Peg Cochran's Blog, page 2
September 28, 2012
New Young Adult Book — Truth or Dare!
I have a new book up on Amazon for Kindle! It’s an edgier young adult full of secrets, lies, romance and danger!
Four girls. One summer. And a game of truth or dare gone horribly wrong.
When new girl Rivka Polsky begins dating Pamela Miller’s brother, Pamela is afraid he will spill their deepest, darkest secret. And then everyone will know. She’ll do anything to prevent that. Pamela lures Rivka into her inner circle of friends and their games of truth or dare which they have been playing since kindergarten. But the stakes are considerably higher now, and one hot summer night the game spirals out of control and nearly ends in tragedy.
EXCERPT
Chapter One
Truth or Dare: The Rules
You must choose either truth or dare when it is your turn.
I decide whose turn it is.
If you choose TRUTH, you must absolutely, positively tell the truth no matter what. No exceptions. If you don’t tell the truth, I will KNOW, and you will never play with us again.
If you choose DARE, you must absolutely, positively do what I tell you. No exceptions. If you don’t, you will never play with us again.
I rule the game. Always. No exceptions
“Truth or dare?” Pamela Miller stared straight at Rivka.
Rivka tried to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible. She’d never been to Pamela Miller’s house before. THE Pamela Miller of Miller High School, Miller Theater, Miller Stadium and Miller Library. And she was afraid that if she didn’t do everything exactly right, she would never be invited again.
She tucked her legs to one side and leaned against Pamela’s extravagant four poster bed. She thought she would let someone else go first, but then Pamela pointed straight at her and said “truth or dare?” again.
Pamela turned toward the full length mirror. “Get me out of this thing—it’s hideous.” She tugged at her dress.
“Wait, let me help you. You’re going to rip it.” Mary pushed off from the wall where she’d been leaning.
“I don’t care. It’s horrible. I don’t know why that stupid saleswoman suggested it.”
Mary eased the dress over Pamela’s head, placed it carefully on the hanger and replaced the protective plastic bag.
“I think it’s pretty.” Deirdre lounged against a nest of lacy pillows on the bed, her dark hair spread out like a fan. She had dumped a handful of pretzel sticks onto her stomach, and was nibbling them one by one, taking tiny, bird-like bites.
“You would. It’s not. It’s hideous.” Pamela insisted. She looked around the room, first at Mary, then Deirdre, then Rivka. “Okay, truth or dare. Come on, someone.”
Pamela stood with her hands on her hips in a pink thong and nothing else. Rivka tried not to look. She flushed with embarrassment getting changed in gym class. Maybe if she looked like Pamela, with smooth, golden skin, she wouldn’t mind. She plucked at a loose thread on her sweater and watched as Pamela pulled another dress over her head.
“Not bad.” Pamela circled in front of the mirror in a midnight blue strapless sheath that clung as if it were wet. “I rather like this one, what do you think?” She looked straight at Rivka.
“It’s…it’s nice,” Rivka stammered. Her own mother wouldn’t let her wear something like that in a million years. “But, bubeleh,” she would say, “you don’t want to grow up too fast, do you?”
Pamela pirouetted before the mirror again, then spun around to face Rivka. “Truth or dare.” She pointed a long finger, its nail bitten to the quick, in Rivka’s direction.
“Me?” Rivka pressed back into the layers of blue silk bedding trying her hardest to disappear.
“Come on. Pick one or the other,” Pamela snapped her fingers at Rivka. “It will be fun.”
Rivka wound the thread from her sweater around and around her finger. She felt her heart thumping hard against her chest.
“Oh, leave her alone, Pamela,” Mary said. “It’s obvious she doesn’t want to play.”
“No!” Rivka protested. She didn’t want them to think she was some kind of loser. Pamela would never ask her to hang out again. “I do. I just don’t know how.”
“It’s simple.” Pamela yanked down the zipper on the sheath and stepped out of it, leaving a puddle of navy blue silk in the middle of the carpet. She pulled a t-shirt over her head.
“It’s like this,” Deirdre interrupted. “We ask you a question and you either answer the question or accept a dare. Stuff like who’s your favorite teacher.” Deirdre stared dreamily into space. “Mine’s Mr. Spitz. I’d do him in a heartbeat.”
