Sara M. Barton's Blog, page 2

Bury Me in Paradise Just Published!

Just published....Bury Me in Paradise

Book 3 in the Cornwall & Company Mystery Series....She was Margot Floyd in Newport, Rhode Island and Marigold Flowers in Lake Placid, New York. Thrown out of the Witness Protection program under suspicion of colluding with criminals to murder federal marshals, Olivia Michaud resettles in Atlanta, only to find that she's still on someone's hit list.

TV producer and thriller author Jefferson Cornwall isn't willing to take any chances with her safety, at least not until he can figure out what's really going on. He sends her off to stay with retired FBI agents, hoping to keep her safe. But trouble soon follows. Snatched off the road by a couple of hired thugs, she's tossed into the back of a van for a harrowing trip down to Florida. The plan? The mastermind of a twisted scheme needs to keep her alive long enough to retrieve a fortune in laundered money in Curaçao.

Jefferson Cornwall and his security team work feverishly to rescue the damsel in distress, but they're running out of time. The minute that boat hits international waters, Olivia may be lost forever. Luckily, the plucky heroine keeps her wits about her and she's willing to do just about anything to stay alive, even if it means she has to die another death....

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Coming soon at Apple iBooks, Available soon in paperback.

Meet Chef Nigel Fortescue of FROSTED!

Inspired by “The Great British Bake-Off”, “Cake Wars”, “Sweet Genius”, “Cupcake Wars”, and the hilarious comedy, “Chef!”....

