Diana Orgain's Blog, page 6

Chapter Three Continued

“I said, get out,” Eddie growled. “I won’t say it again.”

Monte flipped him the bird, then turned and stalked out of the
studio.

“Unpleasant business,” muttered a British accent from behind me,
and I realized Leo had followed us out.

“Yes, very unpleasant,” replied Eddie, scowling in the direction of
the door. Then he turned to us, brightening. “Jim and Kate! Dave said
you were coming.”

“Where is Dave?” Jim asked, wrinkling his nose.

Petunia typed something on the computer and said, “He went out
to grab some subs for dinner. Monte’s a coward, and Dave intimidates
him. He must have been watching the studio, so he could come bother
us as soon as Dave left.”

This was my opportunity. “What’s been going on with Monte? I
take it this isn’t your first run-in.”

Jim shifted beside me, and I could tell he was trying to suppress a
smirk. He could see right through me.

Jack, who was shorter than Eddie and Dave by a full head but
looked remarkably like Dave, slumped into one of the lobby chairs.

“Monte opened up a dance studio next door, and he wants our
space.”

“Wants to drive out the competition, more like,” muttered Petunia,
re-tucking the flower in her hair. “Our dance instructors are better
than his.”

Jim stepped over to the window and peered out, no doubt looking
to see if Monte was still lurking. “Why would someone open up a
dance studio right next to the competition?” he asked, still staring
outside. “Doesn’t seem like a winning strategy for a successful
business.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “It’s not, but—”

Dave walked in, cheerily holding up a bag of subs. He stopped
short, his eyes darting from his brothers to Petunia to Jim and me.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“Monte paid us a visit,” said a tight-lipped Petunia. She rubbed her
temples. “Gave all of us quite the headache.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked, taking a step forward.

If there was ever a time to offer my PI services . . .

But Dave waved me off. “You guys are already doing so much for
us. We’ll deal with Monte. He’s more of an annoyance than anything.”

The door jangled, and a crew of giggling girls walked in, with an
equal number of much-less-enthusiastic guys following in their wake.

Late high school or early college, I thought, and no doubt the guys had
been dragged here.

“Uncle Leo!” squealed one of the girls.

I glanced at Leo, and he looked almost softhearted. “Ready for the
lesson, then, love?” He trained a steely glare on a boy with moppish
blond hair. “You’ll not drop my favorite niece on any of the lifts this
week, mind you.”

There was the grumpy, impatient Leo we’d met on the dance floor.

I looked at the clock and realized that our hour was up—this group
must be Leo’s next lesson.

Jim and I excused ourselves and headed off to finish the evening at
our favorite Italian pizzeria. Tony, the perennially tall, dark, and
handsome son of the restauranteur, greeted us and showed us to our
table. Only when we sat down, did I realize how famished I was. All
that exercise made the babies hungry.

“Monte was odd,” Jim said as I scanned the menu to decide if I
should add a second appetizer to our usual order.

“Leo was odd,” I grumbled.
At that, Jim laughed aloud, then reached out and grabbed my hand.

“You figured out your balance beautifully. You’re a natural dancer. It’s
just going to take a little practice on each move to figure out what
balance looks like with the twins jostling for space. And I’ll . . . well, I’ll
get the hang of it eventually.”

Tony took our order—I stuck to our usual bruschetta for the appe‐
tizer—and then my phone buzzed.

It was a text from Kenny.

Laurie is fast asleep and already an expert at the tuba.

I showed the text to Jim. “I’m so grateful for Kenny. You really hit
it out of the park when you asked him to be our regular babysitter. He
thoughtful, dependable—”

The phone vibrated with another text from Kenny. Any chance you
could pick up ice cream on your way back?

“—and dependably starving.” Jim finished my sentence with a
chuckle and leaned across the table to kiss me.

“Jo-Jo can be eccentric,” said Paula as the waiter set down our
hot drinks at brunch that Saturday. “Always enthusiastic. Occasionally
forgetful. Make sure you write down everything he needs to remem‐
ber. But I am certain he won’t run off with your ten thousand dollars.”

“I hope so.” I buried my face in my hands. “If we lose that money,
we won’t be able to afford a new contractor, and we won’t have a
nursery for the twins, and I’ll have to take apart Laurie’s nursery to
bunk all three of them in there, and move my office onto the kitchen
table.”

“You already do almost all of your work at the kitchen table,” Paula
pointed out. “I don’t even know why you have an office in there.”
I gave a strangled cry and curled my fingers around my steaming
coffee cup. It was a little chilly at our outdoor table.

“But,” she hastily added, “it doesn’t matter. Jo-Jo will come back
and finish the work. You won’t lose that money.”

Please let Paula be right, I prayed fervently.

Mom slumped into the seat next to Paula. “Albert won’t take dance
lessons with me! It was excuse after excuse.”

“Well,” I said, taking a sip of decaf, “as my mother, you’re contrac‐
tually obligated to keep dating him until I get my PI license.”

Albert Galigani, my mom’s boyfriend, was also the licensed PI who
was supervising me while I worked toward my six thousand hours of
experience that would let me get my own license. We defined “super‐
vision” loosely, but he’d been an invaluable mentor and I loved him
dearly.

Mom rolled her eyes dramatically and motioned for the waiter. “A
pot of tea, please!” Then she turned back to Paula and me. “‘I’m not
good at dancing,’” she said in a spot-on mimicry of Galigani. “Well”—
she popped back into her normal histrionic voice—“that’s why you
take lessons, my dear. ‘What if I break my ankle again?’ Perhaps
dancing would strengthen your ankle! ‘Too much exercise.’ You know
your doctor wants you to exercise more. It’s good for your heart. ‘I
hate music.’ Objectively a lie. He loves music, and he knows I know it.”

Leave it to Mom for a dramatic reenactment. I’d gotten my artistic
chops from her.

“Well,” I said in a teasing voice, “maybe you’d like Dave’s brother
Eddie better. He’s still single, and an excellent dancer.”

“Still single, eh? I always liked Eddie. Maybe I should get myself a
younger man,” warbled Mom with a wink, mollified for the moment.

Paula pulled a fussy Chloe out of the stroller parked between her
chair and Mom’s. “Kate says there’s also an odious teacher named Leo.

He’s the worst, but he does have a British accent, so he can’t be the
very worst.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Ah, yes. Leo. He’s closer to your age, but he
teaches dance, so I imagine he wouldn’t claim to hate music.”

Paula tucked Chloe under a nursing cover, and I felt a little pang of
nostalgia. Laurie was already getting so big—we’d left Laurie, along
with Paula’s two-year-old son, with Kenny for the afternoon—and I
missed her being that tiny.

Instinctively, I cradled my baby bump, the nostalgia vanishing into
a flare of panic. Laurie was getting bigger, but soon enough I’d have
two teeny-tiny babies and a one-year-old capable of opening drawers
and dumping flour on the floor. Imagine the chaos . . .

Batting away the panic, I blurted, “The money the event raises is
going to cover fertility treatments for Dave’s sister-in-law. She and
Jack have been trying to get pregnant for five years.”

Paula’s eyes widened, and she sat up straighter. “You didn’t tell me
that.”

“I didn’t know until last night.”

“Poor thing,” said Mom as the waiter set a white teapot full of hot
water and a basket of tea bags in front of her. She sorted through the
selection and plucked out a bag of Earl Grey. I looked mournfully at
my decaf and asked the waiter if I could have a pot of tea too.

He nodded brusquely, and swept back toward the kitchen.

“Well”—Paula’s eyes were alight—“this is about more than building
my business and having something to do. We’re going to make this the
best fundraiser of all time.” She grabbed a legal pad out of the stroller
and started scribbling line items. “Can we run by the studio after this,
so I can take a look at the space?”

“Vera!” called a man’s familiar voice.

I froze, and even Mom looked startled.

Hank, Mom’s ex-boyfriend, was walking toward our table.

”I couldn’t stop reading!”

”Fast-paced and fun. I love these mysteires!”

”Diana Orgain is my new favorite author!”

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

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Published on July 03, 2021 13:35

July 2, 2021

Rockabye Murder (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Eight) Sneak Peek – Chapter One

Chapter One

To Do:
1. Land new client.
2. Research the best baby-proofing system.
3. Sign up for prenatal exercise class?
4. Meet contractor who is doing garage reno.

I frowned at the batter in the kitchen aid mixer, wasn’t
brownie batter supposed to be smooth and thin? Or was that just for
brownies out of a box?

“Maybe I put in too much flour,” I murmured, shifting my
eight-month-old daughter Laurie on my hip. I glanced at the clock. The
contractor we’d hired to do the garage renovation was swinging by in
ten minutes to take a look at the space.

“Ma-ma,” Laurie babbled, and my chest filled with happiness.