Pamela snorted. She took a pack of cigarettes from her dressing table and shook one out. She tapped it against the pack then struck a match and lit it. “So you’re game then?” She arched a carefully plucked eyebrow at Rivka.
“Sure.”
“Leave her alone. Ask me instead.” Mary picked up the navy dress and smoothed out the wrinkles before putting it on a hanger.
“No,” Pamela tapped her cigarette against the side of the ash tray in a rat-a-tat beat. “I want Rivka to answer.”
Mary shrugged and crossed to the window. She pushed aside three layers of curtains and threw it open. “Your mother will have a fit if she catches you smoking in here.”
Pamela jabbed her cigarette out. “Ask me if I give a damn.” She paced back and forth in front of Rivka.
They were all looking at her. Rivka devoutly wished she were at home in her own room doing her homework where her mother expected her to be.
Even though the window yawned wide open, the breeze barely ruffled the silk curtains. Rivka felt a drop of sweat make its way down her spine.
“It has to be the perfect question.” Pamela shook another cigarette from the pack and lit it, staring defiantly at Mary. The match flared up for a second before dying out, and the sharp smell of sulfur drifted on the air. Pamela inhaled deeply and let the first stream of smoke trickle out her nose.
“You have to answer with the truth because we’ll know if you’re lying. And if you are, you’ll never, ever, play with us again.” Pamela stopped in front of Rivka.
Rivka looked up slowly. Pamela towered over her, her long, bare legs inches from Rivka’s nose. Rivka could see a tiny, sickle-shaped scar on Pamela’s left knee, and she stared at it, trying to beat down her panic. Pamela moved closer, and Rivka backed further into the bed clothes.
Finally, Pamela spun on her heel and began pacing again.
“I’ve got it!” She stopped abruptly. “The perfect question.”
Rivka continued to wind the loose thread from her sweater around and around her finger as she waited.
“Tell us,” Pamela drawled slowly. She paused for a long moment, and Rivka felt the blood pounding in her head as she waited. “What do you hate absolutely most about yourself?
“What?”
“You heard me.” Pamela prodded Rivka with her foot. “What do you hate absolutely most about yourself?”
Pamela stared at her, waiting. Everything depended on what she said next. Everything. For three years, ever since they’d moved out of New York City to the suburbs, she had been labeled as “the girl who didn’t fit in.” And now she was actually hanging out at Pamela Miller’s house. The Pamela Miller.
She started to open her mouth, but then closed it. It didn’t matter what she answered. She would never fit in. The absolute certainty of it hit her in the chest like a blow.
She jerked on the thread, and it came loose. Rivka ran her finger along the scar of broken stitches. It wasn’t fair that her mother had an accent even if she was smart and well-respected at the lab where she did research. It wasn’t fair that she had to spend Friday evenings with her parents and her Bubbeh and Zayde celebrating the Shabat instead of being at the game like everyone else. Just because they were too
old-fashioned to let go of the old ways.
“Well? I’m waiting.” Pamela took a nail file from the top of her antique dressing table. White rings from soda cans scarred the top. “And it had better be the truth. We’ll know if it’s not, won’t we?” She pointed the nail file at Rivka. “So no good making up something stupid to put us off with.”
“No, no.” Rivka shook her head. “What do I hate most about myself?”
What could she say? She hated absolutely everything about herself.
“Well? Are you going to answer?” Pamela threw herself across the end of the bed so that her head hung right near Rivka’s. “Otherwise, you realize it will be ‘dare’ instead.” She rolled onto her back and stretched her arms over head.
Years later Rivka couldn’t have said where the answer came from. It burst out of her before she knew what she was going to say. It spewed forth like pus squeezed from an infected pimple.
“My name. The thing I hate most about myself is my name.”
Pamela clapped her hands and let out a laugh. “That’s the truth. I would hate being called something weird like Rivka.” She jumped to her feet. “What does it mean?”
Rivka shrugged. “Rebecca, I think.”
“Rebecca?” Pamela plopped down cross-legged next to Rivka. She sat for a minute with her chin in her hand.
“We’ll call you Becky then.”
And she smiled.
Rivka Polsky floated down the Miller’s long, winding drive feeling excited, nervous and a bit like she wanted to throw up. The afternoon had been exhilarating and scary. She tried whispering her new name out loud.
