going to pop the question.”
“It better be soon. He’d be an idiot to let you go.” Wendy suddenly
took a step back and evaluated me. “What style dress do you want?”
I inwardly cringed. Wendy’s new hobby was sewing, and she
fancied herself a dress designer, but the truth was she barely knew the
difference between a straight stitch and a whip stitch.
She grabbed the fabric measuring tape that was constantly slung
around her neck these days and moved toward my waist.
I stepped back. “Wait, wait. Let’s not jinx anything. It just that he’s
been hinting around and he’s making me dinner and tonight—”
Wendy squealed and wrapped her arms around my neck. “OMG!
You’d better call me first thing.”
The sound of high heels clicked on the tile floor. “Call you first
about what?” Ginger asked.
“She’ll call me first after the proposal,” Wendy said.
Ginger and Wendy were on-and-off-again friends and sometimes
got a little competitive when it came to attention from me. I suddenly
found myself in a tug of war between the two.
“She’ll call me first!” Ginger said. She quirked an eyebrow at me
and said, “Right? I’m her best friend.”
Wendy stepped in and put an arm around my shoulder. “Well, I’m
her sister-in-law. Family trumps friends; everyone knows that.”
Ginger grabbed my other arm. “No. Not true— ”
I wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders. “Okay, as soon
as he asks, I’ll conference you both or”—I laughed—“send you a group
text.”
Dad popped his head into the back room. “Good God! What are
the lot of you doing back here? I have biddies bidding on baubles,
ready to overpay and rip each other’s gizzards out over these trinkets.
Now get out there and close those sales!”
We laughed.
“Great pep talk, Dad,” I said.
He ignored our laughter and began to usher us toward the sales
floor. “Hurry now, Mrs. Harvey needs to be rung up for the nugget I
just sold her.”
Ginger looked offended. “But I thought she was interested in the
emerald tennis bracelet I designed for her.” She scurried off
behind Dad.
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Wendy and I followed, but she hung back a bit and said to me, “I
got a text from Ben.” She rolled her eyes. “You’ll never believe it, but
more changes for Living History Day.”
Living History Day was an annual event where the entire town
dressed up in 1850s garb that Wendy helped sew. It was a huge fair
complete with sawmill demonstrations, tours of famous gold mines,
historic reenactments, and gold panning. And, of course, lots of
tourist memorabilia and junk food, topped off with a healthy dose of
live music.
Our mutual friend, Ben, and his band Oro Ignited played every year.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Mrs. Jeffries, still clutching the diamond-encrusted gold nugget,
spotted me and waved frantically at the glass counter. “Frannie! Show
me those gold coin earrings! I think they’d make quite a match with
this knickknack.” She wiggled her wrist so the nugget moved back
and forth hypnotist-style.
I moved across the sales floor and behind the counter as Wendy
followed me.
“His band’s been canceled,” Wendy said.
I pulled the earrings for Mrs. Jeffries, who was now absorbed in
our conversation.
Mrs. Jeffries pursed her lips. “More problems with Living History
Day?”
“Problems with Dale Myers more specifically,” Wendy answered.
Dale Myers was the new chairman for Living History Day.
“Dale Myers!” Mrs. Jeffries spat. “That man is making so many
enemies. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if he winds up murdered! Did
you know that my dear Mr. Jeffries and I were all set to sing for the
event?”
“Were?” I repeated.
Mrs. Jeffries nodded, her expression changing to resemble that of
a moping child. “Dale said that there were already too many acts
scheduled and that he’d have to bump Edmond and me off the list.
Can you imagine? We’ve been singing on Living History Day for
twenty-five years.” She crossed her arms with a huff. “Not a very nice
thing to do to us when we’ve just reached our quarter-of-a-century
singing anniversary.”
Wendy shook her head. “It’s downright cruel if you ask me. Such a
shame.”
The Jeffries were by no means an act that would make it on Broad‐
way. But they had a familiar, hometown sound and I couldn’t imagine
Living History Day without it.
“That’s strange he would say that there are too many performers,” I
remarked. “I mean, if you two got bumped off the program and now
Ben’s band too, we won’t have any entertainment.”
Mrs. Jeffries looked down at the earrings Wendy had just handed
her. “You’re exactly right.” She released a long-suffering sigh as she
held the earrings up so that they sparkled in the sunlight streaming
through the window. “I came in here to forget about all this. But Dale
Meyers’s doom and gloom managed to follow me here too.”