“That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever called me, peanuty pie,” I
said, tapping her on the nose. Too late, I realized my finger was
covered in flour, and now Laurie’s nose had a dusty white streak.
“Whoops! Sorry, honey.” I leaned toward the counter and reached for
a napkin to dab her clean.

With a gurgle of glee, Laurie lurched forward, and I swiftly
maneuvered to keep her from sailing out of my arms. “Now, listen—”

Laurie’s tiny fingers curled around the edge of the half-empty
flour jar, and time seemed to slow down as the plastic tub teetered on
the edge of the countertop and tumbled into the air . . . and I couldn’t
do anything about it without losing my grip on Laurie. I watched in
horror as it flipped upside-down, dumping a veritable mountain of
flour. The jar hit the kitchen floor with a thud, belching a cloud of
white powder into the air. Laurie giggled hysterically.

“What did you do, little miss? Now I have to clean that up before
the contractor gets here.” I glanced from the mess on the ground to
Laurie and back again, running my free hand through my hair. Then I
sighed and hurried to the storage closet for the broom, bouncing

Laurie as we went. Despite the angst pinching my chest, I kept my
voice calm. “Guess I need to move baby-proofing to the top of the list.”
Humming, I grabbed the broom and stalked back to the flour-covered
floor. Could I sweep one-handed?

Well, putting Laurie down was not an option. She’d beeline right
into the mess.

I bent down to pick up the bin, and Laurie wiggled in my arms
again, reaching toward the counter. Before I could see what she was
grabbing, the open carton of eggs landed on the ground, the
remaining three eggs oozing their yolks into the pile of white powder.

Laurie erupted into riotous giggles again, and I sucked in a deep
breath to calm myself.

“Oh right. Real funny,” I said to the little troublemaker in my arms.

“How about you play with toys in the living room for a few minutes
so I can get this cleaned up without any more mess?”

I glanced at the clock. Eight minutes. Gulping, I leaned the broom
against the counter and speed-walked Laurie into the living room,
setting her down next to a little yellow bus that sang the alphabet in a
voice that sounded like a howling chipmunk. Super annoying, but it
kept her engaged. Gritting my teeth, I pressed the button.

“A is for apple,” yodeled the howling-chipmunk bus.

Laurie clapped her hands in delight. I hated that bus—Mom, of
course, had bought it for Laurie over my protestations, saying it
would help her learn to read—but Laurie loved it, and right now, I
needed something to distract her.

“I love being a mom,” I muttered as I stalked back to the kitchen to
clean up the mess.

Seven minutes.

I turned the corner. Whiskers, our orange tabby kitten, was
crouched in the middle of the floury mess, licking up the raw egg.

Only she didn’t look like an orange tabby anymore—everything
except her face was white with flour, and eggs were smeared across
her back. Had she . . . rolled in it?

I couldn’t help it—I let out a shriek of frustration and despair.

Whiskers froze, her eyes widening as she looked up at me. Then she
darted past me, toward the carpeted living room. I reached out to grab
her, but only managed to brush her fur before she wiggled under the
living room couch. I balled my hands into fists. Even if I moved the
couch, I wouldn’t get her out of there until she was good and ready.

There was a hole in the fabric underneath, and Whiskers had figured
out how to climb inside the couch when she wanted a moment of
peace from Laurie’s grabby hands—or apparently when she knew she
was in big trouble. I took in the trail of eggy sticky flour between the
kitchen and couch, let a noise of desperation rise in my throat, and
then returned to sweep up the mess.

I heard a car pull up outside, and panic lodged in my throat. Was
the contractor here a couple of minutes early? I was still covered in
flour! But maybe I could at least get the floor clean-ish before he came
to the door?

As I dumped the last of the dry flour in the trash can and reached
for a rag to mop up the last of the egg-and-flour concoction, I
muttered, “Nice to meet you. Kate Connolly, private investigator,
stay-at-home mom, and professional flour janitor.”

And cat bather, I thought wryly, imagining Whiskers curled up in
the belly of the couch. Could you get dried egg-flour out of the inte‐
rior of a couch? Would it start to smell? The thought made me
nauseated.

“This is what I get for trying to bake while holding an eightmonth-old,” I grumbled. But I couldn’t very well deny the twins brownies.

The worst of my food cravings were past me—I hoped—but being
four and half months pregnant with twins certainly hadn’t made me
less hungry . . . or less interested in sugar.

I peered at the brownie batter. It really did look too thick. Had I
put in too much flour?

What’s the fix for that? Add milk?

The front door opened and closed, and Laurie squealed in delight.

“Hey hon!” called my husband, Jim.

Relief flooded me. Reinforcements were here. Now, I’d have help
cleaning up and eating the brownies but not before meeting the
contractor.

The contractor, Jo-Jo, still wasn’t here.

I glanced at my phone and saw a text from him.

An emergency came up at the project I’m finishing. Can I come by
tomorrow instead?

I slumped over the counter. I’d worked myself into a tizzy for
nothing. At least I wouldn’t have to meet the contractor looking like

I’d fallen in a vat of flour.

“Jim!” I called. A moment later, Jim came into the kitchen,
swinging Laurie in a circle.

He ground to a halt as soon as he saw me, his mouth twitching like
he was trying to suppress a smirk. “Hey!” he said in a strangled voice.

“What is it?” I snapped, crossing my arms.

His composure broke, and he burst out laughing. “Honey, you’re
beautiful.” He crossed the kitchen and planted a kiss on my lips. “But
if I know you at all, you’re going to want to wash your hair.”

My hair? Horror filled me. I’d gotten flour on Laurie’s nose . . . and
then run my hand through my hair. I raced to the bathroom and
looked in the mirror. Sure enough, a huge white streak ran straight
down the middle, parting my hair like some sort of frizzy brown
skunk.

”I couldn’t stop reading!”

”Fast-paced and fun. I love these mysteires!”

”Diana Orgain is my new favorite author!”

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Published on July 02, 2021 12:51

Rockabye Murder (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Eight) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three

Did you miss Chapter One?

Did you miss Chapter Two?

Chapter Three

Petunia wants to marry Dave?

“Oh,” I said, momentarily confused. “How long have
you been dating?”

She glanced down at the floor and bit her lip. “A year. I know that
doesn’t sound like very long, but I’m about to turn thirty, and I really
want kids, and . . . I let my last boyfriend string me along for five years
before I accepted that he was never going to commit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need him to propose right away.” She looked up and met
my gaze. “Although I’d be thrilled if he did. I love him. I’m in love with
him.” A giddy smile flashed across her face. “I just need to know that
he’s eventually going to commit, you know? That history isn’t going
to repeat itself.”

“Have you talked to Dave about your feelings?” I asked.

“I think so. Maybe I should have said it more directly—”

“Petunia, darling,” said an older gentleman from the doorway.

“How are you?”

Older or not, his British accent and neatly pressed suit no doubt
made most women swoon. I glanced down at my jeans. Yup. Definitely
underdressed.

“That’s Leo,” said Petunia, smoothing her floral skirt. “He’s the
dance instructor for your lesson.” She shifted from foot to foot and
whispered, “I’m sorry. I feel like I shouldn’t have asked you. You won’t
tell Dave, will you? I don’t want him to feel pressured into something
he isn’t ready for.”

I promised I wouldn’t breathe a word, and a moment later, Jim
returned.

“I’ll leave you to it,” called Petunia, fleeing the room.

I glanced at the clock. Five p.m. Time to dance. I took Jim’s hand.

Leo studied us, his eyes landing for an extra beat on my visible
baby bump. “Have you danced before?” he asked, each word crisp.

“Mostly musical theater stuff,” I gave him my best jazz hands, and
he looked suitably unimpressed.

He turned to Jim.

Jim grimaced. “A little, I mean, you know we waltzed for our
wedding.”

“Very well. Let’s start with a simple rock step. Like this.” He
demonstrated for Jim. “Step with your left for two counts, step with
your right for two counts, step back for one count—no, with your left
foot—step forward for one count. One, two, three, four, five, six—no,
other foot. Smaller steps, now. There we go.”

After a half dozen tries, Jim managed a passable rock step. His
rhythm was shaky, but the steps were in the right order. I cheered
aloud.

Leo smirked at my antics. “Now, for the women’s part—”

“I know how to rock step,” I said, demonstrating.

Leo’s bushy eyebrows drew together, but he smiled. “A natural!

Very well. Why don’t you try it together? We’ll start in open position
. . . hands like this.”

Jim and I clasped fingers in front of us, facing each other directly,
and Leo began to count, “One, two . . .”

I tuned him out. Step, step, rock step . . .

As Jim and I stepped toward each other, my eyes widened in alarm.

I lost my balance, tipping forward and falling straight at Jim. My right
foot shot backward and my arms flailed as I tried to steady myself. Jim
caught me in his strong arms just as I let out a shriek. He righted me
back on my feet, and I stammered, “What happened?”

