Diana Orgain's Blog, page 9
June 14, 2021
Trigger Yappy (Roundup Crew Mystery Series: Book Two) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss Chapter Two?
From Trigger Yappy
Chapter Three
The following morning, Yolanda turned up at my apartment
right on time. She drove a flashy red convertible and, as
was her habit, she leaned on the horn until I came out.
I rushed around my apartment ensuring all lights were off and all
doors were locked, before racing downstairs to meet her.
“Stop honking,” I said. “I’m here. You’re going to wake the neigh‐
borhood!”
She let off the horn and glanced at her slim gold bracelet watch.
“It’s nine a.m. The neighborhood should be up. What’s wrong with
these people?”
I laughed as I opened the passenger side. Beepo, who seemed
permanently housed on the passenger-side seat, growled at me.
“Beach town, I guess,” I said, ignoring Beepo, who barked madly at
being upended.
“Hush now, Beepo!” Yolanda scowled, scooping him onto her lap.
“When I lived in New York, I was always up at the crack of dawn,
but it seems like everyone in Pacific Cove sleeps in.”
“Do you think it’s the sea air?” Yolanda asked.
I shrugged. “Well, New York has sea air, right?”
She wrinkled her delicate nose. “It’s not the same.”
I laughed. She was right. New York City and Pacific Cove had zero
in common. One of the reasons I’d recently relocated to Pacific Cove
was to escape the never-ending hustle and bustle that pulsed through
New York, especially when I was a financial advisor.
Thinking of New York brought Gus to mind, and a little pang
pricked my heart. I imagined him already settling into a fine hotel in
New York, getting ready for the Gourmet Games audition. New York
definitely had big opportunities to offer.
Yolanda put the convertible in reverse and gunned it out of my
apartment house driveway. The wind bellowed through her blond
hair fanning it around her face. “I’d like to make a little pit stop on the
way to the hospital, if you don’t mind.”
From the way Yolanda narrowed her eyes at me, I could tell that I
clearly should mind. What kind of pit stop was she contemplating?
“Where?” I asked.
She pressed her full, glossy red lips together and glanced at her
own reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Have you talked to Rachel this morning?” I asked. “When I called,
the nurse told me she was still asleep. She said I’d have to talk to the
doctor about discharge, but he wasn’t going to do his rounds until
eleven or so.”
“I haven’t talked to her.” Yolanda said. She gave a sidelong glance.
“I want to stop at Chic Chickie on the way.”
I frowned. “Where’s that?”
“It’s on the way.”
“What is it? A shop?”
She nodded eagerly. Almost too eagerly . . . Beepo yowled in
agreement.
“I don’t think we have time for shopping,” I said. “I kinda want to
get straight to the hospital.”
“You said yourself she won’t be discharged until eleven. We have
plenty of time,” Yolanda said.
I sighed.
“It’ll only take us a few minutes and it’s such a cute shop!” Yolanda
pressed. “You’re going to love it.”
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I laughed. Yolanda and I had completely different taste in fashion.
She favored stilettos, halter tops, and skintight pants and skirts, while
I was conservative by nature. Blame it on my accounting degree, but
this morning I was decked out in tan chinos and a sky-blue sweater
set.
“Please, Maggie,” Yolanda whined, while Beepo simpered alongside
her.
“If it’s on the way, I suppose it’s fine.”
She clapped her hands loudly and then flung the car around in a
U-turn. It was such a sharp turn that Beepo, frightened for his life,
sprang into my lap.
“Whoa! I thought you said it was on the way.”
She waved a hand around nonchalantly. “It is.”
A few minutes later we pulled off the main road onto a side street.
Yolanda parked the convertible and set the alarm with her key fob. In
front of us was a small boutique shop featuring some very dramatic
chicken hats in the window.
Oh, no!
“Wait a minute!” I said in an octave altogether too high. “Is this
Fran’s store?”
Yolanda flashed me her best, most-charming smile. “Well . . .”
“Well, what! Why didn’t you tell me?
“Because I knew you wouldn’t want to stop. And I have unfinished
business with that woman!”
“I’m not going in there, just to witness another catfight,” I said.
Beepo let out a mean howl at the word cat.“See, even Beepo agrees,
don’t ya, boy?”
“Oh, stop,” Yolanda straightened her fuchsia skirt and checked her
reflection in the store window. “You two are both overreacting. Look.
I’d really like to buy the business from Fran, and I offered her a fair
price yesterday. It’s just that she doesn’t realize yet how generous I’m
being. Now that she’s had a chance to sleep on it, I think she’ll be
much more reasonable.” She placed a hand on the doorknob. “You
don’t even have to be involved. You can peruse the merchandise.
Don’t you need a fashionable sun hat for Mexico?”
I glanced at an outrageous hat in the center display of the arched
front bay window. It featured a rooster tail feather and had a red brim
that resembled a gobble.
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in that,” I said.
Yolanda tsked, shaking her head at what she considered my
obvious bad taste. She pranced over to the parking meter in front of
the store and wrapped Beepo’s leash around it. He gave a howl of
disagreement. “Hush now. You know I can’t take you in, Beep. You
remember the last time?”
I knew from experience that Beepo was not of fan of Yolanda’s
bright yellow-and-orange faux chicken, so-called designer purses.
Yolanda pushed open the door and an overhead bell chimed as we
stepped into the shop.
The store featured cathedral-style ceilings, wide wood-planked
floors, and the walls boasted a fresh coat of paint in robin’s-egg blue.
Along the far wall was a mind-boggling display of mounted birds.
“Helllloooo?” Yolanda singsonged.
An eerie silence greeted us.
The south side of the shop was covered with wraps of all sizes, the
unifying theme was that they all appeared to be made of chicken
feathers.
“Oh my God, is this even legal?” I asked.
Yolanda looked alarmed. “What do you mean?
I pointed at a large black-and-white stole. “How many chickens
had to die to make that wrap?”
“No, no, no,” Yolanda squealed. “No chickens died! They molt!”
Yolanda’s hand fluttered to her heart as if my accusation was about to
give her a cardiac arrest. “Anyway, these are synthetic! Do you think
we would kill a chicken for fashion?”
I hid my smile. “I think these feathers are ostrich anyway.”
Yolanda’s expression became even more severe. “They are not!”
“What about those chickens?” I motioned to the far wall of
mounts.
Yolanda gripped my wrist. “Hush now. Some people like that sort
of thing!”
I stared up at the marble eyes of the taxidermy birds and said, “I
feel like we’re being watched.”
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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 TRIGGER YAPPY HERE
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Trigger Yappy (Roundup Crew Mystery Series: Book Two) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two Continued…
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss part one of Chapter Two?
From Trigger Yappy
Chapter Two Continued…
The woman self-consciously adjusted her cap. “That’s not the
reason. He’s dated a lot of woman. It’s that Fran is so snobby.”
Geraldine harrumphed and said, “She is not.”
Yolanda snickered and said, “Birds of a feather.”
Geraldine cut Yolanda a mean glare, while I turned back to the bar
as quickly as I could. Max joined the table, sitting close to Brenda
with a hand on her knee as they giggled together.
Yolanda followed me back to the bar. “Rachel said not to worry
about her. She’ll likely get released from the hospital in the morning.
I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock and drive you.”
As I didn’t have a car, riding with Yolanda was the best option for
me. “What about that editor that’s supposed to show up? Am I
supposed to do anything special?”
Yolanda shook her head. “Oh, the woman called while Rachel and I
were on the phone. She can’t make it tonight. She’ll probably come by
tomorrow.”
Well, that was a relief. I didn’t want to be responsible for the
editor’s impression of the bar. I shuddered to think about a review on
the slightly crispy Arf d’oeuvres. I could see the title now “Yappy
Hour’s Bark Is Worse Than Its Bite!”
Yolanda fiddled with a coaster on the bar. “So what about your
trip? Are you really leaving us?”
I wiped the counter and squinted at Yolanda. “You’ve known for a
couple of weeks that I’m leaving. Don’t give me any static now. Ten-day
Mexican Riviera cruise: Baja, Cabo San Lucas, Puerto Vallarta,
Mazatlan.”
Yolanda tossed her full blond hair at me. “I’ll miss you, Mags. And
you’ll miss us, too. You just don’t realize how much. Until you’re on
that boat, way far away from us, with nothing to do.”