Wendy offered a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry about that. But
don’t you love those earrings? They’re just the thing to cheer you up.”
Mrs. Jeffries’ face brightened considerably. “Yes.. . . . yes, I think
you’re right. I’ll take them, Wendy!”
I barely hid my laughter at how quickly Mrs. Jeffries was consoled
by the purchase. I supposed that it didn’t matter what sold Ginger’s
jewelry so long as the afternoon was a success. Still, Dale Meyers had
cast quite a shadow, and it seemed Ben wasn’t the only one who was
unhappy about it.
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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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Dying for Gold (Gold Strike Mysteries: Book One) Sneak Peek – Chapter One
From Dying for Gold
Chapter One
I think your store is haunted,” Mrs. Jeffries, one of our best
customers, screeched.
“It’s not haunted,” I said.
“Well, the nugget I was just looking at disappeared out from under
my nose! How do you explain that?” she demanded.
“Wendy,” I offered as way of explanation, pulling the diamond-encrusted
gold nugget out of my sister-in-law’s hands and passing it
to Mrs. Jeffries.
Wendy simply batted her false eyelashes and gave a wicked grin. “I
couldn’t resist. Isn’t it the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen?”
The store in question was The Nugget. Daddy’s family had been
part of the original gold rush of 1849. Our family went way back,
especially by California standards. I was the fifth generation of a
mining family, and The Nugget had kept our family in gold even when
our mine, The Bear Strike, had been forced to close in 1942 to support
the war effort.
I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Daddy happier than when the
price of gold shot up a few years back and it would finally be prof‐
itable to reopen the mine.
Ordinarily, The Nugget catered to tourists, but I’d convinced Daddy
to use the shop as a backdrop to put my best friend, Ginger’s,
exquisite jewelry designs on display, and all our best customers and
neighbors had come out for the occasion.
Dad came around from behind the counter. “Cut the champagne
off,” he said under his breath.
I laughed. “Daddy! This is a ladies’ gathering. One of the main
draws beside Ginger’s designs is the champagne.”
He leaned into me. “Key word being ladies. Do you see how they’re
acting?”
I couldn’t deny that there was a lot of shrieking going on and that
the general timbre in the room was reaching an ear-shattering pitch.
“You’re just mad that they’re so excited about Ginger’s design and not
your gold,” I teased.
Dad’s idea of jewelry was literally a nugget hanging off a chain,
and the chain, of course, must be gold. There was nothing more
appealing to him. The rougher the nugget, the more gorgeous Dad
thought it was. I had to admit that our regular clientele of tourists
seemed to agree.
They loved buying a “gen-u-ine” gold nugget that had been mined
from California’s oldest and still active mines.
Ginger came out of the back room cradling a sapphire necklace
she’d taken to fix that’d been broken a moment earlier when two
customers yanked it out of each other’s hands. The pendant of the
necklace was designed as a huge calla lily with delicate gold leaves and
a brilliant-cut sapphire as the blossom. The necklace was almost as
beautiful as Ginger herself.
She had honey-ginger colored hair and wore a form-fitting dress
that hugged every generous curve. The dress was indigo, and knowing
Ginger, it was no coincidence that it perfectly matched both her eyes
and the expensive sapphire she now held in her hand.
She stood between the customers, Mrs. DeLeon and Mrs. Harvey,
nervously glancing at me. “Uh, Frannie? Can you—”
“It’s for me,” Mrs. DeLeon said, grabbing at her pocketbook.
“No. You. Don’t!” Mrs. Harvey howled. “That piece is for me.
Wendy and I have been talking about it for ages!”
All heads turned toward my sister-in-law, Wendy, who dutifully
wrinkled her button nose, then admitted, “I did tell her I thought
there was a special piece she would like.” Wendy avoided Mrs.
Harvey’s wrath by taking great interest in the passing waiter. “Oooh!
Is that pâté?”
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We’d hired Golden’s premier catering service, Bites & Bread, for the
event, and judging by the trays being offered to our customers, I could
already hear Dad complain about the bill that was sure to be anything
but bite-size.
The waiter, who was about all of eighteen, held the tray out for
Wendy as Mrs. Harvey took a great inhale, then puffed out her cheeks.
She let the air out slowly, breathing all over the canapé tray.
“I’m going to have to speak to Mr. Peterson! George!” she wailed.