Leo pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I do know how to rock step!” I hurried to explain. Tipping over
would have been mortifying to begin with, but tipping over right after
I’d assured him I knew what I was doing? My cheeks felt red hot. “It’s
just . . . it felt different. I’m pregnant with twins, and the extra weight
threw me off. I just have to account for that.”

And my abs are weak! Goodness, how did they get so weak?

“Of course you do, hon,” Jim said, resting a comforting hand on my
lower back.

“Mmm-hmm.” Leo pursed his lips. “Perhaps we should start from
the beginning for you as well.”

I stiffened my back. “Let’s run it again. I won’t fall this time.”

“Right-o, then. One, two, three, four, five, six . . .”

Step, step, rock step. Victory! True to my word, I put all of my focus
on my balance and didn’t fall. The rock step was a bit clunky—not my
finest work—but I tilted my chin at Leo in triumph.

So there!

Leo’s face remained fastidiously neutral.

Jim and I rock-stepped several more times, and then Leo said,

“Now, let’s turn the single steps into triple steps. Like this. Let’s do the
women’s part first.” He showed me how to triple step, and I didn’t
bother to tell him I already knew how.

“Ready?” he asked in that pristine British accent.

I nodded mutely.

He clapped his hands. “Go on, then. Rock step, tri-ple step, tri-ple
step.”

I kept my balance on the rock step, but as I finished the second
triple step, I felt a flash of horror. I was tipping forward . . . nothing to
be done . . . Leo’s quietly horrified face flashed before my eyes just as
Jim caught me again.

“Ahem,” said Leo, “so, we’ll want to work on your center of
gravity.”

I was sure I was blushing furiously, but I just said, “Let’s run it
again. I think I know where I went wrong.”

This time I focused on nothing but my balance, making sure to
lean back just a little on the transition to the second triple step. It
wasn’t my best dance move of all time, but at least I didn’t humiliate
myself.

Leo clicked his tongue. “That’ll do. Jim, why don’t you try? For
your part, you’re mirroring Kate’s movement, so you’ll want to step
back with your left foot . . .”

Jim stepped back with his right foot.

“Left foot,” said Leo, enunciating each word.

Jim stepped back with his left foot, and Leo broke down the triple
step movement by movement.

Jim gave it his most valiant effort but got tangled in his own feet.

“Alright, here’s where you went wrong,” said Leo.

Jim gave it another try and stumbled when he tried to triple-step
forward on the wrong foot. Three attempts in a row.

Leo sighed and massaged his temples. “Alright, why don’t we try it
this way?”

Finally, Jim got the steps in the right order. I high-fived him, but
Leo muttered under his breath, “And yet no rhythm or musicality in
sight.”

Jim laughed, totally unruffled, but annoyance flared in my chest.

Jim was working hard! There was no need for Leo to be sarcastic. He
knew Jim was a beginner.

“Run it again,” said Leo.

Jim took a triple step backward when he was supposed to rock-step.
He threw his hands out wide. “I am the worst,” he called. “I’m
sorry. I did that wrong.”

“Well, the customer is always right,” muttered Leo.

Maybe there was a mystery here at the dance studio—the mystery
of why Leo was such a pill.

I snapped, “Now look here—”

Angry shouts from the lobby cut me off. No, not just angry—enraged.
Viscerally enraged.

Jim and I glanced at each other in confusion, and then Jim darted
for the door. I followed, my heart hammering. We burst into the lobby
to see a short, balding man letting loose a string of epithets. Petunia
stood behind the desk staring him down.

“Dammit, woman, let me talk to the owners!” he screamed, a vein
bulging in his forehead.

Petunia didn’t say a word in response.

I sensed movement behind me, and then two men ran past us.

Dave and . . . no, Jack and Eddie.

Eddie planted himself in front of Balding Man, his arms crossed,
and Jack stood alongside the desk.

Balding Man fell into glowering silence.

“Get out of here, Monte,” hissed Petunia. “You know they’re not
selling.”

“Oh yeah?” Monte demanded. “I don’t think you speak for them,
cupcake.”

I bristled and stepped forward, about to give this idiot a piece of
my mind, but Eddie said calmly, “You’ll walk out that door in the next
three seconds, or I’ll call the police and have you arrested for tres‐
passing.”

At the mention of the police, some of Monte’s bluster faded. He
took a step back.

“You’ll sell,” he spat. “You’ll see. Just you wait. You’re gonna be so
miserable you’ll want to pay me to take this crap hole off your hands.”

“Now what’s that supposed to mean?” Petunia put her hands on
her hips.

”I couldn’t stop reading!”

”Fast-paced and fun. I love these mysteires!”

”Diana Orgain is my new favorite author!”

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Published on July 02, 2021 12:37

Rockabye Murder (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Eight) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two Continued

Did you miss Chapter One?

Did you miss part one of Chapter Two?

Chapter Two Continued

Kenny arrived just as I finished putting on my mascara

“Kate, can I order—”

“Pizza money is on the counter,” I said with a grin. Kenny, who’d just
turned eighteen, lived to raid our fridge and to devour any pizza we
would buy him. His folks still hadn’t given up trying to make him a vegan.

He flipped his pink hair—the tips used to be purple but now they
were blue— and gave me two thumbs up before scooping up Laurie.

I stared at his hair. The tips were blue on one side, but on the
other . . . “Did you shave half your head?”

He groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

Blinking a few times, I asked, “Why did you shave half your head? I
mean, it looks great—edgy and artistic, and all that. But you don’t
seem happy about it.”

“I got a bird stuck in it,” he mumbled.

“You got a what stuck in it?”

He sat down with Laurie and started to play peek-a-boo. “So, I
took Siena—you know, the one with the nose ring—on a date to the
zoo.”

Ah, yes, Kenny had been quite enthusiastic about Nose Ring, as I’d
taken to calling her in my head. He’d met her a couple of weeks ago
while busking with his tuba at Fisherman’s Wharf.

He covered his eyes. “We went into the aviary. Peekaboo!” He
opened his hands and peeked out at Laurie.

“Oh no.” I grimaced.

“Oh yes.” He covered his eyes again. “Anyway, we were walking
through the South American Rainforest Aviary exhibit, and there was
this obnoxious fly buzzing around me. I don’t know if it thought my
hair was a pink fruit or a flower or what. And this green jay absolutely
divebombed the heck out of that fly.”

I tried not to laugh. “That’s horrible.”

“Darn bird collided with me and got its claws all tangled in my
hair. I couldn’t get it out, Siena couldn’t get it out, the zookeeper chick
couldn’t get it out, zookeeper chick’s manager couldn’t get it out.” He
was still covering his eyes, and Laurie reached up and pulled his hand
off his face. “The only way to free the bird without hurting it was to
cut it out of my hair. So, instead of cutting all my hair short to match
or walking around with a weird mangled spot, I just shaved that side.”

“Did you get another date out of it, at least?” I asked sympatheti‐
cally, pursing my lips to force myself to maintain a serious expression.

“Eh, there wasn’t really that X-factor, you know? Even before the
bird incident. I don’t think either of us was really feeling it. But I did
get zookeeper chick’s phone number.”

Jim emerged from the bedroom, looking handsome in his button-up
and slacks. I glanced down at my jeans and plain blue maternity
blouse and wondered if I was underdressed.

“Can you teach Laurie how to play the tuba tonight?” Jim asked.
“Maybe get her a spot playing for the symphony?”

“Sure thing,” Kenny said with a smirk. “We’ll audition together
next month.”

“Enjoy the pizza!” I said, slinging my purse over my shoulder. “Try
to leave me a slice. I’m eating for three.”

“No promises. Enjoy the dance class!”

“Wish me luck—I hear that some weird things have been
happening at the studio, and I’m hoping I can solve the mystery for
them.”

“Let me know if I can help you track down the bad guy,” called
Kenny. “Those stories always play well with girls.” He carried Laurie
over to that awful chipmunk bus and said, “Should we work on your
alphabet, Miss L?”

It was only a twelve-minute drive to Tre Fratelli Danzanti, which
was nestled in the Mission District right between a Mexican food
restaurant and another dance studio. We lucked into finding a
parking spot right away—pulling up just as someone else was leaving.

“Excellent,” I said to Jim as I climbed out of the car. “That’ll give us
some time to talk to Dave and his brothers before class.”

Mom had texted to say she and Galigani weren’t coming tonight,
so it would be a private lesson for Jim and me.

Jim slid his credit card into the parking meter, then nudged me in
the ribs and looped my arm through his. “Just in case they’re in need
of San Francisco’s finest private investigator?”

I smiled innocently. “Well, I can’t wait to hear more about the
weird things happening at the studio and I couldn’t very well turn
down a friend in need.”