“Becky.”
She looked around quickly. Mary was behind her, and Rivka blushed. Hopefully Mary hadn’t heard. What a jerk she was. But Pamela was a genius.
Becky.
Why hadn’t she thought of it before? How could she ever expect to fit in with a stupid name like Rivka. A small shadow crossed Rivka’s face. What would her parents think? She shrugged. They would probably still insist on calling her Rivka. Certainly she couldn’t imagine Bubbeh and Zayde calling her anything else. The thought that Pamela might accidentally hear them calling her bubele or shaineh maidel made her feel like puking all over again.
Mary saw Rivka half a block ahead of her turning onto Miller Lane. She dawdled a bit, not wanting to catch up with her. She had the feeling that Rivka was going to be another one of Pamela’s victims, like Sue Moltisante last summer and Debbie Peterson the one before. It would be like getting friendly with a chicken you knew was about to be beheaded, cooked and served to you for dinner.
She, Pamela and Deirdre had been a threesome for as long as Mary remembered. People called them “The Miller Lane Girls” because Mary lived at one end of Miller Lane and Deirdre the other, in matching split levels that had been built on the former grounds of Miller House. Pamela, of course, lived in the big house itself, down a private lane at the end of the street. Wherever she went people would whisper, “She’s one of those Millers”. As far as Mary could tell, being a Miller was the most important thing in Pamela’s life.
Mary had no illusions about their friendship. Pamela had chosen each of them for a reason—Mary, because her family was more dysfunctional than Pamela’s own and because she was bold and didn’t put up with any shit, and Deirdre because she could be so dumb it made them all laugh. But the only person Pamela really cared about was Pamela.
A short gust of wind caught Mary’s skirt and swirled it around her thighs. She shifted her backpack to her right arm and held her skirt down with her left hand. She’d noticed Pamela looking at it and suspected that Pamela remembered she had worn the same thing yesterday. It wasn’t her fault her mother’s stays in the psycho ward had burned through all their money.
That’s okay, she thought, as she pushed open the back door to her house. She’d show them. She’d go to college, get a great job and eventually have more money than anyone.
And then she would shove it up Pamela’s perfect little ass.
August 14, 2012
Contest Coming Soon!
I have some copies of my new cozy mystery ALLERGIC TO DEATH to give away! Stay tuned…[image error]
August 13, 2012
New Young Adult e-Book: Oh, Brother!
What happens when the hottest boy in school becomes your stepbrother?
Mac Daly’s friends can’t believe she’s going to be writing the “advice to the
lovelorn” column for their high school newspaper–she has never even had a
boyfriend. Mac bets them she can snare Travis Cooper, one of the hottest guys in
school. But then Mac discovers that Travis is about to become her
stepbrother.
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Available NOW on Amazon!
August 7, 2012
Book Signing!
You’re invited to a book signing for my debut mystery ALLERGIC TO DEATH.
When: Saturday, August 11 from 1:00 to 3:00 pm
Where: Barnes & Noble – Woodland Mall
I hope to see you there!
August 6, 2012
My Books Arrived!
I have been waiting with bated breath for my author copies of ALLERGIC TO DEATH (it comes out tomorrow!) to arrive. Today I heard the UPS truck circling the neighborhood. Then he was coming down our street…and he stopped next door. :
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Can you tell I'm thrilled?
May 10, 2012
A gift for you on Mother’s Day
Friday and Saturday, May 11 & 12, I’m giving away my Kindle ebook for FREE! Confession Is Murder is a light, humorous mystery. If you are a mother or have a mother, I think you’ll relate to Lucille–her teenaged daughter is pregnant and not married, her husband may be fooling around, her mother is addicted to QVC and spending money she doesn’t have and Lucille has gained ten pounds on her latest diet!
April 10, 2012
Excerpt from ALLERGIC TO DEATH
I thought you might enjoy an excerpt from ALLERGIC TO DEATH which is coming in August from Berkley Prime Crime. Here is Chapter one.
Chapter 1
"I'm not a cheater."
"I didn't say you were, Mrs. Nagel." Giovanna "Gigi" Fitzgerald sandwiched the phone between her ear and shoulder and pulled a sheet of golden brown, homemade melba toast rounds from the hot oven.