“Except shop in the Mexican stores, lie on the beaches, and drink
margaritas.”
“Pfft.” Yolanda waved a hand around. “Who needs margaritas when
you can have a Muttgarita?”
I studied her. “Is that what you’d like now?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “What I’d like is for you to stay.”
I ignored her comment and began to mix up a Muttgarita for her.
A steady stream of patrons were starting to arrive, so after I fixed the
Muttgarita, and put it in front of Yolanda, I got busy pouring drafts
and opening various wines. The table near the window was getting
increasingly louder and both Yolanda and I glanced over. It seemed
like Geraldine and the woman with the ball cap were having a heated
discussion.
Yolanda turned back to me. “I don’t know what it’s going to take,
but I’ll get you to stay.”
I said nothing.
“Do you know how seasick those cruise people can get?” she asked.
I laughed.
“Plus, if you leave, you’ll miss out on all the gossip.” Yolanda
glanced over her shoulder at the table by the window.
It looked like Geraldine and the woman with the Verdant Vines
cap on were about to come to blows. Both stood at the same time and
were glaring at each other. Their respective dogs had come to atten‐
tion and were barking at each other.
I raced from behind the bar toward the table, Yolanda on my heels.
“Is everything all right here, ladies?”
“You can tell Fran, if I ever see her near Hendrick again I’ll strangle
her little chicken neck!” the woman with the cap said.
“And you can leave right now!” Geraldine said, pointing to the
door.
“Wait! You can’t kick her out!” Yolanda said. “If you don’t like what
she’s got to say, then you leave!”
“Now, everyone calm down,” I said in my best diplomatic voice.
The woman turned on a heel. “No, I’ll leave. I have plans with
Hendrick tonight.” She marched toward the front door, her Maltipoo
trailing behind her. Once she reached the door, she yanked it open
and, with a dramatic gesture said, “You should serve some of his wine
here. It would class the place up!”
As soon as the door closed, Geraldine said, “I think that woman is
a mole!”
“A mole? What do you mean?” Brenda asked.
“In our Roundup Crew,” Geraldine said. “I think she just joined us
so she could try and sell her boyfriend’s wine here.”
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“Oh, Geraldine,” Max waved a hand around. “I hardly think
someone would target the group to—”
“Really?” Geraldine screeched, cutting him off. “I know some
people who even faked owning a dog to be part of our group.” Geral‐
dine’s coiffed show poodle howled on cue, showing the maximum
disdain for anyone posing as a dog owner.
Max reddened. Only a few weeks earlier, he had borrowed a dog
in order to get close to Brenda.
Brenda laughed. “Gerry! You can’t be serious.”
Abigail sat a little straighter and sipped her cocktail. “I know
Gerry doesn’t like anyone talking bad about Fran, but I certainly have
a bone to pick with her.”
Yolanda took the open seat across from Geraldine, despite her
feud with Geraldine, the gossip draw was just too much for her to
resist. “Do tell,” she prompted Abigail.
“Well, my cousin Ronnie, the poultry farmer—”
“Sexy cousin Ronnie?” Brenda interrupted. Max pulled his hand
off her knee and she said, “I mean sexy in a farmer way. Suspenders
and stuff.” She wrinkled her nose at him and said coquettishly, “Not
like you.” Max smiled shyly and replaced his hand. Brenda turned to
Abigail. “You should introduce him to Yolanda.”
Yolanda waved an impatient hand around. “I don’t do suspenders.”
The table laughed, but Yolanda prompted, “What about him, anyway?”
“He has a prize chicken,” Abigail said. “And the little girl artist,
Coral, at Meat and Greet, well, she did up a very nice watercolor
rendition of it. Then Fran just stole the image for the logo she uses for
her shop.”
The table gasped in unison.
“That’s illegal!” Brenda said. Ever the attorney, she added, “We can
sue.”
Geraldine’s face contorted and she let out a little whimper as if in
pain.
“I love her logo,” Yolanda said. Then she stroked her cheek
thoughtfully. “Would a suit put her out of business?”
“You just want to see her close up shop!” Geraldine said, in an
accusing tone.
Yolanda thrust out her chin defiantly. “I love her shop. In fact, I
offered to buy her out, and she ridiculed me.”
Due to the tension between Geraldine and Yolanda, I began to
clear the table of drinks. No good would come from fanning tempers
with more alcohol.
“She should!” Geraldine fired back. “You happen to be ridiculous!”
Yolanda took a sharp inhale of breath, but before she could reply, I
said, “Well, y’all certainly know how to take the happy out of Yappy
Hour.”
“I don’t think Ronnie wants to sue,” Abigail said. “He’s pretty
happy on his farm. He just wants to grow his business. I think he had
a meeting with Rachel to sell her some chicken. She is going to use his
chicken dogs in the Arf d’oeuvres.”
Panic suddenly overwhelmed me. Chicken in the Arf d’oeuvres?
Rachel is in the hospital with salmonella poisoning!
Did it have anything to do with Ronnie’s chicken? Alarm coursed
through my veins as I watched Geraldine pick up one of the Arf
d’oeuvres.
“I was wondering why these taste different. Quite yummy!” Geral‐
dine raised her hand to her mouth and I slapped the Arf d’oeuvres out
of it.
She recoiled in shock, her poodle barking ferociously at me.
“Rachel’s in the hospital with salmonella,” I said.
Geraldine frowned, but Abigail jumped up. “You’re not blaming
Ronnie, are you?”
“No, no. I don’t know.” I rushed to clear away the tray of Arf d’oeu‐
vres. “Maybe they sat out on the counter before Rach froze them or
something. I just don’t want anyone to get sick. Better safe than
sorry.”
I bussed the tray to the back of the bar, as Brenda called out, “You
can’t get salmonella from vodka, right? Maybe we should have
another round of Salty Dogs.”
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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 TRIGGER YAPPY HERE
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Trigger Yappy (Roundup Crew Mystery Series: Book Two) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two
Did you miss Chapter One?
From Trigger Yappy
Chapter Two
“Salmonella?” I asked.
“Nonsense!” Yolanda shrieked. She had such an indig‐
nant look on her face that I pulled the phone away from her before
she could burst into flames. “She’s blaming her hangover on chicken?
Ridiculous!”
“Tell her I’m on my way,” I said to Nurse Joan.
Nurse Joan grumbled something into the phone I couldn’t under‐
stand. Then there was a rustling sound and she said, “Hold on a
minute.”
“Maggie?” My sister’s voice filled the line. She sounded as if she
had rocks in her mouth.
“Rachel! How do you feel? What happened?”
Next to me, Yolanda angled her head toward the phone again,
straining to hear.
“I kept throwing up and . . . uh . . .” She sighed and took a deep
breath. “I’ll tell you later, okay? I’m so tired . . . sleepy. It must be the
pain medicine they gave me.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“No, uh . . . Maggie, you have to do Yappy Hour. There’s a woman .
. . oh . . . I can’t remember her name. She going to visit the bar tonight.
You have to be open. She’s the editor of Doggie Day—”
Yolanda let out a squeal. “Doggie Day!”
“Who’s that?” Rachel asked.
“Yolanda,” I said.
“Hi, Yo,” Rachel said. “Let me talk to her.”
“I’m not bartending while you’re in the hospital!” I said. “I’m
coming to see you—”
“I’m not dying, Maggie. You can check on me later. They’re just
holding me to monitor—”
“I’m on my way.”
“No! Ugh . . . You’re impossible. Let me talk to Yolanda,” Rachel
said.
Yolanda snatched the phone out of my hand and walked away
from me so I couldn’t eavesdrop on their conversation. Although I
could clearly hear Yolanda’s exaggerated gasps and whispers of,
“Doggie Day? Oh my goodness gracious! They’re coming here?”
Through the front window of the bar, I saw a crowd approach‐
ing. I glanced at my watch. Just like clockwork, the Roundup Crew
was ready for Yappy Hour. My friends Abigail, Brenda, and Max
were in the lead. Brenda and Max had started up a romance and
were holding hands. Behind them, I could see Yolanda’s nemesis, the
infamous Geraldine, and next to her was a woman I hadn’t seen
before.
Each of them had a small dog attached to the end of a Wine and
Bark Day-Glo green leashes. They had just come from their Friday
afternoon walk on the beach, so most of them were wearing shorts
and sunhats.