The lobby of the dance studio was clean but nondescript, with a
simple oak desk and computer, plus a few chairs. The only thing that
stood out was the quote stenciled on the wall behind the desk: Dance
first. Think later. It’s the natural order. -Samuel Beckett (sort of)

I pointed at it, and Jim snorted. “Typical Dave.”

A woman in her late twenties came around the corner, her floral
minidress swishing over a pair of pink leggings. “Oh!” she cried, her
hand flying to the flower in her curly black hair. “You must be Jim and
Kate!”

“Yes,” I said. “Are you our dance teacher?”

She crossed to us and took both my hands in hers. “I’m Petunia
Petal, Dave’s girlfriend. He’s told me so much about you—I recog‐
nized you from your pictures.”

I tried my hardest to keep my expression neutral, but she must
have seen a look of amusement flash across my face, because she
laughed and added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Well, really I’m Mary
Williams, but don’t tell anyone. I go by Petunia Petal with everyone in
the dance world. I’m breaking into doing it professionally—dancing,
not just teaching—and it’s easier to be memorable with a flashy stage
name. There are too many Mary Williamses in the world for anyone
to find me by Googling.”

“Great to meet you, Petunia,” said Jim.

Just then, Dave came barreling toward us from the back. “Jim!
Kate!”

Dave, the oldest of the Tre Fratelli Danzanti – three dancing
brothers -was tall, dark and Italian, a fine handsome catch consid‐
ering that alone, but the fact he could dance would make any girl
swoon. He hugged Jim, thumping him on the back.

“Been too long,” said Jim.

“It has been.” Dave slung his arm around Petunia. “Hon, this is my
best friend Jim and his wife, Kate. Jim and Kate, meet . . . Petunia?” He
glanced at her with a questioning expression.

“Embarrassing to forget your girlfriend’s name,” I quipped.

He blushed. “Well, it’s just—”

“She told us,” I said warmly. “Mary sometimes, but Petunia at the
studio.”

Dave gave us a smile and a wink. “In that case, this is my girlfriend
Petunia. She dances professionally and also teaches classes here.” He
turned to Petunia. “Jim’s an ad guru, and Kate manages an architec‐
tural firm office.”

“Not anymore!” I shook my head. “I left the soul-sucking corporate
world behind when Laurie was born.”

“Good for you,” said Petunia. “Are you staying at home with her,
then?”

“Kate’s the best private investigator in town.” Jim rested his hands
on my shoulders. “She’s been solving homicides left and right.”

Dave’s jaw dropped. “Whoa, that’s awesome!”

My chest swelled with pride.

We chatted about my most recent case for a few minutes, and just
when I was hoping they’d talk about the mysterious incidents at the
studio, Dave changed the subject.

“Thanks for signing up for the lesson, by the way,” he said, shifting
uncomfortably. “When we talked, I wasn’t trying to get you to spend
money propping us up—”

No need for him to feel uncomfortable. “I jumped at the opportunity,” I
interjected. “I’d been meaning to sign up for an exercise class, and this
sounded like fun.”

Dave visibly relaxed.

“Tell us about this fundraiser,” said Jim. “Is the studio in trouble?”

“Oh, it’s not for the studio,” said Dave, beckoning us toward the
hall. We followed him to a brightly lit room with a gleaming wooden
dance floor and a wall of mirrors. A divider on one side partitioned it
off from the next room over. “I mean, the studio makes a profit, but
not enough of a profit to pay us owners much. That’s fine for me and
Eddie, but Jack, well . . .”

Petunia’s face softened, and she whispered, “Jack and Sharon have
been trying to have a baby for five years.”

Instinctively, I cradled my baby bump. “Sharon’s a kindergarten
teacher, isn’t she?”

“First grade,” said Dave, his lips set in a grim line. “She’s desperate
for a baby, and . . . I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t mind me telling you
this—their insurance doesn’t cover any fertility treatments, and they
can’t afford them on her salary and his earnings from the studio.”

“Oh,” I whispered. My heart went out to Sharon. She’d always
seemed so warm and maternal.

“Anyway.” Dave scuffed a toe on the gleaming wooden floor.

“They’ve scrimped and saved, and our folks pitched in, but they’re still
about $3000 short. We’re trying to raise some money to give Jack a
$3000 bonus, and we figured we’d do a 1950s swing dance. Between
the cover charge, some money we can make from the cash bar, and
the extra lessons people will sign up for . . .”

“Can we help?” I asked. “My friend Paula—you remember Paula,
right? She was my maid of honor. She’s incredible at interior design.
And Jim can do posters and marketing! And I can help where you
need me.”

Like figuring out about those weird things happening at the studio, I
thought.

Dave’s face lit up, and he glanced at Jim. “That’d be incredible. Do
you have time to design posters for us? I know you’re working with
some big-time clients these days, and I’d hate to impose.”

“I absolutely have time,” Jim said firmly. He glanced at his watch.

“Hey, there’s still five minutes before the lesson is scheduled to start.
Let’s get all the information together, and I’ll work up a draft poster
for you tomorrow.”

Dave thumped him on the back. “You’re a good man. I have a
whole plan on the computer. Let’s go print it out.”

The guys left for the lobby, leaving Petunia and me on the dance
floor. “Oh, I’m so glad they gave us a moment,” said Petunia in another
one of her conspiratorial whispers. “I’ve been dying to ask you a
question.”

Here we go. Why yes, I’d be happy to investigate for you. No charge.
Thank you for asking.

She half-covered her mouth to hide her sheepish grin. “You’ve
known Dave for years. Do you have any ideas on how I can get him to
propose?”

”I couldn’t stop reading!”

”Fast-paced and fun. I love these mysteires!”

”Diana Orgain is my new favorite author!”

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Published on July 02, 2021 12:36

Rockabye Murder (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Eight) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two

Did you miss Chapter One?

Chapter Two

To Do:
1. Research best baby-proofing system.
2. Land new client? (Maybe Dave’s studio?)
3. Dance lesson—tonight.
4. Meet contractor who is doing garage reno.

“MRS. CONNOLLY?”

I surveyed the fiery-haired man standing on my doorstep. He had
thick glasses, a bulbous nose, and so much energy that he couldn’t
seem to keep his hands still. I glanced toward the street. A pickup
truck bearing the name Jo-Jo’s Jobs was parked at the curb, but this
couldn’t possibly be the contractor, could it?

“Yes, I’m Kate Connolly,” I said, trying to hide my amusement.

“And you are?”

His head bobbed like a pigeon, and he grabbed my hand and shook
it. “Jo-Jo Jones,” he exclaimed in a strong Irish brogue. “I’m here to do
the garage renovation job.”

“Of course,” I said, drawing back my hand and glancing at my
watch. He was an hour early, and Jim wasn’t home yet. But better
early than late, right? At least I hadn’t tried to bake anything today. I
beckoned him inside. “Come on in.”

He stayed on the porch and waved a sheaf of papers at me with
frenetic energy. “I got muddy boots, lassie. Don’t wanna track it in yer
house. Got yer plans here and just need to take a look around, make
sure everything’s in order here to start. So, maybe if you’d just open
up the garage door, I could go in and outta there?”

“Oh, sure! I’ll do that,” I said. I closed the door and opened up the
garage for him. As the door began to roll up, I called, “Just let me
know if you need anything!”

Jo-Jo had as much energy as my mom. Well. Paula did say he was
eccentric.

And also, that he did great work at half the cost of the big general
contracting companies in the area.

I could live with eccentric.

At a little cry from Laurie’s room, I padded down the hall and into
her ducky-themed nursery, accented with pink and mint green, and
scooped her out of her crib.

“Hello, little duck,” I whispered, smacking a big kiss on her cheek.
“How is my favorite girl?”

A meticulously clean Whiskers rubbed up against my legs. The
evening before, I’d bathed all the flour and crusted egg off Whiskers
while my mom vacuumed the living room and finished the brownies.

They’d tasted more like cookies than brownies, but they were still
delicious if I did say so myself.

Hard to go wrong with chocolate and sugar.

In the living room, I set Laurie down next to the coffee table and
sat beside her. “Guess what, peanut? You get to see Mr. Kenny today
while Mama and Daddy and Grandma go to dance class!”

Dr. Greene had assured me that dancing was a perfectly good
prenatal exercise, as long as I avoided full-on acrobatics. I assured her
that I had no intention of letting Jim, or anyone, toss me into the air,
and so dance lessons were on—starting tonight.

And so was a little sleuthing.

Laurie’s squeal interrupted my reverie. She reached up and
gripped the edge of the coffee table as I made a silly face at her.

“That’s right,” I said. “You’re going to have a lot of fun with Mr.
Kenny!”

My phone buzzed, and I opened a text from Paula.

Let’s do it!! I’m between clients and need to do something besides laundry
and changing diapers, stat.

I pumped my fist. Paula’s savvy interior design skills would be a
huge help with the fundraiser, and I wanted an excuse to spend more
time with her.