"It's just that your diet isn't working for me."
Gigi remembered the last time she'd delivered a meal to Mrs. Nagel—there had been a waterfall of cookie crumbs cascading down her ample front, even though she insisted she never ate anything except the gourmet diet food Gigi delivered three times a day.
"Unless I see some results soon, I'm going to have to demand my money back."
Gigi glanced at the plaque over her sink—I have an Irish temper and an Italian attitude. Right now, she was trying to display neither. But it wasn't easy. Patience didn't generally go hand in hand withred hair.
She made some sympathetic noises, encouraged Mrs. Nagel to try again and finally hung up. She had very little time to finish lunch preparations and get the food delivered.
With a fine brush, she glazed each melba toast round with a whisper of extra virgin olive oil, then followed with a scant teaspoon of finely chopped fresh tomato and basil marinated in balsamic vinegar. Finally—the pièce de résistance—a shiny, black Kalamata olive placed dead center on each.
Gigi tucked an unruly curl of dark auburn hair behind one ear, pulled her calculator from the drawer and plugged in the calories for all the assembled items. She frowned at the total, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, and made some calculations on a sheet
of white scratch paper. Finally, she plucked the olives from each round, cut them precisely in half and placed just one half on each piece of melba toast. She plugged the revised numbers into the calculator. Bingo. Just the right amount. Her customers, all eager for immediate and spectacular results, expected her to keep their daily calorie allotment to a meager but delicious number.
It was difficult, but not impossible. Gigi's diet theories were simple—only eat real food, watch your portion sizes and don't waste calories on junk. Unless the junk happened to be strawberry Twizzlers, in which case all bets were off.
Gigi swept up the discarded olive halves and, one by one, popped them into her mouth. She grinned. She was always willing to take a caloric hit for her customers even though she continued to struggle with the unwanted five pounds that had ushered in her first birthday after the big three-five.
She packed two of the toast rounds into each of a dozen cardboard containers festooned with Gigi's Gourmet De-Lite in silver script. Her eye caught sight of the day's crossword puzzle folded open on the table. Four across: To get by (with out). That was easy. She paused briefly and penciled in eke. Eking out was the story of her life at the moment. Although things were bound to pick up now that she'd snared Martha Bernhardt as a client. She was the restaurant reviewer for the Woodstone Times, Woodstone, Connecticut's local paper. She could really give Gigi's business a boost. As long as nothing went wrong. Gigi stuck out her index and little fingers in the time-honored gesture meant to ward off the evil eye of the jealous.
Her red MINI Cooper was waiting in the driveway of her cottage. She'd traded in the overly
extravagant engagement ring her miserable, no-good, cheating ex-husband had given her and used the money to buy the car. So far it had been a most satisfying trade. The car was far more reliable than Ted had ever been.
Gigi pushed open the screen door with her hip, the first stack of boxes balanced in her arms, her chin tucked on top to keep them steady. She loaded them carefully into the backseat of the car and returned to the kitchen for the next batch.
With the last load of containers stowed in the car, she paused to look up at the sky. Dark clouds swirled overhead, and the previously warm May breeze had a frigid edge. Gigi slid behind the wheel just as plump drops of rain splattered across the windshield and a jagged bolt of lightening rent the darkening sky.
People were running for cover along High Street, Woodstone's main street, by the time Gigi got there. The wind swirled a sheet of newspaper down the gutter like a mini tornado, and a woman struggled with an inverted umbrella, her bright red skirt a blurry drop of color through Gigi's rain-washed windshield. Gigi idled at the light and watched as the woman yanked open the door to Bon Appétit, the town's gourmet and cookery shop, and disappeared inside.
The light changed, and Gigi slowly stepped on the gas. She passed the Book Nook, where she imagined she could see the vague outline of her friend and the owner, Sienna Paisley, through the rain-streaked window. Right next door was the Silver Lining, a jewelry store specializing in handcrafted pieces that tourists from Manhattan snapped up despite the stratospheric price tags. Gigi crested the hill that led away from town and toward rolling, green hills and open meadows. Right at the top of the hill stood the Woodstone Theater, a converted barn that was home to Woodstone's amateur theater group.