I took a deep breath to fortify myself; dealing with the dogs had
never been my strong suit, especially as they never seemed particu‐
larly fond of me.
The door flung open, and Beepo eagerly ran to greet them, his tiny
nails scratching along the terra-cotta floor. As the group streamed
into the bar, the cacophony of yapping dogs reverberated off the
walls.
Abigail rushed over to me. “Maggie! I didn’t expect to see you here.
I thought you’d be packing.” Her dog, Missy, a white Shih Tzu wearing
a rhinestone bow on the top of her head, sniffed around my ankles
and barked accusingly. “Oh, can you give her a Bark Bite?” Abigail
asked. “She was such a dear at the beach, I promised.”
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How can Missy know what Abigail promised? I wondered, but I didn’t
say anything out loud. Even though I’d only recently met all of these
doggie aficionados, I knew them well enough not to ask.
The rest of the crew took up several tables in front of the bar and
someone shouted, “Hey, Maggie! How about a round of Salty Dogs?”
Abigail and her dog, Missy, followed me to the bar. I went around
to the back side and grabbed a Bark Bite from the bowl nestled near
the cash register. As soon as I tossed the biscuit to Missy, the rest of
the dogs scampered over.
“How about us humans? Any food around?” Abigail sniffed the air.
“Is something burning?”
Ugh!
I raced to the back kitchen and pulled the Arf d’oeuvres out just in
time. Only a few needed to be sacrificed, I turned to pitch them into
the trash and stumbled over Beepo.
“Why are you always underfoot?” I asked.
Beepo looked up at me with watery sad eyes and I immediately
felt guilty for scolding him. I scratched him between his tiny
triangle ears and he padded away from me, contented for the
moment.
Max peeked around the corner. “Because there’s food around,” he
said. He strode over and picked a doggie in a blanket off the tray and
popped it into his mouth. “Hot!”
“They just came out of the oven, genius.”
Max smirked at me. He had a classic boy-next-door vibe about
him and we’d quickly become friends.
“You need help behind the bar?” Max asked. “I can whip up the
pitcher of Salties for you.”
“Yes. You’re a lifesaver.”
I tossed the overly crisp Arf d’oeuvres to Beepo, who caught them
midair in his mouth.
“Don’t tell the others,” I warned Beepo, “or I’ll be overrun with
begging canines.”
Beepo’s little tail wagged so hard, it shook his entire body.
Max and I went behind the bar where he immediately pulled a
bottle of Stoli from the rack. “Where’s Rachel?”
I salted the rims of the glasses while Max grabbed a pitcher of ice.
“She’s sick. Salmonella.”
Max made a face. “Oh, no. That’s awful. Where’d she get it from?”
I cringed. I hadn’t had a moment to contemplate the question.
Where had she gotten whatever made her sick? I shrugged. “Rachel
and I had both had cheese and crackers last night for dinner. I didn’t
get sick.”
Max poured the vodka over ice and then grabbed a bottle of juice.
As he finished preparing the pitcher, I pulled out a tray and, after
placing the best-looking Arf d’oeuvres onto a plate, added the martini
glasses. Max put the pitcher onto the tray and I walked it over to the
table by the window.
Yolanda seemed to be holding court. She stood at the head of the
table and towered over the ladies. She was mid speech. “I wanted to
scratch her eyes out. She’s so rude.”
Brenda gave Yolanda a sympathetic look, while Geraldine scowled.
The woman I didn’t know had long blond hair pulled through the
back loop of a baseball cap. The image on the cap was the Verdant
Vines logo. She said, “Fran? Oh, she’s a nightmare. Don’t even get me
started.”
Geraldine let out a low whistle and the poodle seated at her feet
came to attention. “I don’t want to hear any negative talk about Fran.
She’s been a good friend to me.”
“Ladies,” I said in greeting as I placed the tray in the middle of the
table.
“I don’t know her,” Brenda said. “I’ve only seen her around town.”
I carefully poured the drinks into each glass as they continued
their gossip. I couldn’t afford to spill drinks on any other patrons or
Rachel would never let me live it down . . . On second thought . . .
Maybe that was a way to get out of tending bar!
No. I was way too uptight to make mistakes on purpose. Lord
knew they happened frequently enough on their own.
Geraldine leveled her gaze at the new woman. “You don’t like Fran
because she used to date Hendrick.
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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 TRIGGER YAPPY HERE
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Trigger Yappy (Roundup Crew Mystery Series: Book Two) Sneak Peek – Chapter One Continued
Did you miss part one of Chapter One?
From Trigger Yappy
Chapter One Continued…
Yolanda and Fran craned to see what was happening between Gus
and me, although for all I knew they were checking out his backside. I
mean, that’s what I would have been doing if I had their vantage point.
“Stop being such a nervous Nellie, Cornelia!” Fran screamed into
her phone.
Gus ignored them, leaning in closer toward me. “I missed you. I
wanted to talk to you about something.” He freed my hand and ran his
fingers through his dark thick hair.
I poured him a glass of the Verdant Vines Merlot and watched him
work his lower lip.
Uh-oh. He’s nervous about something. Does he have bad news for me?
My stomach clenched at the thought.
“It’s about the restaurant.” He fixed his dark eyes on mine. “I think
I need to keep it closed awhile . . . I need to . . . you know . . . figure
things out.”
I knew Gus had recently inherited one hundred percent of the
restaurant from his partner and had some restructuring in mind, but I
couldn’t guess what was causing him such distress at the moment.
I pushed the glass of wine toward him, but he reached for my hand
again instead of the glass. He laced his fingers through mine and said,
“Maggie, I got an offer I want to discuss with you.”
“That’s not even close to a fair price!” Fran shouted at Yolanda.
Gus glanced over his shoulder at Yolanda and Fran’s table. Fran
had hung up the phone and she and Yolanda were now having an
animated discussion. Yolanda looked insulted and Beepo yowled.
“Now is probably not a good time,” Gus said.
I tugged on Gus’s hand. “Come to the back. I should get started on
the Arf d’oeuvres.”
He laughed as he followed me to the makeshift kitchen. “Not the
Arf d’oeuvres!”
I yanked open the freezer and pulled out a bag of frozen little hot
dogs wrapped in mini-croissants. Gus made a face, as if merely
watching the proceedings offended his palate, but since he was the
best chef in town I forgave his food snobbery. In fact, I secretly
wished he was getting ready to ask me to dinner.
I turned from him and put the dogs in a blanket onto a baking
sheet. From behind me, he snaked an arm around my waist. He moved
his lips close to my ear and asked, “Are you really going to take that
purser job?”
His breath on my ear warmed my blood, and as I much as I wanted
to say, “Forget the stupid job,” I knew I couldn’t. My failed stint as a
financial advisor in New York had put a significant drain on my
savings and now California rent was driving the nail in the coffin of
what remained.
Not to mention, I’d wanted to travel, right? The Mexican Riviera,
the Bahamas, the Florida Keys, they were practically shouting my
name. And I’d be away from the dogs . . . away from the bar . . . away
from Pacific Cove . . .
Gus’s body heat drew me in and I leaned against him for a
moment. “You’re not making it easy,” I grumbled.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he whispered. “What time do you get off?”
I slipped out of his embrace and turned the oven on. “I’m not tech‐
nically supposed to be working. Rachel promised she’d be here by
Yappy Hour.”
Gus and I both glanced at the oven clock at the same time. Five
minutes till. So like Rachel to be late. She’d be milking my covering
for her at the bar for as long as she could.
Gus smiled. “In that case, how about I . . .” He reached for my hip
just as my phone rang from inside my pants pocket. He pulled his
hand away, as if the ringing phone had given him a shock.
He bit his lip. “Do you need to get that?”
I didn’t even want to look at my phone. Who was more important
than Gus at this moment? Wasn’t he about to suggest making me
dinner? Or was I just daydreaming?
“No,” I said.
He lowered his gaze. “It could be Officer Brooks.”
That was a setup. I knew. He was prompting me to say he was
more important than Brad, but that sort of talk wasn’t going to get me
anywhere. Instead, I said, “Probably Rachel telling me she’s going to
be late.”
He watched me expectantly. My phone stopped ringing and even
though I felt compelled to pull out my phone and check the missed
call log, I didn’t. Instead, I said, “What did you want to tell me?”
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He shifted his weight, and the oven, having reached its preheated
temperature, beeped. Almost on instinct, he reached over and grabbed
the cookie sheet and popped it in the oven.