Tell me about it, I typed back. You would not believe the mess Laurie
and Whiskers made yesterday.

The phone buzzed with her reply: Wait till there’s 5 of them.

My nose scrunched, and I typed back. 5?

L, twin 1, twin 2, cat, Jim, she replied.

I snorted and searched my mind for a witty reply, then glanced at
Laurie and gasped.

My baby was standing, clinging to the edge of the coffee table.

She’d pulled herself to her feet.

My. Baby. Had. Pulled. Herself. To. Her Feet.

I dropped the phone and squealed, “Good job, peanut!”

Laurie fell back onto her bottom, looking almost affronted, like
she couldn’t figure out how she’d ended up back where she’d started.

“You did so good!” I picked up my phone and opened the camera
app in case she did it again. “You stood up!”

Laurie, Prodigy Baby Extraordinaire and no doubt future partner
in Connolly and Connolly Private Investigators, gurgled and clapped.

A pounding at the basement door which separated our house and
garage interrupted my celebration. Must be Jo-Jo. I grabbed the
$10,000 cashier’s check off the counter.

Farewell, life savings.

I opened the door to the garage to find Jo-Jo jumping up and
down. “Mrs. Connolly!” he yelled in that thick Irish brogue. “It’s
grand!”

“What’s grand?” I asked slowly.

“The project!”

He paced the garage back and forth, his flaming hair taking on a
life of its own, as if it too, thought our garage-turned-bedroom reno
was grand.

“I’m glad you think so,” I said, crossing my arms and taking a step
into the garage, then closing the door behind me so Whiskers couldn’t
make a mad dash for the great outdoors. Eccentric, indeed.

No, he didn’t have as much energy as my mom—he had more
energy than my mom. Paula will certainly never hear the end of this.

“Everything’s set to begin.” He held his arms up like a referee
declaring a 49ers touchdown.

“No trouble with the plans, then? You’ll be able to do it for the
price you quoted?”

“No trouble at all! It’ll be under budget! Gonna be a grand addi‐
tion, lassie. I’ll begin the work soon!”

“Wonderful!” I held out the cashier’s check. “I guess I owe you this,
then.”

He took the check from me and stuffed it into his breast pocket.

“There’s just one more thing, lassie. But not to worry.” His voice hesi‐
tated but his feet didn’t. He kept up his rapid pacing. It was making
me dizzy. “I’m not sure exactly what day I’ll be set to start. I ’ave to
catch a flight back to Dublin tomorrow to get me visa straightened
right out.”

I tried to process what he’d just said. “You’re leaving the country
tomo—”

He ran into a pile of cardboard boxes and sent half of them
tumbling to the floor, stirring up a layer of dust. My throat tickled,
and I sneezed.

When I opened my eyes again, he was already out the garage and
in my driveway, waving back at me. “We’ll get ya started as soon as I’m
back, lassie!”

He practically waltzed to his truck, clambered into the cab, and
drove off, his tires screeching. I stared after him, my brain still trying
to catch up with that one unexpected, terrifying detail.

Wait! What?

What did getting his visa straightened out entail? What if they didn’t
let him back in the country, and I’d just sent him away with a cashier’s
check for ten thousand dollars? My throat felt tight. But he’d already
driven away. I couldn’t change it now.

I could only hope that Paula hadn’t steered us wrong and that Jo-Jo
wasn’t running off with our deposit.

I tiptoed into the living room to check on Laurie. She was chewing
contentedly on the foot of a stuffed duck. All was well in babyland. I
collapsed onto the couch and rested a hand on my midsection.

We were going to think positively about this.

Jo-Jo would come back. And my biggest problem was going to be
dealing with all that frenzied energy. If Jo-Jo and Mom worked
together, I was pretty sure they could singlehandedly power the sun.

I’m an extrovert, but this might feel like a very long renovation. “It’ll be
worth it for you two,” I murmured to the twins, still cradling my
bump. “We’ll have a beautiful nursery.”

Snagging my phone, I fired off one more text to Paula: He’s going
back to Ireland tomorrow?

”I couldn’t stop reading!”

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Published on July 02, 2021 12:36

Rockabye Murder (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Eight) Sneak Peek – Chapter One Continued

Did you miss part one of Chapter One?

Chapter One Continued…

“Watch Laurie!” I yelled as I slammed the door and turned on the
shower.

Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom with damp
hair and a fresh change of clothes, feeling a bit more like myself. I
found Jim and Laurie sitting on the living room couch, reading a
book, and I gave Jim a real kiss.

“I’m sorry about that,” I said, letting out a giggle as I thought back
over the absurdity of the situation. “I was trying to bake and . . .”

“Decided to pioneer a hot new hair trend?” he asked with a
devious grin.

“Definitely,” I said, putting my hand on my hip and affecting the
mannerisms of my always-fashionable best friend, Paula. “It’s all the
rage in Paris, you know.”

“Seemed pretty sexy to me,” he said, shooting me a wink. “But
you’re sexy no matter how you do your hair.”

I rolled my eyes, but sank onto the couch and cuddled into his
side. “You’re silly.”

He held up his free hand in mock affront. “I speak nothing but the
truth.”

“I need to start a prenatal exercise class.” I glanced down at my
baby bump. “I never got back into shape after Laurie, and I don’t
know how I’m going to reclaim my figure after having twins. And if
you make one crack about cutting out baking and brownies, I’ll knock
you out flat.”

Jim snorted. “Are you kidding? I value my life.”

I chuckled.

“Anyway, you don’t need to worry about that unless you want to. I
love you the way you are. You’re the momma!” he said firmly, putting
down Laurie and pulling me into him for a bear hug. Laurie suddenly
pressed the button on the infernal chipmunk bus

“A is for apple,” screeched the bus.

“May I have this dance?” Jim asked, extending his hand to me.

Now it was my turn to burst out laughing. “What are you talking
about?” I asked as I let him pull me to my feet and spin me around the
room.

“I just got off the phone with Dave. You know he and his brothers
bought that dance studio three or four years back?”

I nodded as Jim twirled me. “Yeah, I remember. What about it?”

Dave had been Jim’s best man at our wedding, and I’d always liked
him and his brothers, Jack and Eddie. We hadn’t seen them since
much since Laurie was born—they’d been focused on running their
business, and we’d been more than a little busy with Laurie and a
string of homicide investigations I’d solved in my first months as a
private investigator.

“Well”—we collapsed on the couch just as the chipmunk bus
finished its song—“the studio’s having some financial difficulty, and
Dave called to invite us to attend a fundraiser. A public dance, you
know, that they’re hoping will bring in some money.”

“Hold up! I’m four months pregnant and haven’t danced in years.”

“Come on,” he said.

There was a knock, and before we could react, a key slipped into
the latch and the door opened. My mom poked her head in. “Knock,
knock!” she called.

“Hey!” said Jim.

Mom bounced into the room, holding up a shopping bag in
triumph. No doubt something for Laurie that I’d absolutely hate. As
long as it wasn’t a clown, I’d tolerate it—I hoped Mom was past her
clown phase.

“You have a theater degree,” continued Jim. “It won’t be hard to
pick dancing back up. It’s like riding a bike. Besides, I think we should
take a set of dance lessons first. I’m sure they could use another
couple of students. Help keep them afloat, you know?”

“Dance lessons?” cried Mom. She looked from Jim to me and back
again with a huge smile on her face.

I groaned. I knew that look. It meant she was excited—and was
about to make sure she got her way.

“Mom, don’t—”

She scooped Laurie into her arms and spun her around the room.

“We should all take dance lessons! You and Jim, and Galigani and me.”

“But—”

“It will be so much fun!” she cried. “Besides, you need to get your
exercise in, and it’s not like you’re about to pick jogging back up while
you’re pregnant with twins.”

I bit my lip. She was right. Dancing was fun—certainly a lot more
fun than squats, or whatever else they had pregnant moms do in
prenatal fitness classes. And I wasn’t as tired anymore now that I was
in my second trimester. But I’d had such a complicated pregnancy,
between being poisoned and in accidents and landing in the hospital. I
wanted to keep the twins extra safe. “I don’t know if I should be
swung around that much,” I said.

Mom waved away my objection. “Well, talk to Dr. Greene, of
course. If she says you shouldn’t do it, that’s one thing. But you can’t
dismiss the idea without even asking her.”

“Besides,” said Jim “there’s one other thing I haven’t told you yet.”

“What?” I asked, crossing my arms.

“Dave said there have been some weird things happening at the
studio. Someone cut a hole in the roof in the middle of the night, and
it sounded like a few things have gone missing. Plus, a dead bird
showed up on the dance floor right before a group class was about to
start. Weird, right?”

Now that was interesting. I leaned forward. “What sorts of things
are missing?”