Gigi pulled into the gravel parking lot and maneuvered as close to the front door as possible. Several of her clients would be there, busy rehearsing for the opening of Truth or Dare the first weekend in June, when tourists would swarm like unwelcome ants over the quaint and charming town of Woodstone.
Gigi stacked up containers for Barbie Bernhardt, Alice Slocum and the star of the upcoming play, Adora Sands. She was grateful that for lunch, at least, so many of her clients were grouped together. A short run down the other side of the hill and she would be able to deliver Martha's four-hundred-calorie repast as well. It saved gas and wear and tear on the MINI. Gigi craned her neck. Although, maybe the extra trip wouldn't be
necessary. Wasn't that Martha's dark blue Honda Element in the back row next to the idling black Mercedes?
Gigi risked freeing one hand to pull open the front door to the theater. She held it wedged with her knee and crooked elbow as she slipped past and into the darkened foyer. Even though it was gloomy outside, the contrast still made her stop for a moment and blink. One of the inner doors was propped partially open, and a chink of light spilled across the foyer floor. Somewhere to the left she could hear hammering and someone humming, and from the theater itself she heard raised voices.
Gigi edged through the inner door and paused for a moment. The actors were assembled on stage, a man facing them. Gigi recognized him as Hunter Pierce, the play's director. Although the theater was hot and stuffy, he was wearing a worn tweed jacket with patches at the elbow. His black hair was combed straight back, bits of scalp gleaming between the greasy strands.
He gestured toward the telephone that squatted on one of the tables onstage. "We must reset the phone." He pointed a long, imperious index finger at a young stagehand in baggy overalls. "Move it to that table over there. It's just not working where it is." He waved at the
other corner of the stage and stood back, watching as the young man repositioned
the offending instrument.
Pierce clapped his hands. "Okay, costume call, everyone. Let's go," he lisped in his slightly effeminate voice.
A low grumbling rose from the stage.
"We're hungry," came a plaintive wail from upstage.
"And tired," another voice added.
"And hot," someone else contributed from downstage.
Pierce clapped his hands again, more briskly this time. "Costume call, please. We must act like professionals if we are going to give our audience a professional performance."
"If we were professionals, we'd have Actors' Equity to protect us, and we'd get breaks every hour and two hours for meals," someone shouted from downstage.
Pierce pursed his lips in displeasure and craned his neck to see who had spoken.
"Gigi's here with our lunch." A woman—Gigi thought it was Alice Slocum—approached the edge of the stage and peered into the audience, a hand over her eyes to shade them from the stage lights.
"This will only take a minute." Pierce snapped his fingers.
The cast reluctantly got in line and came and stood at the front of the stage while Pierce made notes on a clipboard, occasionally exchanging remarks with a mousy woman in a black dress who had appeared from backstage. She had pins in her mouth and bits and pieces of different-colored threads stuck to her bodice.
Alice stepped forward and turned slowly in a circle.
"Where's the sweater?" Pierce flipped through several pages of notes. "The little blue cardigan?" He sketched an outline with his hands.
Alice stuck out her lower lip and blew a puff of air that flopped her frizzy gray bangs up and down. "It's too hot." She folded her arms across her chest and glared at Pierce over the footlights.
"I want to see the sweater," Pierce lisped petulantly. "Don't you understand? It positively defines your character."[
Alice raised an eyebrow.
Pierce sighed. "Sylvia is a cautious woman. And a modest one. She hides behind her clothes. The sweater gives her a feeling of being protected. You can't really get a feel for Sylvia as a character without the sweater."
Alice spun on her heel and exited the stage, a mulish look on her face.
"Next," Pierce demanded.
Finally, the entire line had trooped dutifully past, including Alice, who had the blue cardigan draped over her shoulders.
"Adora? Where is Adora?" Pierce demanded, looking around. "Where has she gotten to?And Emilio?" He stalked up and down the stage muttering, "Very unprofessional," under his breath.
Someone tapped Gigi on the shoulder, and she spun around with a stifled cry.
"I'm starving. Where's my lunch?" a young man demanded.
Gigi began to stammer. The fellow wasn't one of her clients. Did he think she'd brought food for everyone? He was wearing a T-shirt shorts and heavy work boots and had cropped blond hair.
Gigi squinted at him. Could she possibly have forgotten a client?.