I laughed. “I feel like I’m forcing you to cook Arf d’oeuvres against
your will.”
He smiled. “Cooking is in my blood. See, that’s what I wanted to
talk to you about. I received an opportunity that’s hard to pass up.”
“What is it?”
“I got a call from one of the producers of Gourmet Games. They
want to fly me out to New York to audition.”
I clapped a hand over my mouth and squealed. Gourmet Games was
quickly becoming one of the top-rated cooking reality shows on tele‐
vision. “Oh my goodness! Gus, you have to take it! This could be the
opportunity of a lifetime.”
He smiled sadly at me and reached for my face. He cradled my
chin in his hand and said, “I know. It’s just that they want me to fly out
right away . . . I don’t . . .”
“I’m going to be on the cruise. You know that. This is perfect
timing.”
My phone rang again and he frowned.
“When do you leave?” I asked, ignoring my phone.
“I should go home and pack. There’s a red-eye tonight out of SFO.”
My throat suddenly became dry and I realized how much I’d miss him.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my check against his.
“Tonight?” I asked.
“I know it’s sudden, but—”
“No. No. You should go. You have to go. I’m just going to miss you,
is all,” I said.
“I’m going to miss you, too. But, if I don’t get cast,” he said. “I’ll be
back in town before your cruise is over.”
“They’d be crazy not to cast you, Gus.”
He shrugged. “I hope I can out cook the competition.”
“You can out cook anyone!”
“The competition is going to be top rate. I have to bring my A-game. In fact—”
A terrible screeching from the bar cut off his words and we both
rushed out to the bar, toward the sound. Yolanda and Fran were
standing, facing each other and screaming. Beepo was emitting a
high-pitched bark and growl.
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
“You’re a fraud!” Yolanda said to Fran.
“I’m not selling!” Fran said, fixing her chicken hat so that the tail
feather waved under Yolanda’s nose.
Beepo dove out of Yolanda’s arms and straight for the chicken on
top of Fran’s head.
Fran screamed. Gus hurried over to disentangle the dog from
Fran’s hat.
“Calm down!” I said.
Fran yanked her hat out of Gus’s hand and stormed toward the
front door. “You can forget about your chicken empire, Yolanda. That’ll
happen over my dead body!” She pulled open the front door and
exited with bravado.
Beepo howled after her.
Gus turned to me and I shrugged. We both looked at Yolanda.
Yolanda affectionately stroked Beepo’s triangle ears. “Hush now,
Beep.” She put Beepo down, then looked at Gus and said, “There’s no
talking to some people. I wanted to buy out her hat business, but she
went cuckoo on me.”
Gus smirked but didn’t say a word.
My phone rang again from inside my pocket. Gus leaned in and
kissed me. “I think you have your hands full here, Maggie.”
I clutched at his arm. “Good luck! Let me know what happens,
okay?”
He nodded. “I will.” He waved at us and stepped toward the front
door.
I pulled the phone and glanced at the caller ID: Rachel.
Of course.
Yolanda sipped what was left of her wine, but quirked an eyebrow
at me to let me know she was waiting on me.
I answered the phone. “Hi, Rach.”
Silence greeted me.
“Hello?”
A voice I didn’t recognize came on the line. “Ms. Patterson?”
My stomach clenched. Who was this? Where was Rachel?
“This is Nurse Joan. Your sister asked me to phone you to let you
know that’s she’s been admitted to the hospital.”
“The hospital!”
Yolanda hurried over to me with a look of alarm on her face.
“What’s going on?” She pressed her ear close to my phone.
“She has a case of salmonella poisoning,” Nurse Joan said. “Basi‐
cally, she ate some bad chicken.”
“There’s no such thing as a bad chicken!” Yolanda squawked.
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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 TRIGGER YAPPY HERE
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Third Times a Crime (Love or Money Murder Mystery Series: Book Three) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three Continued…
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss Chapter Two?
Did you miss part one of Chapter Three?
From Third Times a Crime
Chapter Three Continued…
I nodded, pulling away from him. I rubbed at my eyes and face,
and tried to keep my head from exploding. This had come as such a
surprise. I’d known things were awkward between us, but I never
suspected he didn’t love me anymore.
Before Scott, I’d been left at the altar and now all the feelings of
betrayal came rushing back at me, hitting me square in the solar
plexus. I sucked air in greedily, hoping it would calm my racing
heart.
“Not remember things exactly,” Scott said, barely noticing that I
was practically hyperventilating. “That’s not the right word. I
remember things, but it’s as if those memories belong to someone
else. As if I’m not invested in them somehow.”
He’s been in a severe accident, I reminded myself.
He’d been in a coma. Head injuries take a lot of healing time. We’d
been so lucky he’d mostly recovered quickly. The doctors had all said
it might take time for life to return to normal. I just hadn’t thought
that that diagnosis had included our relationship.
There was life before the accident and life after the accident.
“I’m like Humpty Dumpty,” he said.
“No,” I said. “Not Humpty Dumpty.”
“Yes,” he said. “They couldn’t put him back together again.”
Before I could argue, footsteps sounded behind us. I turned to
look, but no one was there.
“Did you hear that?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Hear what? Are you listening to what I’m telling
you?”
“Yes! Yes!” I grabbed his hands. “Of course, I’m listening,” I said.
“You’re . . .” And then my mind went blank. I’d been about to say,
“You’re breaking up with me,” but he wasn’t really, was he? He was
only asking for a little bit of time. He was asking to have some space
to figure things out.
I could give him space. I could do that.
“I can give you space,” I said, offering him my most reassuring
smile.
Disappointment flashed through his eyes, then he narrowed them
at me. “Right. Yeah. Space.”
“Space,” I said. “Isn’t that what you asked for? Space?”
“I asked you to be patient,” he said.
“Yes. That’s what I meant. Patient. I won’t rush things. I . . .” I stut‐
tered and looked at the ground. Nothing I was going to say in this
moment would make anything right. All I could do was be patient. I
grabbed for his hands, but they remained at his sides, so I dropped
mine awkwardly. “I love you, Scott, and I remember everything and I
can feel the love for the both of us. I can love you enough for the both
of us.”
He stepped away from me. “No, Georgia, you can’t. Don’t you get
it? That’s what I’m saying! You can’t love me enough to make me feel
in love. It just doesn’t work that way.”
“What?” I asked. Panic clawed at my throat. The conversation was
going all wrong. I wanted to say something to make it better, but I was
speechless.
“Never mind,” he said. Annoyance flashed across his face, his jaw
tightening. “Nothing’s right, right now. It’s me. It’s not you,” he said.
“Okay? It’s me. I’m so sorry.” His dark eyes turned stormy with sorrow
and my heart broke even further. Then, he turned on a heel and
walked away from me.
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I made to follow him, to call out to him, and then I remembered I
wasn’t supposed to follow. I was supposed to give him space or be
patient or whatever it was that two people who were in love did when
things weren’t going right.
My eyes burned and I wanted desperately to sit down and have an
ugly cry. I glanced around the garden, searching out a space. There
was a stone bench near some rosebushes that looked like the right
kind of spot to have my meltdown. I swallowed back the lump in my
throat and crossed the garden.
Some defensive part of my brain scanned the shrubbery for inter‐
lopers. It would be just like Cheryl to send a cameraman out here to
film my demise.
Ugh. The show.
Scott and I were supposed to be partners on the show for next few
weeks, and now what?
We were supposed to pretend everything was fine between us? Act
like a couple or just good friends?
My head ached just thinking about it and a sob escaped my lips.
Just as I was about to reach the solace of the stone bench, footsteps
sounded again behind me.
I whirled around to look. I was sure there was somebody out
there, but only the empty garden lay in front of me.
The hair on my neck rose.
I was alone here in the garden, wasn’t I?
Or did I have company? Either the human or paranormal kind . . . ?
No, that was ridiculous. I was letting the spooky mansion get
to me.
Rustling sounds came from the bushes.
It could be the wind . . .
I cautiously followed the sound, stepping silently toward it. In the
distance, I could hear a pair of voices arguing. What was going on?
Somebody was having a fight. I tried to follow the sound, but hedges
divided us.
I circumnavigated the hedges, walking back to where the swim‐
ming pool lay. I passed the decaying empty swimming pool and
headed toward the voices.