Dad appeared with a smile on his face. He was ever the charmer,
but I could tell by the fine lines around his eyes that he was tired. One
more complaint from the wealthy, pampered socialites this party had
attracted and he might blow a gasket.
“Mrs. Harvey. Whatever is the matter? More champagne?” he
offered.
I bit back my laugh.
So much for cutting off the champagne!
“George. Will you please inform Mrs. DeLeon that the sapphire
necklace is for me?”
Dad grabbed the arm of another waiter, this one a redhead who
worked regularly at the Bites & Bread Bakery, and pulled a bottle of
champagne out of her hand. He topped off Mrs. Harvey’s glass. “Sap‐
phire?” He frowned. “Mrs. Harvey. You and I must have a talk.” He
glanced around, all the ladies suddenly craning their necks to get an
earful. “In private,” he mumbled, leading her toward the glass case that
held our most expensive gold jewelry.
Dad handed me the champagne bottle, then took Mrs. Harvey’s
elbow, leading her to the back of the store as he chatted with her,
tilting his head close to hers so his mouth was near her ear. She
suddenly erupted into a fit of giggles, then whacked my father on his
shoulder. I noticed her hand lingered on his arm, giving him the occa‐
sional squeeze.
Didn’t she realize she was the one being squeezed?
Mrs. DeLeon said, “Quick, Frannie. Ring me up for the sapphire
necklace so I can get out of here and away from Mrs. Harvey.”
I topped off Mrs. DeLeon’s flute. “I think she’ll change her mind
altogether about the necklace. Don’t worry.”
Mrs. DeLeon handed me her platinum American Express. “I’m not
taking any chances.”
I took the card and nodded. “It is a beautiful piece. I’m sure you’ll
be very happy with it.”
Ginger beamed as I rang up the necklace. “I can’t believe this is
happening. Everyone loves my stuff.”
“I knew they would. It’s beautiful,” I said.
Wendy slipped up next to us. “Totally unique,” she agreed. “I’m so
glad I convinced George to have the party. What a great idea I had!”
Ginger and I exchanged a look. Actually, the idea of hosting an
exclusive sale of Ginger’s handcrafted designer jewelry had been
mine, but we both knew Wendy would take credit wherever she could
get it.
I rang up Mrs. DeLeon and placed the beautiful sapphire necklace
into a black velvet gift box.
Wendy and Ginger circulated around the crowd, and Dad popped
open another champagne bottle while chatting with Mrs. Harvey.
As I finished helping Mrs. DeLeon, she leaned in and grabbed my
hand. “When are we going to see a ring on this finger, Frannie?”
I flushed. For some reason, I hated being the center of attention.
I’d much rather people notice the sparkling gold nuggets beneath the
glass counter than my hand above it.
“It’s getting to be about that time, isn’t it, dear?” Mrs. DeLeon
asked.
I slipped my hand out of her grasp and feigned a smile. Even
though I was hoping for a proposal soon, I wasn’t about to share the
details of my private life. “When he’s ready, I’ll be ready,” I said.
Mrs. DeLeon gave a throaty chuckle. “Well, my dear, don’t wait too
long. I know your father is dying for some grandbabies to help out
with The Bear Strike. Speaking of grandbabies, where did Wendy fly
off to?” Mrs. DeLeon turned to look for Wendy.
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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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July 9, 2021
Prams and Poison (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Nine) Sneak Peek – Chapter One
From Prams and Poison
Chapter One
To Do:
1. Take Laurie to puppet time at the library.
2. Furnish twins’ new nursery!
3. Interview prospective nannies.
4. Dinner Saturday with Nick and his wife.
5. Buy larger maternity clothes!
6. Land new paying client.
7. Find out if Hank’s poker night is on the up and up.
“Paula!” I held out my arms to welcome my best friend to my
recently beautified backyard. My wonderful husband Jim had worked
with Jojo—the contractor doing our garage-turned-nursery renova‐
tion—to turn the raggedy, neglected space into an oasis.
Even in the middle of the day, when the string lights draped
between the house and the pergola didn’t cast their fairy-tale glow on
everything, I loved it.
Paula’s jaw dropped as she pushed the pram through the gate and
over the rippling grass. “You weren’t kidding! Jim did such a great job
on this.”
Baby Chloe’s tiny face peeked out of the pram from amid a sea of
polka-dotted blankets, and Paula’s two-year-old Danny trailed behind
them, zooming his toy through the air while making a high-pitched
whirring noise.