"Adora. There are you." Pierce leaned over the edge of the stage, wagging his finger. "Now where's Emilio?"
Gigi squinted at the young man again and realized it was Adora Sands in costume for the part she was playing in Truth or Dare.
The androgynous outfit did little to hide Adora's ample curves, which strained her thin cotton T-shirt and shorts as well as her credibility as the boyish Tina. The shorts were still way too tight. Adora had insisted on having them a size smaller in anticipation of losing weight. If she stuck with the 1200 calories of food Gigi delivered daily, she would certainly
lose, but on more than one occasion, Gigi had noticed grease from chips on her
fingers or a dab of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. Gigi sighed.
Adora took the container with her name neatly printed in the corner, whipped it open and stared at the contents. She'd pulled off the short wig, and her own blond tresses cascaded to her shoulders. "I could eat three of these," she moaned, gesturing at the meals Gigi had delivered. "Pierce has been working us hard all morning. We've burned millions of calories, I'm sure."
"Well, you can't have mine," said Barbie Bernhardt, clutching her container of food to her chest. She was pretty in a cotton candy kind of way and already had a figure to die for. But as the "trophy" second wife of rich investor Winston Bernhardt, she had to stay on her toes. Someone even younger, more attractive and with a better figure, might come along and snatch him away at any moment.
Which is exactly what Barbie herself had done, or so Gigi had heard—stealing Winston right out from under Martha Bernhardt's nose. Barbie and Martha were icily polite with each other whenever their paths crossed, with Martha's mouth set in a permanently bitter line and Barbie looking as smug as a cat that had discovered crème fraîche .
Adora took out a piece of melba toast and downed it in one bite. She closed her eyes. "Mmmmm, you do manage to make things taste delicious." She ran the tip of her tongue languidly across her lips.
"I don't know about you all, but I'm going outside for a breath of air." Barbie tossed her blond ponytail over her shoulder. "It's beastly in here."
"Don't bother, cara mia, it's raining." A man appeared from the shadowy depths of the theater,his shirt darkened with splotches of rain. He shook out his umbrella before
placing it across one of the seats.
Pierce scowled at him over the footlight. "Emilio. You're late."
"I am so sorry."
"Well, I'm going outside anyway. Winston's here," Barbie replied sulkily. We'll sit in the car, I guess."
Emilio shrugged. "Bon appétit."
"Where's Alice?" Gigi looked around, holding the last of her Gourmet De-Lite lunches.
"Here I am," a voice sang out from the darkness, and Alice made her way toward them, her gray hair frizzed out around her like a halo. She took her lunch and sighed, weighing it in her hand. "Not enough here to keep a bird alive," she grumbled.
"Now, Alice, you know if you want to lose enough weight in time for your daughter's wedding, you have to make some sacrifices," Adora purred.
Alice shot her a look. "Please. You don't have to remind me. I have to look good for my daughter in front of that . . .that woman."
"The future mother-in-law?" Emilio reached toward Alice's open container, and she playfully slapped his hand away.
"This is mine, and I'm not sharing. I can't. I need every bite Gigi allows me." She took out one of the melba toast rounds and delicately bit it in half. "Mmmm, delicious, as always." She licked the tips of her fingers. "Yes, you could say we're having in-law problems already. Or, at least I am." Alice sighed. "She's a perfect size six, and she's bought the perfect dress for this perfect wedding for the perfect couple," Alice mimicked in a chirping
falsetto. "And I perfectly despise her! Look at me," she gestured toward herself. "I'm a perfect whale!"
"You're going to be beautiful," Gigi reassured her.
"It's just that we were in high school together," Alice mumbled around another bite of melba toast. "And she always thought she was better than me. She stole the first boyfriend I ever had. Just once I'd like to get the better of her."
"You will. You've lost weight already, and you'll lose even more before the wedding."
Alice raised her chin slightly. "You're right. I can't let her get me down. Besides, it's going to be my Stacy's special day, and that's all that matters."
Gigi glanced at her watch. "I've got to get the rest of my meals delivered." She looked around the darkened theater. "I thought I saw Martha Bernhardt's car in the parking lot."
Alice gestured toward the back wall with her chin. "She's in the office, I think. I heard her on the phone when I went back to get Pierce's stupid sweater. Sounded really furious with someone."