Then suddenly, Dr. Arch appeared from behind a hydrangea bush.
I leapt back and covered my heart with my hand.
“Georgia. I’m sorry. Did I alarm you?”
“No, no,” I lied. The stubborn ex-cop part of me would never
admit to being alarmed or caught off guard.
“What are you doing out here? Taking a little walk?” he asked.
I took a step back. “I could ask you the same. What are you doing
out here?”
He smiled broadly, baring his overly whitened, large teeth at me.
“I’m having a little walk myself. Getting some fresh air, exploring the
castle and the grounds. I assume you’re doing the same?”
His question hung in the air, giving me the creeps. How long had
he been out here? Had he been following Scott and me?
Had he been listening to our conversation?
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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 THIRD TIMES A CRIME HERE
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Third Times a Crime (Love or Money Murder Mystery Series: Book Three) Sneak Peek – Chapter Three
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss Chapter Two?
From Third Times a Crime
Chapter Three
Scott stiffened at Becca’s comment, and patted my knee, but
it somehow felt a bit insincere.
I stood, the entire table looked at me and I grew hot and uncom‐
fortable. “I’m going to get some air.”
Scott excused himself from the table and followed me. “Hey, wait
up,” he said. “I need to talk to you about something.”
The serious expression on his face made my heart plummet into
my stomach. I reached for his hand, only he wasn’t expecting it and
our hands bumped awkwardly. Ordinarily, Scott would have made a
joke about it and wrapped his arms around me, but tonight we both
dropped our arms to our respective sides and walked out of the room
together in silence.
What was going on with him?
Outside of the main dining area, the castle was frigid. There were
drafts running throughout every room and passageway, the broken
window in the prayer room only made matters worse.
I shivered and said, “I think it’s warmer outside than it is inside.”
Scott shuffled his feet next to me. “Yeah. This time of year, it’s like
that in this area.”
We walked outside. The grounds were enormous. We descended
the back porch steps and went past the empty swimming pool onto
the rolling grass. There was a large garden area surrounded by shrub‐
bery and in the distance we could see planted vegetables, olive and
grape groves, and wheat fields.
“The historical society’s done a good job of keeping up the castle,” I
said. “At least the exterior.”
“Yeah,” Scott agreed. “The interior will never be the same. Looks
like they knocked out the roof several years ago. That’s the best way
to destroy a building. The third and fourth floor are probably beyond
repair,” he said.
“That’s sad,” I said. The idea of something being beyond repair
bothered me. I looked into Scott’s dark eyes for comfort, but he
averted his gaze.
“How’d you know about the roof?” I asked, trying to ignore the
fact our conversation seemed clunky.
He shrugged. “Just a little online research I did earlier.”
I nodded. The discomfort between us was palpable. Ordinarily,
we’d be finishing each other’s sentences and now there were large
gaps of silence. A gust of wind blew around us, leaves rustling at our
feet, my hair whipping at my face. This was the impending storm the
blackbirds must have sensed.
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“Are you feeling okay?” I asked Scott.
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
“Well, it’s just that you’re very quiet,” I said.
He shrugged again. “Aren’t I normally quiet?”
“No,” I said. “Not normally.”
He got a distant look in his eye. “Not since the accident?” he asked.
I nodded sympathetically. “How do you feel about stuff in gener‐
al?” I asked.
He looked at me. “What stuff in general?”
I meant me.
How do you feel about me? That’s what I wanted to say, but I didn’t
have the courage to put my heart out on the line, so instead I shrugged
and the futility of the gesture made my skin itch.
Suddenly, he grabbed my hand. “Georgia, I know we’re in love . . .”
His voice cracked with emotion and he swallowed. “But I have a . . .”
He sighed. “I have a problem. I’m not feeling in love. I don’t know how
to explain it, and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way. I’m so
sorry.”
Fear wrapped around my heart and my breath caught.
What was he saying?
Was he breaking up with me?
Oh, God. After everything we’d been through, he was going to
break up with me.
He squeezed my hand harder. “I don’t know what to say. I just
need you to be patient with me. I . . . Like I said, my brain knows that
we were in love. I’m just trying to tell my heart that.”
“You don’t feel like you’re in love with me?” I asked. The question
sputtered out of my lips. I hadn’t wanted to say it, hadn’t wanted to
confirm what he was telling me. Now I wished I could stuff the words
back into my mouth.
He nodded. “I . . . I like you a lot,” he said. “I know that. You’re
funny and you’re smart, and you’re beautiful. I know you’re going to
figure out this mystery, and win the contest and all that. I just . . . I’m
just trying to keep up with stuff,” he admitted.
My chest suddenly hollowed out and tears burned at my eyes.
He doesn’t love me?
My heart ached so much, it was difficult to breath.
Scott’s head hung down and for a moment he looked so lost, I
thought I’d weep. I wrapped my arms around him and said with more
desperation in my voice that I’d planned. “Scott! Scott! Everything’s
going to be fine.”
Part of me wanted to tell him, “You’ll remember being in love
with me! You’ll fall in love with me again, won’t you?” But I couldn’t
say it.
Tears streamed down my cheeks.
“What do you want to do?” I asked.
He wiped my tears, his warm hands on my face only making me
feel more desperate.
“Just give me time,” Scott said, “Just give me a little bit of time.”
Another burst of wind tore at us, howling and whipping around
us, almost separating us with its icy bluster.
“I want you to know, if I’m different, I don’t mean to be,” he
continued. “I’m just being the only way I know how to be right
now . . . I’m trying to remember things.”
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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 THIRD TIMES A CRIME HERE
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Third Times a Crime (Love or Money Murder Mystery Series: Book Three) Sneak Peek – Chapter One Continued…
Did you miss part one of Chapter One?
From Third Times a Crime
Chapter One Continued…
Once inside the castle, the creep factor only escalated. The inside of
the building was a like a maze with steps and hallways spinning in every
direction, vertically and horizontally. The stairs were worn and creaked
as the cast and crew climbed them to what was known as the prayer room.
A strange smell filled the room, like sulfur mixed with stale
kerosene that someone had attempted to mask with a flowery
perfume.
“Whoa! Do you smell that?” the psychic asked. “It’s a presence!
Most certainly a presence!”
The man claiming to be a psychic was the least likely person I
would have expected. I figured Cheryl would have a cast a pretty
blond young lady, but instead the man before us was as large as a
lumberjack complete with a burly red beard. I’d liked him immedi‐
ately, even though, of course, I couldn’t believe a word he uttered.
I wrinkled my nose. “I think the room’s probably been closed up a
long time.”
“No, no,” the docent disagreed. She worked at the Golden Castle as
one of the tour guides. “We air it out every day, but the smell always
returns.”
Fingers tickled the back of my neck and I involuntarily jumped as
Scott leaned in close to me, his lips touching my ear. “Oooh,” he whis‐
pered. “Creeeeeppppy.”
“I thought you were here to protect me, not freak me out,” I said.
He pressed his forehead to mine, looking into my eyes. “You
certainly don’t need my protection, but you have it babe, always.”
As Scott leaned in to kiss me, Cheryl’s screechy voice interrupted
our romantic moment. “People! Listen up. The team is going to need a
few minutes here to set up the cameras, lights, and mikes. We’ll kick
off the show here. Harris will give the introduction. The camera will
pan on each of you as Harris introduces you. Then we’ll go ahead and
start the castle tour for the viewers. You’ll all need to make sure your
hair and makeup are set. Please don’t wander off and get lost.”
Scott rubbed at his shaved head. “I’d better see to getting my hair
fixed.”
“It is kind of messy,” I joked. Suddenly, I had the strange sensation
of being watched. Which one would think I’d be used to after two
tours of reality TV, nevertheless I still found the feeling mildly discon‐
certing. I turned to find Dr. Arch staring at Scott and me.
“You two don’t seem to be taking this very seriously,” he said.
Scott hid his amusement. “You believe in all the hocus-pocus going
on here, doctor? Spirits trapped in the in between.”
The priest, who’d been meditating in front of a candle, snapped to
attention. “Oh, I do think there is evil here. With much prayer, we can
send the spirits on.”
Cheryl strode between us. “Now, now, father. We had this discus‐
sion, didn’t we? Save it for the cameras.” The priest shook his head
and seemed ready to argue, but Cheryl was already on to the next
group, calling out, “Five minutes, people. Ready in five.”