When former White House pastry chef Margaret Klein teams up with Charlie Watson, owner and pastry chef at Decadent Desserts, to host “The International Killer Chefs Competition”, the last thing they expect is for anyone to actually commit a murder...or two...or three.
Eight chefs are expected to participate in the first episode of the show...er, make that seven chefs and one imposter. When things go awry for the participants and judges, Mac Mckenna is called in to take on the case. Once a Secret Service agent assigned to the White House, now a private security expert with Pinnacle Enterprises, Mac has to go undercover to find the killer. That means the fake baker has to take a crash course in the art of fine pastries and fool the real bakers with the help of one very savvy assistant pastry chef.
But murder isn’t the only problem on the set of “The International Killer Chefs Competition”. Two of the three male chefs can’t seem to control their machismo as they vie for the attention of their female counterparts. Histrionics, bitter rivalries, and outrageous antics abound as things quickly spiral out of control. Let the mayhem and heartbreak begin!
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Frosted!An International Killer Chefs Competition Mystery #1By Sara M. Barton
Copyright 2016 Sara M. BartonSara Barton Mysteries Blog
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter One
“Who the hell stole my immersion blender? When I find the bastard, I will hang him by his English walnuts and drown him in treacle!”
“It was in the cabinet under the counter,” said the mousy assistant nervously, standing at the demonstration counter in the television studio.
“Well, it’s not in the frigging cabinet now, is it?” hollered Nigel Fortescue, his face a dangerous shade of red. “How hard is it to keep track of my kitchen equipment, Rosamund? It’s not rocket science, is it?”
“No, sir. I...I...I will find it. Just give me a moment.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have a bloody moment, do I? We go live in less than six minutes!”
“I’ll just look again,” she stammered, fumbling with the knob on drawer above the cabinet. “Maybe someone tried to tidy up and put it in the wrong place.”
“What the hell do I have to do around here to get some cooperation? What kind of idiot puts away my equipment when I’m supposed to be making watermelon soup for the next segment?”
“Okay, okay!” Peter Wormer stepped forward, his clipboard in hand. “Everyone, just take a deep breath and chill. Klingman, look for the blender. Jonesy, go and see if we have another one in the prop department, okay? Nigel, if you don’t have it, is there something you can use as a substitute?”
“I don’t want a substitute!” snarled the man in the perfectly pressed white jacket. “I want....”
“I don’t really give a fig what you want at the moment. I’m trying to save your segment. Now think, man! Can you use a hand mixer?”
“Ridiculous!” sniffed Nigel disdainfully. “Only a savage would ever contemplate making watermelon soup with a hand mixer. It’s just not done! The only acceptable substitute is a regular blender!”
“Great. Daphne, do we have a regular blender?”
“I have no idea. Let me find out, Pete.”
“Thanks. We’re live in just over four minutes, people. Look alive,” the director called out to the assembled cast and crew. “Melanie, can you please take your mark?”
“Fine, but Chef Bombastic better get a grip on himself,” said the star of Good Life, the popular London morning show. “The last time he lost it on the air, it was a disaster for us. If he’s going to be a royal pain in the....”
“I beg your pardon!” bellowed Nigel. “I will have you know that I wasn’t the one who made a mess of things last week!”
“Right,” snapped Melanie Arnott, the perfectly coiffed host, smoothing out a wrinkle on her pristine linen skirt. “I was the one who knocked over the double cream because I was so flustered, wasn’t I?”
“You never did like me, did you? You’re just jealous because the fans love me!” retorted the chef, taunting her.
“Oh, for God’s sake, get over yourself!” she told him emphatically. “I’m on the air here five days a week for two hours at a time. You’re here for ten minutes once a week, you cheeky twit!”
“Eat your heart out, Arnott! I was just invited to compete in The International Killer Chefs Competition in New York!
“Oh-la-dee-bloody-dah! England’s loss is America’s gain! I’ll be more than happy to drive you to Heathrow. What time shall I pick you up?”
“Found it!” Rosamund announced, holding the immersion blender in her hand. “Here you go, Chef Fortescue.”
“Three minutes, people!” came the warning from the stage manager.
“Miracle of miracles, just in the nick of time!” Nigel impatiently snatched it from his assistant’s grasp and placed it beside the cutting board and then made a quick inventory of the other items on the counter. A moment later, he grimaced again. “What the bloody hell is this?”
“Is something else wrong?” Rosamund leaned forward, worry etched on her face.
He reached down and picked up a blue silicone spatula with two fingers, holding the offending utensil at arm’s length. Staring closely, Nigel inspected the entire surface of the utensil. “Here!”
“Now what?” the director inquired through clenched teeth.
“Right here. See this spot?” the apoplectic chef demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at a tiny white smear near the top of the rubber blade. “This thing is filthy! Why wasn’t it washed after last week’s show? Do we really want the audience to think we are slovenly slobs?”
Pete glanced at it. “It looks okay. Just wipe the spot off. No one will notice.”
“My viewers will! They expect me to be at the top of my game!”
“This is neither the time nor place, Nigel, for any more drama. We have a show to do. Is that clear?”
For ten long seconds, the two men stood nose to nose, staring at one another. Finally the chef shrugged. “Fine. But we will talk about it later! Nigel Fortescue will not be trifled with, I tell you!”
“Oh, we’ll talk,” the director retorted hotly. “Believe me, we’ll talk. Now take your bloody mark!”
“What do you want me to do with this, boss?” asked the production assistant. Daphne lifted up the food processor in her hands. “I couldn’t find a blender.”
“Put it off to the side, Daph. Okay, Nigel. Are you ready to roll?”
“I am,” he agreed, slipping into his genial television persona. He repositioned a bowl of cubed watermelon, moving it here and then there, inch by inch, until he was satisfied it was within easy reach, and then he set the immersion blender down beside it. But suddenly his expression turned dark once more. “What’s going on here?”
“This is quickly becoming a nightmare!” The director heaved a heavy sigh and rubbed his forehead. “We’re on in two and a half minutes!”