Laurie flailed in my arms at the sight of her little friends and
managed to land a painful kick on my growing baby bump.
“Hey!” I said, resting my free hand on my abdomen. “Be nice to
your little siblings, peanut.”
She just wiggled some more.
Paula pulled the pram to a halt beneath the pergola, and Danny
leaped from the stroller, holding his Spider-Man action figure high in
the air.
“I’m Pie-da-Man!” he yelled, throwing out his hand like he was
shooting a web at me.
“Whoa!” I staggered back as if he’d hit me, then sank to my knees
in the grass.
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With a grin, Paula pointed him toward a little patch of dirt in the
corner—the garden Jim and I had always intended to cultivate but
hadn’t gotten around to. “Can you play nicely for Auntie Kate for a
second while I go get Paws?”
He stopped and stared up at his mom. Then he yelled, “Pie-da-Man,”
and bolted for the garden.
Paula shook her head and pulled down her huge sunglasses to
glance at me. “I cannot believe what I was thinking, adding a puppy to
this chaos. But oh my word, Kate, I have so much to tell you!”
“I want to hear about that mysterious client you hinted about in
your text,” I called as she retreated toward the gate.
“Back in one minute!” she yelled.
I set Laurie in the corner of the garden, warning Danny sternly to
be gentle and not throw the action figure at her. He ignored me and
banged the Spider-Man headfirst into the sand.
“Good enough,” I muttered, walking backward toward Chloe’s
stroller while keeping a wary eye on Danny and Laurie. I loved
Danny, but he was a rough-and-tumble three-year-old, and I was
always a little worried he was going to knock her over or bite her.
Just as I reached the stroller and unbuckled Chloe, Paula returned
to the yard, her chocolate Lab puppy straining at the leash.
“Paws!” Paula snapped in the warning voice that meant she was
down to her last nerve. “Sit!”
Paws did not sit.
Groaning, Paula pulled the gate closed behind her. “Mind if I take
him off his leash so he can get some of his energy out?”
“Be my guest,” I said, bouncing Chloe and heading back toward the
kiddos, who were happily playing in the dirt. The yard wasn’t huge by
any means—space was at a premium in San Francisco—but Paws’s
desperate desire to run was almost palpable.
Paula unhooked the leash from his collar. The little dog let out a
jubilant yelp and tore around the perimeter of the yard, his tail
thrashing back and forth in unbridled glee.
“He’s pretty cute,” I said. I hadn’t met Paws before—he was a
brand-new addition to Paula’s family.
“He’s trouble,” she said in a wry voice, reaching for Chloe. “I’m
pretty sure he’s going to end up chewing the leg off the couch. And
look at this!” She held out her forearms and showed me a set of four
healing scratches. “These are from his nails! Did you know puppy
claws are that sharp?”
I handed the baby over and sat down in the dirt next to Danny and
Laurie, not caring that I was getting my joggers and oversize sweat‐
shirt messy. Paula, who was wearing dark-wash skinny jeans and an
impossibly fashionable slouchy blazer, stayed standing, several feet
back from the garden.
“So,” I said, tracing a line in the dirt in front of Laurie, “your new
client?”
With a squeal, Paula said, “You will not believe this! I landed a gig as
the designer for a renovation of one of the Painted Ladies!”
“Shut. Up!” I yelled, a huge grin on my face. “That’s amazing!”
Paula had been working hard to build her interior design business,
and the Painted Ladies—a set of Victorian- and Edwardian-style
homes refinished in vivid colors and featured on literally zillions of
postcards—were absolutely iconic.
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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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Prams and Poison (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Nine) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three Continued
From Prams and Poison
Chapter Three Continued
“And there’s quite a permitting process,” she said, “but we’ll want
to work with an architect to make sure we’re preserving the structural
integrity. I know just the woman for the job. She’s a whiz at getting
permits. I think she must know someone at the city, or something.”
I snorted and left them behind to peek into the dining room.
There was a round oak table inside, covered with books.
Must belong to the tenant. I skimmed over the books—a number of
older novels: Jane Eyre, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Hound of the
Baskervilles. And then there was nonfiction: a few productivity-type
books, but also a lot of heavy philosophy. It was mostly from the nine‐
teenth century, but a few volumes were more recent—I groaned when
I saw a thick volume of the work of Derrida and Saussure. I’d spent a
solid week of freshman philosophy class in college muttering, “I
cannot Derrida.”