Jim grinned. He knew me too well—at the mention of something
mysterious, I was hooked. “He didn’t say, exactly. And maybe it’s all a
coincidence, but I know I’m married to San Francisco’s most attrac‐
tive and most talented private investigator, and I thought you might
want to poke around a little. See if there’s anyone who might be trying
to sabotage my best friend’s business. What do you say? Can I hire
you? Where do I sign?”

I slouched back against the couch cushions and held up my hands
in surrender. “Fine, we can take dance lessons. I don’t have a client
right now, and I could use a little mystery. It’ll keep me from trying to
bake again, at least.”

Mom squealed in delight, dancing Laurie around the room again.

“I’ll call and get the lesson set up,” Jim said, jumping up. “We’ll take
the lessons slow, I promise. And maybe we can help them throw the
fundraiser too?”

“Sure,” I answered. “Let me call Dr. Greene to ask if the lessons are
safe, but let’s definitely help Dave throw the fundraiser. That’ll give
me a good excuse to spend time at the studio looking for anything
suspicious. Maybe Paula will help too. I’ll text her. Oh, and the
contractor said something came up. He’s coming tomorrow to look at
the garage.”

With the price of real estate in San Francisco, we’d decided to
convert our garage into a bedroom for the twins, rather than look for
a house that would accommodate our growing family. And I couldn’t
wait to get started.

I reached for my phone to dial Dr. Greene just as a streak of white
and orange barreled out from under the couch, leaving a trail of flour
in its wake.

“Whiskers!” I bolted to my feet and chased after the kitten. “Get
your tail back here!”

”I couldn’t stop reading!”

”Fast-paced and fun. I love these mysteires!”

”Diana Orgain is my new favorite author!”

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Published on July 02, 2021 12:35

July 1, 2021

A Deathly Rattle (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book seven) Sneak Peek – Chapter One

Chapter One

The Strike

To Do:

Attend the strike.Buy more prenatal vitamins.Figure out plan for new nursery.Land a new client.Exercise.

The view of the Golden Gate Bridge from Marina Drive is hands-down one of my favorite views of all of San Francisco. Today, the bridge was majestic, its towers bright and clear against the backdrop of blue water. The morning fog had burned off early, leaving the air smelling like spring.

Mom turned off Marina Drive and down the narrow street toward the theater that had staged her most recent play.

She parked in the lot outside the theater and stole a glance at me. “I feel sad. I hate that the play closed. It was so much fun.”

I nodded. “I know. You played the role perfectly, completely over-the-top.”

Mom laughed. “It wasn’t that bad of a play, do you think, Kate?”

I smirked. She knew exactly what I thought.

“If the director put on the play that Vicente had actually written, then it probably wouldn’t have been so bad,” I said.

The director had torn the original script apart and made it into the embarrassment we’d all had to sit through the past week. Vicente had written a drama, and the director turned it into a comedy. He’d even gone as far as to add a ridiculous melodramatic musical number.

“I swear, it was almost as though the director intentionally tried to make the play as terrible as possible. If that was his goal, he succeeded.”

Mom winced. “Geez, Kate. Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”

“Not you. You were brilliant. I already told you that.”

Mom opened the car door. “Well” —she paused dramatically and then belted out the theme song from Dirty Dancing— “I had the time of my life.”

I groaned, simultaneously from her singing and the effort of climbing out of her car with my pregnant belly.

I was only a few months pregnant, so I suppose it was the fact that I was carrying twins that was to blame for me being a bit larger already. I walked around to the back, getting Laurie’s stroller out first while my mother fiddled with the car seat. Maybe it was the discomfort I’d felt getting out of the car, but the realization that I was going to have three babies under two years old in less than a year gave me a rush of anxiety.

It’s too early to start panicking, I reminded myself.

If I left my brain unchecked, I could get into a tizzy pretty quickly about just exactly how I was going to make my new career as a private investigator work.

Several cars pulled into the parking lot. A few of Mom’s costars, juggling Tupperware and pastry boxes, waved perkily in our direction.

Mom fastened Laurie into the stroller, and I grabbed the pizzas out of the back seat. The scent of cheese and pepperoni wafted into my face, and I automatically salivated like one of Pavlov’s dogs.

The downside of contributing pizza to a potluck!

We headed inside, and the moment we made our way into the lobby, my mother went into full grandma-mode, showing Laurie off to all her fellow cast members. After a moment, they seemed to disappear amongst the crowd. It looked like the rest of the cast had dragged along family and friends, just as Mom had, to help with the strike, because the lobby was jam-packed with people I didn’t recognize from the show.

My best friend Paula materialized out of nowhere. “Hey girlfriend, let me help you with those pizzas!” she said, taking the cardboard boxes from my hands and braving the crowd that surrounded the small table covered in snacks.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said.

Paula had been the lead technical designer for the play—probably the single most impressive part of this disaster of a show.

“Of course, I came to watch them tear apart my masterpiece,” Paula said with a laugh.

Paula, ever the fashionista, wore a black pencil skirt and delightful pink-and-green-striped blouse that evoked springtime. I pointed at her slim waist. “How are you so skinny?”

Paula had two children: my favorite little boy on earth, Danny, and a two-month-old-infant, Chloe.

She glanced down at her figure, then at mine. “I’m not pregnant with twins, honey. Besides, you know breastfeeding burns a million calories an hour.” She flipped open one of the pizza boxes and promptly served herself and me.

The pizza was down my gullet before I could even feign a protest.

“Yo!” a familiar voice shrieked. I spun to see Deb Fisher making her way toward us, toting some mini-corn dogs. Deb was a local police officer Paula and I had befriended. “Your momma invited me to strike the set and maybe make some margaritas at your place after.”

Deb had recently been through a nasty breakup and seemed to be pushing the envelope of adventure a little outside mine and Paula’s comfort zone, but we loved her nevertheless.

While the cast and crew made their way onto the stage, I made good use of myself by passing out pizza and snacks as the set came down piece by piece. Right as I handed out the second-to-last slice, I spotted Vicente Domingo seated in the back row of the theater. He wore his trademark leather jacket, tight jeans, and biker boots. His arms were crossed, and instead of the normal charming smile on his handsome face, today he displayed a prominent scowl.

I felt bad for him. He and I weren’t exactly friends; as PIs who worked in the same city, we had a sort of friendly competition going on between us, but he’d gotten me out of some jams and did make me laugh quite a bit.

If I’d written a play and the director had totally destroyed it and humiliated me, I suppose I’d look about as peeved as he did at the moment. He was going to have a hard time ever finding another theater to pick up that play after those nasty reviews.

I made my way over to him. His square jaw twitched at my approach.

I couldn’t help but smile to see how nervous he was at whatever I was about to say. I chose grace.

“You know,” I said, sitting in the theater seat next to his. “I read the original script. And, as much as it pains me to say it, you’re an excellent playwright, Vicente. I wish your play had gotten into the right director’s hands. One who wouldn’t have rewritten half the play just to get a few laughs . . . or added in a random musical number.”

“Yeah, that musical number really hurt,” Domingo admitted.

We sat in silence for a second, then we burst out laughing.

“I guess the number was pretty funny,” he said. Although it looked like it killed him a little to say it.

“Oh, no, it was hilarious. Very slapstick, but I still like your version of it a lot better.”

Vicente pressed his lips together and nodded. “Thank you, Kate. I appreciate hearing that.”

“Maybe you can find a different director to put on the show?” I suggested. “One that is more in line with your vision.”

“People will expect to see a comedy now,” he said. “This was the show’s debut, and it got a decent amount of attention—negative attention, but attention, nevertheless. Now, people are going to expect it to be silly. If I go to another playhouse and put this thing on, the audience will buy tickets expecting to see a comedy—a bad one at that. That twerp ruined this for me. It was supposed to be a drama. A serious play! Why he thought turning it into a musical was a good idea, I will never know. This had to have hurt his career as a director as much as my chance of becoming a playwright.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “The audience seemed to love it.”

He shot up in his seat. “They did?”

I made a face. “Sort of. There’s no accounting for taste . . .”

“The reviews were terrible,” he argued.

“But reviewers hate everything, don’t they?”

He stroked his chin. “Maybe I have another shot. With the right director . . .”

I stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s right, stay positive.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me back down into the seat. “Kate, you have theater training. Would you consider directing—”

“What?” I practically screamed. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’ll produce it,” he said. “I have savings from my private investigation business. I can even pay you.”

My mouth fell agape, and I know I must have looked like an idiot, but I couldn’t seem to close it. “I’m pregnant with twins, Vicente.”

He nodded. “I know, but we can get this puppy produced before they’re even born.”

“I’m about to get as big as a house!”

He frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I . . . I . . . can’t run around. I have to stay home with my feet up eating ice cream.”

“You’re not at home now,” he countered.

“I’m here supporting you and my mom,” I said.

He jutted out his chin. “You don’t really like the play. If you did, you’d want to help me.”