“Anyway, what I meant was,” Dr. Arch continued, “is that you have
to take this one seriously. It’s viewer determined, you know. If you
don’t get the votes, you’ll be sent packing. Even though I’m betting
against myself here for a moment, I think you two probably have the
best chance of solving the mystery.”
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Dr. Arch’s partner, Karen Kenley, sidled up to him. “That’s some
vote of confidence, Arch.”
The doctor looked chagrinned. “I didn’t mean anything against
you, honey.”
Karen Kenley, the FBI profiler, looked like the type of woman who
never accepted any excuse, either from a man or much less from a
woman. Her straight black hair hung like a curtain around her face.
She had the type of sharp features that let you know right away if you
messed with her, you’d get cut.
Cheryl clapped her hands again. “Okay, people,” she shouted.
“Places please. Cast, line up here.” She indicated a row of blue
painter’s tape the crew had laid down for us. “Harris, you’ll stand here
—” A large thump against one of the windows startled Cheryl. She put
a hand over her heart. “What was that?”
“A bird, I think,” Scott said. He rushed to the window, but the glass
was so hazy it was impossible to see through.
The lumberjack psychic next to me moaned and pressed his
fingers to his temple.
His partner, the ghost hunter, fiddled with a device strapped to his
belt and asked, “Can we go outside and take a look? I have to investi‐
gate, my EMF is going crazy.”
“What’s that?” Scott asked.
“It measures fluctuations in the electromagnetic fields,” he said.
Cheryl collected herself. “Let’s not get distracted here, folks. We
have to start filming.” She put on a headset and made a beeline to the
back of the set and motioned for cameras to start rolling.
Harris took center stage and said directly into the camera, “Wel‐
come, America, to Cold Case in the Castle!” Harris’s voice boomed in
his made-for-TV persona. “We’re coming to you from Golden, Cali‐
fornia, where the town has had a dark and tragic unsolved mystery
haunting them since 1960. You see, back in the early 1900s this castle
was a reform school, a home for the state’s most delinquent wards.
However good-intentioned the state may have been in wishing to
rehabilitate the wards, horrors came to pass: abuses, escape attempts,
violent encounters, inhumane punishments, and, yes, ladies and
gentlemen, even murder.”
Harris gave a dramatic pause, then continued. “There were five
murders that took place on these grounds. All were solved.” Harris
held up his index finger and gave a flourish as he said, “Except for
one.”
“The disturbing and brutal murder of Jane Reiner. Jane had been
an innocent and lovely youth, working as a librarian in training, when
she mysteriously disappeared. Her body was later discovered
heinously murdered on the premises of the reform school.”
The cast made the appropriate gasps and tsking sounds.
Harris launched into a brief recap of the facts we’d been given,
then said, “And that’s where you, dear viewer, come in.” Harris contin‐
ued, “Join us, as we travel back in time and solve Jane’s murder. We’ve
assembled a cast that we believe can help us do just that.”
One by one, he motioned toward us and introduced the cast.
When he finally landed on the last contestant, the lumberjack psychic
suddenly moaned as if in pain and fell to his knees. He screamed out,
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, brother,” I mumbled to Scott, but before he could respond
there was a deafening and repetitive pounding on the windows. We all
jumped and turned toward them only to see a massive onslaught of
small black birds flying directly into the glass.
Karen and Dr. Arch gasped, the ghost hunter rushed toward the
glass with his EMF device in hand and the historian from Harvard
fainted.
A loud splintering sound echoed through the room as the ancient
glass shattered against the assault. Then Cheryl called in a cheerful
voice, “Cut!”
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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 THIRD TIMES A CRIME HERE
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Third Times a Crime (Love or Money Murder Mystery Series: Book Three) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two
Did you miss Chapter One?
From Third Times a Crime
Chapter Two
I was the first one out the door, flying toward the rickety
staircase that led to the first floor.
Scott’s voice called out behind me, “Georgia, no! Don’t go. Hold
up! Hold up.”
I ignored him, racing down the windy, spiral staircase, holding the
banister to ensure I wouldn’t fall.
“Let them pass!” Scott yelled.
More footsteps sounded behind me, crashing against the rotting
wood of the old stairs. Than an eerie sound of fluttering wings,
followed by high-pitched screams.
The blackbirds have broken through the window.
It suddenly sounded as if a colony of bats had infiltrated the castle.
Scott was right behind me, he reached out to grab me, his hand
skimming my jacket. “Georgia!”
I jumped to the bottom of the last stair and bounded toward the
front doors, my palms pressing them open.
Scott reached me and gripped my arm. “Don’t go out there, it
could be dangerous.”
“And stay in here with the birds?” I asked.
Dr. Arch barreled past us. “Let me see, let me see! This is
extraordinary,” he said, as he raced outside into the gardens.
The fresh air buffeted my face as I followed Dr. Arch outside. The
sky was dark, covered with a full blackbird migration, swarms of
them passing the castle. On the grassy area in front of the castle were
literally hundreds of dead blackbirds, as if they been steamrolled by
an imaginary vehicle. Behind me, Scott and Karen Kenley emerged
from the castle, followed by several more cast, crew, and cameramen.
Scott laced his fingers through mine and pulled me back, away
from the carnage. “Holy cow! This is terrible. I’ve never seen anything
like it.”
The cameramen began to shoulder their equipment and film the
disaster. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Cheryl jumping up
and down. This would be gold in her promo.
“What’s going on?” Karen, the FBI profiler, asked.
“Blackbird migration,” Scott said.
Growing up in the country, I knew that birds, or other animals,
sensed things better than us humans. There was definitely something
going on in our environment that was cause for alarm.
“This is a bad omen,” Ashley, the paranormal docent, said.
The priest, Father Gabriel, agreed, “Yes, a bad omen. A sign of evil.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Scott replied.
“It’s not,” Father Gabriel insisted.
The ghost hunter, Jack, laughed heartily. “Well, let’s see if we can
figure out what’s happening here first.”
Both men squared off against each other, glaring. I looked from
one to the other, preparing to stop their quarrel.
Scott put a hand on my shoulder, stopping me from interfering.
“Should we go back inside?” he asked. “They’ll probably need help
clearing the birds out of there.”
I hated to leave, but followed him back into the castle anyway,
which despite the awful squawking of the trapped birds, seemed quiet
relative to the pandemonium outside. We climbed the rickety stairs
together.
“What is it supposed to mean, do you think?” I asked Scott. “All
those birds?”
“I don’t know but it sure is creepy,” he admitted.
“Definitely,” I said.
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We reached the second floor and darted past three birds that were
flying down the hallway. Scott tore off his jacket and swatted at the
birds matador-style to get them down the stairs and out the front
door to freedom.
“I think we’ll be clearing birds for days,” I said.
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than another few
birds flapped out of the library, one going for my dark hair as if I were
a bush. I ducked, covering my head with my hands, as Scott batted it
away from me. The other birds somehow found their way toward the
open stairs and out of the castle.
“O . . . men,” I said in an exaggerated way to Scott, who gave me his
classic sideways grin.
“If the sprits don’t get us, the birds will.”
“Maybe Alfred Hitchcock is roaming these hallways,” I joked.
Inside the library, the psychic, Bert, was still on his knees and the
historian lady, Martha, was laid out flat on the floor. Only one crew
member remained in the room and he was attending to Martha,
fanning her and holding her wrist. Someone had propped a rolled-up
jacket under her head.
“Anyone called 911?” Scott asked.
The crew member looked up. “Oh, that’s not necessary. She’ll
come to in a minute,” he said. “Her pulse is strong.”
The psychic startled when he heard us. He grabbed my arm.
“Georgia, I had a vision of you.”
“Of me?” I asked. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I
pulled my arm out of his grip.
“Yes,” he said dramatically. “You will have a visitor.” His face was
grim as he said it. Even though I really don’t fancy myself a believer,
goose bumps rose on my forearms.
“What kind of visitor?” Scott asked.
Before the psychic could reply, Cheryl bustled into the room.
“What a scene outside. I’m glad we’ve captured everything,” she
said, unable to contain the giddiness from her voice.
Scott laughed. “Yeah. It’ll make a great promotion commercial.
Right, Cheryl?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Oh!” She turned toward me. “I meant to tell
you. Your father and Becca will be joining us for dinner tonight.”
Relief flooded me. I looked at the psychic. “I guess that’s my visi‐
tor,” I said.