I peeked through the bay window blinds at the slivers of Alamo
Square Park visible through the leafy greenery of the tree planted out
front.
Paula and Glenn came into the room, and Paula gestured to the
bay window. “We’ll want to restore that for sure. Perhaps with some
white trim and a beautiful white window seat beneath?”
We walked together into the kitchen. Now this room was an
unmitigated disaster.
Paula whistled. “Who on earth had the audacity to cover up these
beautiful wood floors with linoleum?”
“People did crazy things in the 1960s,” I said, tracing a finger over
the hideous plastic-looking countertop. The cabinets had originally
been white, which was something, but were now faded and discol‐
ored, showing a lifetime’s worth of stains. A handful of the cabinet
doors were flat-out broken, and the outlets were missing their cover‐
ings, showing off the wiring within.
We climbed the stairs to the second floor, which boasted two
bedrooms at the back. Sure enough—the orange shag carpet was as
ridiculous as Glenn had said.
But with every room we looked at, I saw nothing but potential.
What would it be like to have enough money to buy a place like this,
once renovations were over?
Hey, a girl could dream, right?
At the front of the house was a living room that opened up onto a
veranda overlooking the park. I stared out at the view. I could get used
to this view every day.
“The fireplace could use some restoration,” said Paula, jolting my
attention back to the living room.
I hadn’t even noticed the fireplace behind the tenant’s ratty old
couch! What do these houses go for, anyway?
More than we could afford, undoubtedly.
“Two more bedrooms upstairs,” said Glenn.
Four bedrooms! Enough for each of the kids to have their own
room! Or, if the twins wanted to share, Jim and I could have a space
for a dedicated office.
As we climbed the staircase to the third floor, Glenn added, “We’re
budgeting three million dollars for the renovation, so we have some
wiggle room.”
I gripped the handrail until my knuckles turned white. Three
million dollars just for the renovation?
And I’d winced at writing the check for our garage-turnednursery renovation.
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We reached the top floor, and I wandered toward the front of the
house while Paula and Glenn started at the back. In the front room—a
sort of attic that could be converted into a bedroom, I thought—there
was an odd little half-door off to the left.
Was that a closet or an attic space? Then I realized there was a
pull-down attic door in the ceiling. Odd. There couldn’t possibly be
much crawlspace up there—we were really at the very top of the
house. I decided to check it out. Humming one of Laurie’s favorite
lullabies under my breath, I stood on my tiptoes and pulled at the attic
door string.
At first, nothing happened. I tugged harder. Satisfaction swelled in
me as the door came loose—and then all of a sudden, something
heavy and fabric-covered fell from the ceiling and landed on me. I
staggered backward, extricating myself from the thing, and it fell to
the floor.
I stared down at it—a soiled, graying wedding gown and . . . bones?
I let out a shrill scream.
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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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Prams and Poison (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Nine) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two Continued
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss part one of Chapter Two?
From Prams and Poison
Chapter Two Continued
Paula pulled her phone out of her pocket and glanced at the
screen. Her eyes widened, and her shoulders slumped. “No!” she cried.
“What is it?” I asked, alarmed.
“It’s from Carrie.” Disappointment laced her voice. “The client.”
“Oh no. They’re not . . .”
She looked up and nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. “They’re
canceling.”
“Canceling the meeting today, or the whole job?” I asked with a
little gasp.
“The whole job.” Her chin quivered, though I could tell she was
trying to hold herself together.
“I’m so sorry, hon,” I said, hurrying over to her and wrapping an
arm around her shoulder.
She tilted her chin upward. “It’ll be fine. I’d just let myself get really
excited about the job.”
“Hey, look at me. You’re going to build the city’s premier interior
design firm, with or without this job.”
She bit hard on her lip and nodded. “Just a setback,” she croaked.
“Well, what did the message say?” Mom asked, peering over Paula’s
shoulder.
Paula turned the screen back on and showed it to us.
Tenant rejected offer. We won’t need your services. Sorry.
“Ooooh,” I said through my teeth. “They’re buying out a tenant?”
She nodded glumly. “They said that negotiations were pretty much
done, though, and that it was a sure thing. But I guess these things are
never sure until the ink has dried on the contract, huh?”