I leveled a gaze at him. “The play’s real, isn’t it?”

He seemed to care a great deal about this play. It could just be the artist in him, offended at the disaster it had turned out to be. But I suspected it was more than that. There had been so much of Vicente Domingo in that play. The character was most certainly based on him—but how much of the plot was true? The female lead died of a heart attack after a riveting affair with the PI she had hired.

Could Vicente have had an affair with one of his clients like the character in the play?

He shrugged. “Kate, I told you it was just a play.”

“The woman in the play dropped dead after sleeping with a PI . . .”

Vicente practically squirmed right out of the narrow theater seat, but at least he had the decency to look insulted. “I’m a professional. Do you really think I would have a relationship with one of my clients?”

The play’s finale flashed through my mind. The main character’s love interest dead, a staged crime scene, and then the character bolting to San Francisco.

Could Vicente have gone through something similar?

I wiggled my eyebrows. “I was just thinking that maybe a tiny part of the play was inspired by a real-life situation?”

“What part?”

“Well, that case the main character was talking about at the end . . . it sounded very familiar,” I said. “Oh, and what was that line? Something about some broad handling your cousin’s cases?” I smirked at him, and he smirked right back.

When I had first gotten into private investigation, I’d been working for Vicente Domingo’s cousin, a local lawyer. I handled a case for him before Vicente had shown up out of nowhere, after moving into town, looking for work. I was unfortunately pushed out to make room for Vicente.

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Published on July 01, 2021 13:41

A Deathly Rattle (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book seven) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three Continued

Did you miss Chapter One?

Did you miss Chapter Two?

Did you miss part one of Chapter Three?

Chapter Three Continued …

“Although,” I continued, “she did pee through her diaper last night, so I get to wash all her sheets today. But that’s not why I called, either. I got the measuring tape out, and Jim, I don’t know how we’re going to fit two more baby beds in this room. Even if we move the dresser and the little bookshelf out, it’s going to be a really tight fit. I don’t know if we’ll even luck out and find two more cribs the size of Laurie’s. And, you watch—we’ll blink and Laurie’s going to need a toddler bed.”

“That’s at least a year away,” Jim said in a reassuring voice. “But, you’re right. I was actually looking at that the other day. And you worked so hard on that nursery, babe. I’d hate to see it all covered up by cribs.”

“But what are we going to do?” I eased myself down to lie on the floor. “It’s not like we have a spare room.”

“What would you think about converting the garage?” he asked.

“Oh,” I said, thinking. “Can we afford a renovation like that right now?”

“I ran a few numbers, and it seems like it.”

Laurie grabbed a chunk of my hair and tugged.

I winced and disentangled her fingers from my hair. “I mean, that would make the driveway a little cluttered . . . but honestly, that’s probably our best bet, if we can make it work in the budget.”

“I’ll get some quotes, but it’s definitely cheaper than buying another house in this market.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” I said with a laugh. “You really okay with losing the garage?”

“I’ve got the shed in the back that I can clean out,” he said. “And I think Paula has some good contractors she can recommend, right?”

“That’s also true,” I said.

“They’ll only have to insulate three of the walls, since the garage is connected to the house. And the ceiling in the garage is already insulated, which will cut down the cost.”

“Wow, you’ve seriously been looking into this, haven’t you?” I wanted to kiss that man.

“You know I’m always looking out for you.” He chuckled. “What do you think? Please say yes, because that’s half the reason I took this LA job.”

“You’re a saint, Jim,” I said. “Yes, I think that would be fantastic.” I sat up and looked around the room at all the ducks. Then I grinned at Laurie.

“All right,” I said to Jim, “but you pick the new nursery theme for the twins.”

“Seriously?” he asked, his voice almost giddy.

“Yes, seriously,” I said. “Look, I came up with this whole ducky thing for Laurie and barely even ran it by you. It’s very me. So, for the twins, let’s do something that’s very Jim. You pick the theme, and I’ll make it work.”

There was a long pause. “Okay, so . . . honestly, I kind of already had a couple of ideas.”

I picked a piece of lint off Laurie’s shoulder. “You’re precious. What are your ideas?”

“I had two,” he said. “Maybe a sort of carnival theme? But I also thought about doing a film thing—old reels or something like that, since I’ve been doing a lot of work with the movie industry lately.”

“I love both those ideas!” I exclaimed.

“Really?” he asked hesitantly. “You’re not just saying that?”

“I can already picture it,” I assured him. “The carnival theme would be super cute and colorful. With the movie theme, we could do something classy and aesthetic. Oh, Paula would have a cow over either of those. So, you decide which one you want, and I’ll start shopping around online for some stuff.”

“Don’t jump the gun too soon,” Jim warned me. “We still have to close in the garage. Have Paula text me some numbers, and I’ll call a couple of contractors when I get some spare time today. I’ll have them send me some estimates in writing.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said.

My phone buzzed against my ear.

“Oh, shoot, Jim. I’m getting a call from Barramendi. I’ve got to go.”

“Love you. Good luck with the case,” he said.

“Thanks, I love you too,” I said, quickly switching over to Barramendi.

“Kate,” Barramendi said in a gruff voice. “I’m at the hospital. I wanted to talk to you about the case. Are you ready to get going?”

“I’m ready,” I said. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Good.”

“How is Vicente?” I held my breath, waiting for the answer.

“Stable, but that’s the best I can say for now.”

“I’ll be out the door as soon as I can.”

We hung up, and I looked down at Laurie. “Okay, looks like I’m going to have to call Mr. Kenny.”

I made another phone call, and within ten minutes, my teenaged neighbor, Kenny, rang the doorbell.

When I answered, he smiled brightly. He was sporting a fresh hair dye of bright pink. His hair had been so many different shades this past year that I’d actually forgotten his natural color.

“Morning, Kate,” he said, and Laurie immediately reached for him, giggling happily at the sight of her favorite playmate.

“Thanks for getting over here so quickly,” I said, handing Laurie over. “Love the new hairdo.”

He nodded. “Box said ‘persuasive pink,’ but I think of it more as ‘passion pink.’ What do you think?”

“Absolutely. It inspires a mad passion in me to get the heck out of here. Or maybe that’s just the case I’m on.”

He laughed as I hurried to get ready before practically sprinting out the door. On the way out, I shouted over my shoulder, “Don’t forget to feed Whiskers!”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Kenny called after me.

One good thing about morning sickness—I didn’t worry too much about breakfast. At least it saved time. I stuffed a power bar in my purse to eat at the hospital once my stomach settled down.

Barramendi met me outside the ICU doors, in the same spot he’d taken his smoke break yesterday.

“Kate,” he said with a nod. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

“What have you got for me?” I asked.

“I thought it over last night,” he said. “Vicente mentioned a few cases to me recently. I think those would be a good place to start. Look for case files labeled Dickenson and Williams. Some guys he’d been investigating blew up at him recently. Not too uncommon, especially considering one of them is a cheating-husband case, but worth looking into. The other is fraud, or something. Might be good leads.”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m giving you the key to Vicente’s office—I tracked it down overnight. See if you can’t find those case files. Take any other files you need, of course. But I do remember him mentioning those two cases in particular.”

“Was he threatened?” I asked.

“I believe so,” Barramendi said, digging around in his pocket.

“Death threats?”

He shrugged. “I wish I could tell you more, but this sort of stuff happens all the time in our business. People don’t like private investigators digging up their dirty laundry. Nothing stood out to me . . . I wish I’d told Vicente to be careful.”

“You couldn’t have done anything to stop this,” I assured him.

He handed me a set of keys. “Not sure which one is for his office. But he keeps all his keys on this thing.”

“I’ll head there now and collect the files,” I said. “And, thank you. This is a good lead. I’ll follow up on it. You can count on me.”

“I hope so.” Barramendi sighed heavily. “Vicente is hurt, Kate. Bad. Police have a guard outside his room because they’re worried about someone trying to finish the job.”

“All the more reason for us to work fast to catch whoever did this,” I said. “Go back inside and be with him. Trust me. I got this.”

Barramendi paused for a moment, nodded, and made his way back into ICU.

I took a deep breath. I’d sounded confident.

I was confident.

But . . . there was a lot riding on this. Even though I had a proven track record, I really hadn’t been solving cases for very long.

And for Vicente, I was going to have to work ten times harder than I ever had before.

Someone had tried to take down a fellow PI. I wasn’t about to let that slide.

The ring of keys felt heavy in my hand.

Not on my watch.

This would-be murderer is going down.

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Published on July 01, 2021 12:44

A Deathly Rattle (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book seven) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three

Did you miss Chapter One?

Did you miss part one of Chapter Two?

Chapter Three

The Nursery

To Do:

Attend the strike.Buy more prenatal vitamins.Figure out plan for new nursery. Land a new client.Exercise.Call Deb.Call Barramendi—get copies of VD’s latest cases.