Cheryl and my father had been dating since they first met on the
reality TV set of Love or Money, where my father had joined me for
moral support. Right now, Dad was in the middle of his harvest
season, so he’d stayed behind to work. Ordinarily, Scott and I would
have helped him with the harvest, but because of the production time‐
line, my best friend, Becca, had agreed to help him in our stead.
“Who’s Becca?” Bert asked.
“My assistant,” Cheryl said. “Speaking of which”—she poked the
crew member attending the historian on the shoulder—“what’s going
on here? Do we need a medic?”
He shook his head. “No, she’s going to be fine. It’s just going to
take a few minutes. I think I have some smelling salts in my kit. If
you’ll stay with her, maybe I can get them.”
Cheryl waved a hand, dismissing him. He bolted out of the room,
but before he could return, the historian’s eyes fluttered open.
She struggled to raise her head.
I dropped to my knees and held her hand. “It’s all right,” I said.
“You fainted. You’ll feel better in a moment.”
She blinked rapidly. “The birds, the awful pounding. It was terri‐
ble, wasn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. The migration was largely over now, but the wind
howled through the broken window drowning out my words.
The historian shivered.
I patted her arm. “You have some time to rest. We’re done filming
for the day and there’s going to be a crew dinner tonight.”
Cheryl nodded. “Cast and crew dinner in about an hour. You all
can take a break. I’m going to find some crew to clean the birds out of
the castle.”
I helped Martha to her feet. Scott took one arm and I took the
other, and together we walked her down the precarious steps.
Father Gabriel was on his way in from the outside. “Martha,” he
said. “Are you all right now, dear?”
“Yes,” she greeted him. “I don’t know what came over me. I found
the whole thing rather frightful.” He took her from us and escorted
her outside.
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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 THIRD TIMES A CRIME HERE
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June 13, 2021
First Second Chance at Murder (Love or Money Murder Mystery Series: Book Two) Sneak Peek – Chapter One
From A Second Chance at Murder
Chapter One
The cold snap in the Spanish Pyrenees was a surprise. My
sleeping bag had only been rated for forty degrees and it
was already thirty, if not lower.
I shifted in the bag, hoping to share a little body heat with my
boyfriend. The space beside me was empty, so I stretched my arms
and reached across the length of his sleeping bag, thinking maybe he’d
shimmied over to the side of the tent in his sleep.
“Scott?” I murmured.
When no answer came, I pried an eye open and scanned the dark
tent. “Scott?” I said, bolting upright. My head rubbed against the
microfiber of the tent, making my hair stand on end.
Where was he?
Perhaps nature called.
I sighed, shivering as the low temperature caught up with my
brain. My back ached, too, and I realized I must have been sleeping
directly on a rock. What in the world was I doing tent-camping? How
had I gotten myself into this mess?
Oh yeah. Becca.
After our stint on the breakout show Love or Money, where Scott
and I had met, we’d agreed to appear on the reality TV show Expedi‐
tion Improbable. The show was a series of races and competitions.
Whichever team came in last in each leg would either be penalized or
eliminated.
There were five teams of two people. Scott and I were up against
an NFL player and his manager, two girls trying to break into the
Nashville scene, a mother-son team, and a brother-sister team.
How or why I had agreed to be on the show was still a bit fuzzy—
except that the prize money we’d won on Love or Money had seemed to
evaporate into thin air.
First off, there was the issue of taxes, and then the matter of the
medical bills Scott still owed for his deceased wife’s care. Finally, the
drought in California had made the cost of water astronomical, so
much so that my dad had nearly lost his farm. Scott and I had agreed
that we’d loan him the money he needed to buy water from the state.
That pretty much accounted for the prize money. And being that my
recent resume lacked any marketable skills, I was hard-pressed to
land a job. Not that I’d ever find a job as a cop again after starring on
reality TV.
I guess you could say, “When reality TV comes to an end, reality
kicks in!”
Grabbing my phone from the end of my sleeping bag, I clicked on
the flashlight app. I unzipped the tent and poked my head out. The
frigid air snapped through my hair, leaving me feeling cold and
exposed. My vision adjusted to the darkness and I could make out the
other tents scattered across the campsite.
The ten contestant teams were all camped out here along with a
skeleton crew who looked out for us. This was our first camp.
Tomorrow we would be given the first quest to locate something—
like a scavenger hunt—and we were warned it would include an
extreme sport. God knows what the producers would cook up for us.
The rest of the crew was staying at what was considered “base
camp,” a bed-and-breakfast in a nearby town. In short, they got to
sleep in warm beds, drink sangria, and gorge on tapas, while we poor
slobs froze. My best friend, Becca, the show’s producer, was probably
out flamenco dancing at this very moment.
I shrugged on the down jacket the crew had provided me with
earlier and zipped it up, shoved my feet into cold-weather boots, and
put on a knit cap. All bundled up, I’m sure I wasn’t the epitome of
sexy, but hey, at least I wasn’t shivering out a samba beat with my
teeth.
I left the tent and took the dirt trail toward the outhouse. Scott
had probably just taken a quick trip and hadn’t wanted to wake me. I
watched my breath float out around me as I hiked toward the
outhouse.
“Georgia!” A deep voice called out.
I whipped around and came face-to-face with Parker, one of the
contestants who’d come on the show with his sister, Victoria.
I lowered the flashlight, so as not to blind him. “Hey, Parker. You
can’t sleep, either?”
He shook his head. We wore matching gear: down jacket, black
boots, and knit caps. We probably looked like stalkers. “Something
woke me. Did you hear it?”
“Hear what?” I asked.
I hadn’t actually heard anything—but why had I awoken in the
first place?
“Something like a roar. Do you have bear spray on you? We prob‐
ably shouldn’t be walking around unarmed.”
A chill edged up my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck
tingled.
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I was unarmed, save for the pitiful cell phone I wielded in my hand.
We all were unarmed and, come to think of it, it made no sense. Who
camped in the mountains completely vulnerable to nature?
Goodness, I hate the reality TV show business.
Parker stepped closer to me. “Do you have a weapon?”
I shook my head before questioning the stupidity of admitting I
was unarmed to a relative stranger in the dark woods miles away
from civilization. “Do you?”
His eyes flickered to the left, shifty-like. “No.”
I remembered earlier in the day Parker had seemed overly inter‐
ested in Scott and me and I’d found it odd. My former cop instincts
took over. and I subtly moved away from him.
Where was Scott?
Why was Parker walking around the campground? If there had
really been a roar why wasn’t everyone else clamoring around to see
what it was?
Parker took a step toward me, but I was faster. I swept his knee
with my booted foot, pitching him forward. He tripped over himself
and fell to the ground, letting out a wail before dropping his light in
an effort to break his fall. I dove on top of him, my knee pressing on
his throat. I shined my flashlight at him. His eyes were wide and there
was a look of dumb confusion on his face.
Damn.
Had I just made a mistake?
No. Something was off about Parker and after my last experience
with murder on the show, I needed to stay on my toes.
His hands faltered against my leg, the stupid fish look still on his
face.
I suddenly felt bad. I eased up on his throat, enough to let him
speak.
“Georgia,” he squawked out. “What are you doing?”
“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed. “Wandering around camp
in the pitch dark and asking me if I’m armed.”
He swallowed, his throat constricting under my knee. “I heard the
roar—”
“Liar! There was no roar.”
Anger flashed across his face and he found his strength, pitching
his hands against my shoulders and toppling me to the side. He
slipped out from under my grasp and pinned my arms to the ground.
My phone dropped, skittering away; blackness engulfed us.
The cold earth clawed at my back; the freezing ground stealing
warmth from my body. That would show me. How many times did I
have to learn the same lesson over again? I had to be smarter.
Tougher, not lenient just because he looked pitiful. His grip on my
wrist let up a bit and he said, “I couldn’t sleep, okay? I woke up and
wanted to take a walk.”
I wiggled out from under him and he let me go.
He backed off and I got up from the ground. When he let his guard
down, I shoved him hard. “Don’t you ever tackle me again, you creep.
Understand?”
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF A SECOND CHANCE AT MURDER HERE
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First Second Chance at Murder (Love or Money Murder Mystery Series: Book Two) Sneak Peek – Chapter One Continued…
Did you miss part one of Chapter One?