“Really, not until the tenant has moved out and handed over the
key,” said Mom. She handed Laurie back to me. “I’m so sorry, dear.
Would you mind if I skated out?”
She didn’t add, since you don’t have a meeting to get to, but the impli‐
cation was palpable. Paula stiffened and clenched her hands into fists
—a telltale sign that she was trying not to cry.
“Of course,” I said to Mom—although she had been the one who
wanted to come see Laurie before I finagled her into babysitting for
Paula too. “What’s up?”
“Hank invited me to go skating,” she said. “I told him that I’d
committed to babysitting and that we’d go another time, but now I
might . . .”
“Skate out?” I finished wryly.
“Precisely.” She leaned over and rested a hand on Paula’s arm. “I’m
sorry, dear. These disappointments are never easy. But Kate is right—
you’ll build a fabulous design career whether or not you get a leg up
from this project.”
“Thanks,” Paula whispered.
My mom headed out, and Paula stood up, a look of fierce determi‐
nation on her face.
“Just a setback!” she declared. “We talked about this the other day
in my women entrepreneurs group. No use grieving over the ones
that got away. There’s only moving forward and finding the next
client.”
In the baby carrier near the door, Chloe let out a little shuddering
cry. We pivoted to look at her, but she settled back in and went to
sleep, smacking her lips.
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“What does your marketing look like?” I asked. “Maybe you could
sit down with Jim to go over a few ideas for cost-effective ways to
expand it.”
Her eyes lit up. “Would he do that?”
“I know he would. And he’s a genius at it.”
She laughed. “That’s why his clients pay him the big bucks.”
Danny opened the toy box, and then jumped to his feet and let out
a screech that could wake the dead. I winced. Paula hissed, “Don’t
wake your sister!”
But Danny didn’t hear a word. He’d fixated on a set of cars in the
toy box and began pulling them out one by one and lining them up.
Laurie watched him but made no sign that she wanted me to put her
down.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Actually, Jim should be back
from meeting with a client soon. Should we sketch out a few ideas?
When he gets home, we can ask him if he likes any of them.”
I pulled out a fresh legal pad, and we started our brainstorming
session. About ten minutes later, Jim walked in.
“Hey, hon,” he said. “Hey, Paula.”
Waving the legal pad at him, I said, “I’m glad you’re home! Meeting
went good?”
“Meeting went great.” He leaned over and kissed the top of my
head. “Whatcha working on?”
Laurie reached for Jim, and he picked her up and held her while
Paula and I tag-teamed the story. We’d just gotten to the part where
I’d volunteered Jim to help Paula with marketing when Paula’s phone
buzzed.
She checked it and looked up at me, confusion written on her face.
“It’s from the client.”
“What’d she say? Did the tenant change their mind?” I asked.
“No, I mean it’s from Glenn, Carrie’s husband. He’s asking where
I am.”
What a strange situation. Jim and I shared a long look, and I
shrugged.
“That’s odd,” he said. “Maybe Carrie didn’t tell him the tenant
rejected the offer?”
“What do I do?” Paula demanded, raking a hand through her long
hair. “What if the job is still on somehow?”
“Tell him you’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I said. “If there’s even
the smallest possibility of the renovation moving forward, you want
to take the meeting.”
“Right.” She fired off a text and stood. “Oh no! Your mom bailed on
babysitting when the meeting got canceled!”
I looked at Jim with pleading eyes. “Is there any way you can watch
the kids? I really want to see the house, and Paula could use moral
support.”
Paula grabbed her purse. “Oh, Kate, I really could. I’m sorry, Jim, I
hate to ask you, especially at the last minute like this . . .”
Jim gulped and glanced from the baby carrier to Danny. “Um.
Sure.” Then he brightened. “I could use some practice taking care of
three kiddos. We’ll have three of our own soon.”
“Thank you!” Paula let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, I’m so glad I don’t
have to go alone—especially if I’m just going to show up to learn
there’s no job.”
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Prams and Poison (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Nine) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two
Did you miss Chapter One?
From Prams and Poison
Chapter Two
The next day, Mom was practically glowing when she
arrived for babysitting duty. She hung her purse on a hook
on the wall and danced to the couch to take Laurie from me.
When Mom was this excited about something, it usually meant
trouble—that she’d bought something for Laurie that she loved but
knew I would secretly hate, or that she’d gotten deeply invested in
another one of her projects, which almost always involved meddling
with something.