A wave of nausea washed over me as I shuffled down the hall toward my wailing daughter’s room. I rubbed my bleary eyes. It was definitely too early for this.

“Morning,” I sang as I came up to her crib, that gurgling sensation still churning in my stomach.

No wonder she was crying—she had peed through her diaper.

“Oh no,” I crooned. I lifted her up out of the crib and set her on the changing table. “Won’t a fresh, dry diaper feel better?”

But even after I got her changed, she was fussy.

“Breakfast time?” I asked.

I picked her up and sank down in the rocking chair to breastfeed. Her cries faded to whimpers and then calmed. While I rocked her and tried not to think about my topsy-turvy stomach, I scanned the small bedroom that doubled as my office.

We’d need another crib when the babies were born. Possibly two.

Maybe we could let the twins sleep together for a month, but then it’d be best to get them used to their own space. Or should we start out with two more cribs right away?

How the heck were we going to fit two more cribs in here?

My desk took up a fair amount of space, but even if I moved it into the living room, we were still short on square footage . . .

Are we going to have to move out of the city and into the suburbs?

My heart clenched at the thought.

I grew up in San Francisco.

I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving.

I scanned Laurie’s room again. I loved her duck-themed bedroom. I’d picked out every detail myself—her mobile of adorable yellow ducklings, her buttercream sheets, all the stuffed ducks.

So many stuffed ducks.

When I was pregnant with Laurie, Jim had worked extra hours to make sure we could cover all the expenses of the new baby, so he hadn’t been around as much as I would have liked. History was sort of repeating itself where that was concerned. To get ready for these twins and keep Laurie in diapers, he was picking up extra jobs here and there.

That was one of the reasons he was in LA working on the ad campaign for that movie.

My attention landed on the first edition of The Ugly Duckling displayed on Laurie’s dresser, and I smiled. Busy as he’d been, Jim had actually found that online and bid on it as a surprise for me. The Ugly Duckling had always been one of my absolute favorite stories as a kid.

We’re going to have to do some major house renovations.

I tried not to think too hard about it. Once Laurie was finished, I laid her on the rug for a bit of tummy time.

My nausea was all but gone, but my head was in another place entirely.

When I blinked, I saw Vicente’s deathly pale face. It was too early to call Deb or chase down leads. But I could do something about this nursery.

“Excuse Mommy for a second, little ducky,” I said, bopping Laurie’s nose.

She giggled, then stuck her knuckles in her mouth.

I hurried out of the room and dug around in our kitchen junk drawer for the measuring tape.

I measured Laurie’s crib first. It was small, and we would probably get something similar for the twins. Then I stretched out the measuring tape along the wall. A second crib would make the room crowded. A third would leave it virtually unusable.

“Oh dear.” My stomach flipped again, my nausea flooding back, this time with a side of hormonal panic.

The little bookshelf I’d painted for Laurie would be the first thing to go, but I had worked so dang hard on that. I was pretty sure we’d have to lose the baby dresser, too, leaving us to fit all of Laurie’s and the twins’ clothes into that one little closet.

The room would be all baby beds and one changing table.

Oh no. Can we even keep the changing table? It’s sort of large.

“Why is this room suddenly looking so small?” I huffed.

I grabbed my phone. I needed to talk this out with Jim. He was probably up by now, but it was still early enough that he wouldn’t be in a meeting yet.

The phone rang three times, and Jim’s voice came through loud and clear. “Morning, gorgeous.”

Must be the coffee. Jim was always a little flirty halfway through his morning coffee.

“Morning, handsome,” I said, sitting down on the floor with only a pinch of difficulty. Laurie crawled toward me, reaching up and cooing happily.

“Heard you got a new job. Is Vicente okay?” Jim asked.

“Who told you?” I asked curiously, putting my free hand out for Laurie to grab.

“Your mom called me. Filled me in on the details.”

“Gotcha.” I ruffled Laurie’s soft curls. “Yeah, Vicente is hanging in there. He’s not looking too good. His cousin hired me to work the case.”

“You be careful, all right?”

“You know I will be,” I assured him.

“But I suspect that’s not why you called me this morning,” he said.

“No,” I said. “Honestly, I’m having a Mommy Meltdown.”

He laughed. “Oh gosh, is Laurie giving you a hard time?”

“Not at all.” I smiled down at Laurie, who seemed to have heard her dad’s voice and was now grinning ear to ear and trying to pull herself up closer to the phone.

“Da-da,” she babbled.

“Ma-ma,” I mouthed back.

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Published on July 01, 2021 12:43

A Deathly Rattle (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book seven) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two Continued

Did you miss Chapter One?

Did you miss part one of Chapter Two?

Chapter Two Continued …

“Galigani thinks you should work this case,” Barramendi said.

I blinked several times before turning my head toward the sleeping Vicente. “Um . . .” was all I managed to say. I was sensing some hostility from Barramendi, something I wasn’t used to getting from him. He and I had a great track record. I swallowed. “And you don’t think I should?”

“It’s not that, Kate,” Barramendi muttered. “You’re just still so new at this.”

“Barramendi,” Galigani said, puffing out his chest. “Kate’s batting a thousand. There hasn’t been a case yet she couldn’t solve, and you know it. She worked for you when she first got in this biz, so you know she’s got what it takes. I know with Domingo being your cousin, this is personal for you—”

“Which is why I want someone with a bit more experience,” Barramendi said to Galigani. “Like yourself.”

I frowned. “You know I can do this, right? I’ve handled a lot of cases since I worked for you last.”

“And she’s handled them flawlessly,” Galigani said.

“Didn’t a suspect poison her recently?” Barramendi crossed his arms.

“Almost flawlessly.” A grin threatened to make its way across Galigani’s face. “She can do it.”

Barramendi relented. “I know,” he said, looking at me somewhat apologetically. “He’s family, Kate. I hope you understand—”

“I understand,” I said.

“And I know you do good work,” he added.

“And she won’t be alone,” Galigani said. “I will definitely be helping out. I just can’t take the lead anymore.”

I frowned, giving Galigani a sideways look. When I worked my first case, Galigani had needed open-heart surgery, and even though the operation had been a good six months ago, Mom and I still worried about his blood pressure.

Galigani waved a hand at me, almost intuiting my concern. “Kate knows I’m always there if she gets stuck. Though I hardly think it will be necessary. Kate has this.”

Barramendi nodded. “I do feel a little better knowing she has you. And me, too. Okay, then. Kate, I would like to formally hire you to work this case and help the police find out who shot my cousin.”

Nervous energy zinged through my body. I hated seeing Vicente hurt, but the fact that I might be able to help find justice exhilarated me. “You can count on me,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.

We shook hands, then Barramendi stepped out of the room, mumbling under his breath about needing to speak with the surgeon.

Galigani and I shared a moment of silence, hovering over Vicente and willing him to open his eyes.

“How long was he in surgery?” I asked.

“Twelve hours,” Galigani said. “You helped save his life, so I’ve been told. Deb was raving about you when I arrived this morning. She was on watch duty half the night after she got herself cleaned up. I don’t know if you noticed the officer down the hall, but they’re worried whoever did this might come back to finish the job. All the more reason to dive headfirst into this thing before any sort of trail runs cold.”

“Will do,” I said. “You can count on me to get going on this ASAP.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Galigani said, walking me out of Vicente’s room and back through ICU.

We said goodbye at the elevator, and I made my way out of the hospital.

I shivered. It hadn’t really hit me until I saw him in that bed. Vicente Domingo—shot three times. Whoever shot him had really meant it. I went over a checklist in my head of what steps I needed to take first. Call Deb, see if the police thought this was a random shooting or robbery or if they felt there was some ulterior motive. Talk to Barramendi, find out what sort of cases Vicente had been working lately . . .

I nearly bumped right into Barramendi on my way out. He was taking a cigarette break just outside the ICU entrance. “Sorry,” he mumbled, immediately putting out the cigarette. “Terrible habit. Hard to break.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “As soon as possible, I want to talk to you about some of Vicente’s most recent cases.”

Barramendi nodded. “That’s fine, Kate.” He sighed heavily and stared up toward the sky like his head was residing on a completely separate planet.

“This case, it seems really personal. Someone tried to kill Vicente right outside the theater where his play . . .” I paused. “The play. Do you know how much truth there was to that play of Vicente’s? I mean, the main character was named Vinnie, after all.”

Barramendi smirked. “Just focus on facts, Kate. Not fiction. I’m sure a few snippets came from his experience as a detective, but Vicente is not the hound dog that the character Vinnie was written to be.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Hopefully Vicente will be out of ICU by then.”

He nodded, his face grim. “Let’s hope so. Or improving, at least. Otherwise . . .”

His words hung in the air, and we looked at each other quietly, neither of us wanting to voice the end of the sentence . . . otherwise instead of a shooting, I’d be investigating a homicide.