Gigi found her way to the corridor that ran behind the stage. The bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling didn't even begin to penetrate the gloom. Suddenly, one of the doors opened, and a woman brushed past her, jostling her elbow.
"What a waste of time," the woman muttered under her breath. "People just aren't reliable anymore."
"Pardon me?" Gigi swiveled around and realized it was Martha Bernhardt who had bumped into her.
Martha turned toward Gigi. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean you." She peered at Gigi more closely. "Oh, it's you. Have you brought my lunch?"
"It's in my car just outside."
"Well," Martha sniffed loudly. "At least the morning won't have been a complete waste, then."
Martha's cheeks were flushed, and her pointed nose quivered with indignation. Her black hair was swept off her high forehead and teased and sprayed into a bouffant, chin length flip. She might have been called attractive, but with her features set into rigid and bitter lines, she was merely forbidding.
She followed Gigi out to the parking lot, her black cape swirling around her legs.
It was raining heavily. Gigi could see Barbie and Winston huddled together in the front seat of his Mercedes. Martha noticed, too, and scowled at the car as she stomped toward Gigi's MINI.
"Why don't you hop in, and I'll drive you over to your car?" Gigi dashed around to the front door and pulled it open. The rain was heavier, and cold drops slid down the back of her shirt.
Martha got in beside her, her cape tucked under her. It made the interior of the car reek of wet wool, and Gigi wrinkled her nose as she turned the key and put the car in gear.
"I'm very grateful, Miss Fitzgerald," Martha said when they pulled up in front of her Element. She accepted her Gourmet De-Lite container and opened the door. Gigi watched as she dashed toward her car, pulled open the door and stuck her head inside.
Gigi was about to pull away when Martha began backing out of the driver's seat of her Element, her broad backside aimed in Gigi's direction. She turned toward Gigi and gestured wildly, her mouth moving furiously. Gigi buzzed down her window.
"Someone's stolen my purse. It was right here on the front seat. And now it's gone."
"Did you lock your door?"
"No, of course not. This is Woodstone, not New York or Detroit or someplace like that."
"I have my cell. We can call the police." Gigi twisted around and pulled her bag from the backseat.
Martha shook her head. Rain dripped off the end of her sharp nose and her hair was slowly deflating in the humidity. "Never mind. The police station is just down the road. I'll drive over and make a report. Not that it's going to make any difference. They're unlikely to ever find the thief. I don't know what this town is coming to—"
"If you're sure . . ."
Martha nodded and slid into the front seat of her Element, rolling down the window. "It's going to be dreadfully annoying, canceling all the credit cards and all, but fortunately I rarely carry much cash. If memory serves, I had around five dollars and eighty-nine cents in my wallet." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Well, I'll just have a tiny bite of my lunch
first." She opened her Gourmet De-Lite container and extracted one of the melba toast rounds. "Heavenly! Absolutely heavenly."
She crammed the rest of the piece of toast into her mouth, nodded at Gigi, rolled up the window, put the car in gear and drove slowly out of the parking lot.
Gigi followed behind her. They passed the Knit Knack Shop on the right, and then Folio next to it. Gigi made a mental note to call to see if her new stationery was ready. They were passing the Take the Cake Bakery when Martha began driving erratically, weaving back and forth along the narrow lane and nearly bumping the curb at one point. Several pedestrians drew back from the road and into the shadows along the storefronts .
What on earth was Martha doing, Gigi wondered? Was something wrong?
Gigi watched helplessly as Martha swerved across the center yellow line. The Element jumped the cobblestone curb in front of Bon Appétitand headed straight for one of the massive oak trees that lined the sidewalk.
January 24, 2012
My Cover
Here is a sneak peek of my cover for the first in the Gourmet De-Lite series ALLERGIC TO DEATH. I think it's gorgeous! What do you think?[image error]
January 21, 2012
New Recipe Up at Mystery Lovers Kitchen
I've joined the gang blogging at Mystery Lover's Kitchen–every 4th and 5th Saturday I'll be posting recipes and pictures. Stop by today, 1/21, for a recipe delicious enough for Sunday dinner but so easy it's a crime! www.mysteryloverskitchen.com
December 16, 2011
Final Day of BookMas!
Here is today's clue: Kids today would turn their nose up at these.