I eyed her suspiciously. “What are you so excited about?”
She planted a big kiss on Laurie’s chubby cheek. “Oh, I just had a
perfectly lovely date with Hank yesterday. We went to Pier 39 to
watch the sea lions!”
Yup. Trouble. But I kept my face pleasantly neutral and started
picking up the toys strewn around the living room. “That sounds like
fun.”
I didn’t even know where to start with my mom’s love life. She’d
been dating two men, who were both crazy about her. They knew
about each other—she hadn’t kept it a secret or anything—but it was
quickly becoming clear that she was going to have to pick one to
settle down with.
It was like she was running her own personal finale of The Bache‐
lorette.
Hank, an adventurous pharmacist who’d struck it rich on the stock
market—Mom had no idea how rich—seemed nice enough. Though I
did need to check into an odd claim another PI had made about him
that he was part of a nefarious underground gambling ring and had
exhibited a violent temper. I was planning on looking into that—it
was actually on my schedule for this evening. If that allegation turned
out to be untrue, there was really nothing I could hold against Hank.
He and Mom got along well, and he took her on a lot of interesting
dates.
But he wasn’t Galigani.
Albert Galigani was my mentor in the private investigation busi‐
ness. He was helping me get the required hours so I could apply for
my own PI license, and he’d taught me so much about investigation.
Through our professional mentorship, I’d come to see him as a father
figure.
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I was always and irrevocably Team Galigani. Maybe I should make
signs: Galigani for Stepdad.
Galigani was steady and loving and good for my mom. He fit in
our family. He just . . . wasn’t quite as fun as Hank. He didn’t have
ideas for creative dates, or an instinct for spontaneity.
Maybe he just needed some help in that department.
I put a set of building blocks in the toy chest in the corner of the
room. Whiskers, my orange tabby kitten, ran up alongside me and
peeked into the toy chest. I laughed and ruffled her fur.
“How are ballroom lessons with Galigani?” I asked. He’d signed up
for those the month before, after he’d realized how much my mom
loved dancing.
He’d certainly spent long enough resisting the idea of dance lessons,
so this was progress.
Mom waltzed around the room with Laurie. “Oh, they are
delightful. We go every Thursday morning. He’s hopeless at salsa, but
his rhumba is actually quite romantic when the song is slow enough.
He loses control of his hips if it’s too fast.”
I quirked my lips, amused at the thought of Galigani attempting
salsa. But he was trying, and I knew that meant a lot to Mom. I made a
mental note to add an item to my list: Help Galigani plan some inter‐
esting dates.
What was something quirky and unique that Mom would love?
Maybe karaoke? I’d suggest it, but I had a very hard time picturing
Galigani agreeing to what he would call public humiliation.
But who knew? He was competing with Hank for my mom’s affec‐
tions, which might give him just the motivation he needed.
A knock sounded at the door, and Mom went to answer, still
carrying Laurie.
Moments later, little Danny raced into the room, holding his
Spider-Man action figure up in the air.
“Well, hello,” I said from where I sat cross-legged next to the toy
bin. “Are you Superman?”
“No!” he yelled. “Pie-da-Man!”
Paula walked through the door carrying a sleeping Chloe in her
car seat, somehow managing to look elegant while balancing the car
seat and a diaper bag.
It was probably the pencil skirt and four-inch heels. I glanced
down at the outfit I’d chosen for the day. While it wasn’t as stylish as
Paula’s—even when I wasn’t pregnant, I was never as stylish as Paula
—I felt great about myself today. I was wearing maternity skinny
jeans, a flowing empire-waist blouse, and red shoes that looked like
ballet flats but had arch support to die for.
Who knew arch support could look stylish?
Who knew that I’d even care about such a thing? Arch support?
Less than a year ago, the topic had never even entered my mind!
“Shh,” Paula warned Danny. “Remember your sister is sleeping.
Please don’t wake her up.”
Danny nodded solemnly.
Paula set down the car seat and knelt in front of Danny. “Are you
going to be good for Miss Vera?” she asked sternly.
Mom danced from foot to foot, rocking Laurie back and forth.
“We’re going to have a wonderful time!” she declared.
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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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Prams and Poison (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Nine) Sneak Peek – Chapter One Continued
Did you miss part one of Chapter One?