From A Second Chance at Murder
Chapter One Continued…
He nodded slowly and then he sagged like a deflated balloon. “My
sister’s not in our tent,” he confessed. “I came out to find her. She’s got
a bad habit of going off on her own and I want to win this stupid
contest. If I don’t get control of her, I can kiss this thing good-bye.”
A nervous energy wiggled through my stomach.
His sister was missing and so was Scott.
Okay, maybe missing was an overstatement. But he sure as hell
wasn’t where he was supposed to be and according to Parker, his
sister, Victoria, wasn’t, either.
I picked up my phone. “Where do you think she skulked off to?”
He shrugged. “I was going to check the outhouse. She’s probably
not there though, because she would have come back by now, right?”
I remained silent. Silence was usually the best way to get informa‐
tion out of people. At least that’s what they’d taught us at the police
academy.
“Anyway,” Parker continued. “I figured I’d walk down the trail to
the restrooms, then check the path that goes to the mountain stream.
It’d be just the kind of thing she’d do alone.”
My stomach churned as I considered that perhaps she wasn’t
alone. A midnight stroll to the mountain stream would be right up
Scott’s alley, too. I flashed my light against the dark soil, illuminating a
small circle. “Let’s get a lantern,” I said. “If we’re going down to the
river, we’ll need more light than this.”
Parker disappeared back into his tent. I returned to my own tent,
tossed my cell phone onto my sleeping bag and grabbed my lantern.
When I left my tent, Parker was already at the picnic table, igniting his
gas lantern. He stretched out his arm and blue light shined across the
path.
Before we left camp, I grabbed a slim log near the fire pit. Parker
gave me a strange look, then picked up his own log. “If we come
across a bear, we’ll be prepared, eh?” he asked.
I didn’t answer him and we set off in silence. It was so dark I could
make out the stars. I hadn’t seen the Little Dipper since I’d been home
at Cottonwood. One of the things I hated about living in a city was
not being able to appreciate the stars. It had to be country dark in
order to see the constellations.
The dirt trail crunched under my boots as we walked. I cursed
myself again for letting Becca talk me into the show. What exactly was
I doing walking in the pitch dark next to a stranger I didn’t trust,
freezing my derriere off, and carrying a stick?
Looking for my boyfriend, that’s what.
Scott.
My heart did a little flip-flop as I thought of him. He’d been
excited about the trip, looking forward to seeing places he hadn’t trav‐
eled to yet. Spain was only the beginning of our journey. The final
locations hadn’t been disclosed to us, but we knew we could expect at
least five destinations.
Parker and I reached the outhouses, which were as we’d expected:
dark and empty.
Earlier in the day we’d all arrived at camp by bus. It’d been hot in
the afternoon and we’d gotten filthy pitching our tents. The crew had
suggested a short hike to the river and even though everyone was
exhausted from the day of travel, we’d enjoyed the time by the water.
Parker turned toward the stream. “Everyone thinks you and Scott
are particularly tough competition.”
He was making small talk to ease his nerves. I knew the feeling.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Because you won the other show.”
“The other show had been a glorified version of The Dating Game.
If that’s even the right way to describe it. I mean, we didn’t have to do
anything. No zip lines or rafting or whatever extreme things they
have in store for us here.”
“You guys rock-climbed,” he said.
I didn’t want to tell him the rock-climbing had been staged. After
we’d had a disaster with the bungee jumping, the producers didn’t
want to risk the liability. Anyway, what good would it do to argue my
limitations? That would be silly.
We walked down the steep path in the dark, the lantern barely
casting light a few inches ahead of us.
“I think we should be noisy,” I said. “That way any critters drinking
by the stream will know they have company and skedaddle.”
Parker called out loudly, “Victoria? Vicky? Are you here?” He
glanced nervously at me. “No offense, but if we find the two of them
in a compromising position, you won’t hold it against me, will you?”
Fear jolted through me.
What an idiot I was!
Until that moment, the thought of Scott getting to know Parker’s
sister in the biblical sense hadn’t occurred to me. Could it be that my
brand-new boyfriend, the one I’d fallen for so hard at the end of the
last show, was cheating on me? I felt sick to my stomach.
“Don’t say that. Why would you say that?” I asked.
“Well, don’t get me wrong, I love my sister, but she plays fast and
loose with social mores. Like she wouldn’t think twice about getting
together with someone else’s boyfriend. She’ll just excuse the behavior
by saying she’s breaking down the competition.”
A howl pierced the night, stopping Parker and me in our tracks.
It’d come from the direction we were headed. I tightened my grip on
the log I carried.
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“Was that animal or human?” Parker whispered.
“I don’t know for sure,” I said. “I think animal.”
“Maybe we should go back and get some of the others,” he said.
He was probably thinking of Cooper, ex-NFL, the guy was bigger
than a jeep, with muscles on his muscles.
Another howl skirted across the night. This one definitely human.
We took off running, down the embankment. Suddenly the earth
fell away from us and we flew through the air.
Oh, my God!
What the devil was going on?
Parker screamed out. My arms helicoptered through space, my life
flashing before me.
Dear God! We’d just run ourselves off a cliff.
Could it really end like this?
The wind buffeted my face as I sped through air. The horror of my
impending fall sent my nervous system into overdrive. My fists tight‐
ened, my jaw clenched and my heart ached for Scott. I wanted to see
his face again.
Did he know how much I loved him?
The ground seemed to rush up to meet me, and abruptly my feet
crashed into the earth. I landed with a jolt, dropping my lantern and
the log. My boots locked onto ground, pitching my body forward so
that my hands dug into the sandy beach of the riverbank.
Air rushed into my lungs as Parker hurtled down next to me. He
landed awkwardly twisted on his side, his lantern and log smashing
together near a rock.
“What the . . . Owww!” Parker shrieked
“You okay?” I asked.
“My back. Awww. My ribs, too. What happened?”
We were in a clearing by the river, the light of the waning moon
barely enough to make out the cliff we’d taken a tumble off of. It was
only about six feet high, but in the pitch dark the fall had felt eternal. I
was lucky to have landed on my feet.
There was a rustling sound approaching us. Someone running
toward us. I grabbed the lantern and called out. “Scott?”
“Parker?” A woman yelled. “Is that you?”
“Victoria!” Parker said, moving himself into a sitting position.
She rushed forward. “What happened? What are you doing out
here?” She gave me a strange look.
“Looking for you,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”
She was bundled up like both of us, holding a small LED flashlight.
“It was so cold I couldn’t sleep.”
“Is Scott with you?” I asked.
A blank look crossed her face. “Who’s that?”
“My boyfriend,” I said, impatience building inside me.
“I figured that. I meant, what does he look like? Which one was
he?” She pressed a hand to her temple. “We met so many people
today.”
“He’s tall. Shaved head.” Sexy as hell and you better keep your hands
off him.
She smiled. “Oh yeah. That guy. He’s hot.” She shined her flashlight
on me, giving me a cursory evaluating glance from my head to my
toes, then back again.
I’m sure I looked great sausaged in the parka I had on.
“I was hoping maybe he was your cousin or something,” she said.
“Have you seen him? He’s not at camp, either.”
She shrugged. “The only guy I’ve seen is the NFL guy.”
Parker struggled to his feet. “Ah, my ribs. I think I busted
something.”
Victoria pushed hard on Parker’s shoulder. “Oh, no you don’t. I
know you didn’t want to come here in the first place but you’re not
getting out of it!”
Parker grabbed his side. “Stop pushing me!”
I stepped between them. “Victoria. We heard something
howling . . .”
“Howling?” Victoria looked alarmed. “I haven’t seen any wildlife.
Maybe we should get back to camp.” She pointed upstream. “The path
actually bottoms out over there. We don’t have to scale this cliff.”
We walked upstream, my eyes scanning the river.
“The river’s so high,” I noted.
“It’s been a high-water year,” Parker said. “I remember them telling
us that on the bus ride.”
They had? I didn’t remember anything about the bus ride except
that Scott hadn’t let go of my hand. I’d been content to hold his hand
and rest my head on his shoulder feeling happy and full like a cat
that’d eaten a canary. Practically bursting with joy.
Now, that feeling seemed like a distant memory.
“The river’s moving fast, too,” Victoria said. “Someone could get
swept in it, huh? Scary!”
My throat constricted.
Oh, Scott. Where are you?
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF A SECOND CHANCE AT MURDER HERE
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