From Prams and Poison
Chapter One Continued
“It’s a one-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” she raved. “A chance to leave
my mark on a unique piece of classic San Francisco. I just hope I can
do it justice. I’m meeting with the clients tomorrow to look at the
house.”
“You deserve every bit of this success,” I said firmly.
Paws zipped across the dirt patch, kicking a cloud of dust up into
my face. A ticklish sensation in my nose overpowered me, and I
sneezed. The four-legged troublemaker turned around and jumped up
on me, his paws connecting with my shoulders and knocking me off
balance.
“Paws!” scolded Paula.
But I just laughed and sat back up, brushing myself off. “Maybe we
should dampen the dirt a little so there’s not so much dust. We’ve got
a mister attachment on the hose that should do the job nicely.”
Paula made a face but picked her way to the side of the house and
gingerly picked up the hose.
“Twist it to the left,” I called.
She turned on the hose and raced over to the garden, waving the
hose in the general direction of the dirt patch. Too late, I realized the
mister attachment was lying in the dirt at the side of the house. A
stream of water burst from the end of the hose just as I pulled Laurie
and Danny away.
Paws charged straight for the onslaught of water and tore head‐
first into the mud.
Paula shrieked and dropped the hose. “Oh no! Wet dog!” she
wailed, running back to the side of the house and cranking off the
hose. As the flow slowed, Paws settled at the end of the hose and
licked up the last trickle of running water.
I covered my mouth. “I’m so sorry, Paula. The mister fell off.”
Glancing at Paws, I added, “At least he’s already chocolate colored, so
he doesn’t look quite so muddy?”
“He just had a bath yesterday.” She facepalmed dramatically.
I made a sympathetic noise in the back of my throat. “I’m sorry.”
Out of the corner of my eye, movement lurched toward the muddy
dirt patch. “Danny, stop—”
But it was too late. Danny had plopped himself on his back in
the mud.
“Angel!” he yelled, throwing out his arms and legs like he was
making a snow angel in a mud-wrestling pit.
Paula squeaked in horror.
Danny scrambled to his feet, giggling, and made a mad dash at
Laurie and me. I shrieked and tried to dive out of the way, but he
caught Laurie by the arm and tackled her to the ground, wrapping his
muddy arms around her.
Laurie’s eyes widened as if she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or
wail.
“You’re all right, duck,” I cooed in an upbeat voice. She stared at
me. Then a smile stretched across her face, and she dissolved into a fit
of riotous giggles.
One crisis averted.
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Another . . . I took in the two extremely muddy children and even
muddier puppy. Another crisis not-so-averted.
But mud washed off.
I met Paula’s gaze, and a smirk tugged on the corners of her lips.
“Another day in the life?” she offered in a high-pitched voice.
We burst into hysterical laughter. “The Mystery of the Muddy
Mayhem,” I managed to choke out.
Paula wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “Oh boy. I needed
a good laugh.” Her nose wrinkled. “I’d have preferred it didn’t come
with a side of Gloppy the Mud Monster, but I’ll take what I can get.”
“Everything all right?” I asked, tilting my head to study her.
She waved her hand. “I’m stretched so thin. David is working all
the time, and my mom’s out of town, so I’m down a babysitter. I’m
trying to build my business while taking care of two little ones—and
for reasons I can’t fathom, I added one extremely energetic and needy
puppy to the mix. It’ll pass. Just a season of being a little more tired.”
“Well, you still look glamorous,” I assured her. “Hey, my mom
wanted some time with Laurie tomorrow. What if I rope her into
babysitting your littles, too, and we can go look at your new project
together?”
Relief flooded her face. “Oh, that’d be perfect. I’ve been scrambling
to try to find someone—there’s sure to be media around on a Painted
Lady renovation, and I really want to look professional and put
together if a reporter wants to interview me. This is a huge career
move.”
Paula always looked professional and put together. I opened my
mouth to say just that, but before I could get the words out, Danny
threw a stick at her.
The stick bounced harmlessly off her leg, and she turned to scold
the toddler. “Hey. No throwing sticks. That can hurt people,” she said
firmly.
But my attention was fixed on Paws—because his attention was
fixed on the stick. Paws charged the stick at Paula’s feet.
She let out a screech and tried to back away, but at the last second,
he abandoned the stick and reared up, catching her off balance. She
tumbled backward into the grass with a little scream.
With a whimper of joy, Paws clambered up onto her and started
licking her face, his feet tracking mud all over her perfectly fashion‐
able blouse.
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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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