“Look at this cord! It’s been cut! If I plugged this in and turned it on, I’d get a very nasty shock!”
“Surely that’s an exaggeration.”
“I’m sure it’s not!” He held out the cord for the director to see. “Look at it.”
“Okay, well....” Pete ran a hand through his mop of hair and then scratched his chin. “We’ll deal with this after the show. In the meantime, substitute the food processor, Daphne.”
“Okay.” She was about to do that when Nigel Fortescue leveled a stunning accusation at the crew of Good Life.
“You people are trying to kill me!” the horrified chef gasped, glaring at the crowd gathered. “Which one of you is the murderer?”
“What?” Melanie frowned. “Is this some kind of publicity stunt, you disgusting rodent? You’re trying to scare management into keeping you on?”
“The evidence speaks for itself!” he huffed.
“That’s preposterous!” Pete Wormer moved closer to the counter, glancing down at the long white power cord. As much as he hated to admit it, there was no ignoring the visible damage. Quickly trying to recover his equilibrium, he focused his attention on the disgruntled chef. “Why do you think anyone would want to kill you?”
“How the bloody hell should I know?”
“Two minutes until show time!” the production assistant cautioned the cast and crew.
“I must say I am beginning to understand the sentiment,” Melanie commented, standing on her mark twenty feet away. “God knows I’ve thought about strangling the bastard myself! Think of the ratings!”
One of the cameramen chuckled as he lined up the shot, moving in for a close-up of the host as she licked her lips and got ready to speak to the audience at home.
“We’re running out of time,” Daphne prompted her boss. “What do you want to do, Pete?”
He glanced at her and then back at the furious chef glowering on the kitchen set. He steeled himself by taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Then and only then did he speak.
“Are you or are you not going to do the segment, Fortescue? I need to know now, because I have to fill the air time!” Pete Wormer warned him. “Monteith, do we have some video we can substitute?”
“Yeah, boss. We have the news story about the hundred-year-old lady who just ran a marathon.”
“Go, Granny, Go? That’s perfect. Cue it up.”
“Give me the damn food processor!” Nigel replied hotly, slapping the surface of the counter. “Hurry up!”
Daphne, ever the consummate professional, set it down gently and plugged it in. She pressed the lever and listened as the motor whirred around a couple of times. “It seems to be working fine.”
“We are live in sixty seconds!” a voice from across the set reminded everyone. “Places!”
“Rosamund, redeem yourself” the chef demanded. “Get rid of this effing piece of crap!”
He gave the damaged mixer a swift shove and it bounced awkwardly across the granite surface of the kitchen counter in the direction of the cringing woman. She scurried forward, ready to grab it.
“Hold on, Rosamund. Daphne, remove the offensive item from Chef Fortescue’s work space and bring it to my office,” Pete instructed her. “I’ll get to the bottom of this after the show.”
“Sure.” The production assistant reached over and scooped up the damaged equipment, winding the cord around the long handle, and placed it on top of her clipboard before following her boss into the control booth.
“Twenty seconds!”
The makeup artist did a final brush of Nigel Fortescue’s damp forehead, tamping down the shine from the perspiration that glistened under the strong stage lighting. When she was done, he ran his fingers through his thin, blond hair, fluffing it up, and then he patted it into place. He made a concerted effort to turn up the corners of his mouth in what was supposed to pass as a cheerful smile. As he glanced over at the host, waiting to make her entrance onto the kitchen set, she stuck her tongue out at him. He returned the favor.
“Give me strength, oh Lord!” Pete mumbled, observing the antics from behind the soundproof glass window of the control booth.
“Perhaps you should hire a nanny for the pair,” Daphne suggested, giving him a playful poke in the ribs. “Or set up a time-out room.”
“Don’t tempt me!”
“In three...two....”
The set went silent as Melanie Arnott introduced the next segment to the viewers. “And now we have a special treat. Today’s recipe is the perfect starter for an elegant dinner party. Let’s join our chef extraordinaire, Nigel Fortescue, in the kitchen. He is making a killer watermelon soup!”
There was a quick intake of air as Nigel gasped. Blindsided by her unexpected jab at his close call with the immersion blender, he stumbled momentarily, completely losing his composure. Gone was the bright smile and good-natured demeanor. In its place was a furious countenance.
“If looks could kill,” Daphne remarked, “she’d be dead by now!”
Pete immediately cued the camera operator to cut to the bowl of watermelon on the counter. “Put the list of ingredients up on the screen. Give it fifteen seconds while she talks about the segment.”
Satisfied that she wounded the belligerent food expert, the host smiled slyly and waited for her next opportunity to land another blow. It came soon enough. As the red light of the camera trained on her came back on, she winked and said, “Perhaps we should have 999 standing by, just in case! We wouldn’t want anyone to get away with murder, would we?”
Nigel Fortescue wasn’t going to take that lying down. No, he was going to make sure that evil wench paid for her wicked pleasure.
“Believe me when I say this soup is so good, it’s worth dying for, Melanie! We can only hope you survive the experience. Otherwise, Good Life will need to find a new host!”
Fifteen minutes after the show wrapped up for the day, Pete Wormer and Daphne Smythe sat in his office, staring at the chef’s damaged immersion blender as it lay on top of the paper-strewn desk. The nearly severed cord was set out in a straight line and there was no mistaking the deep cut in it.
“I can see the wires, Pete. They’re exposed,” Daphne remarked. “You don’t really think this was deliberate, do you? I mean, I know Melanie can’t stand the guy. She’s asked the network executives to replace him next season. But I can’t see her doing anything this crazy. Nigel could have died on live television!”
“True,” agreed the director thoughtfully, leaning forward in his chair. “In fact, if he had grabbed onto her when he was being shocked, she probably would have fried too. No, Melanie didn’t do this. She’s too focused on moving her career forward. But somebody definitely sabotaged Fortescue’s immersion blender. The question is who would benefit from such an act?”
“Most everyone in the Western world,” quipped the production assistant. “The man is impossible!”
“Come on. Be serious, Daph.”
“For starters, how about Nigel? Maybe he wanted to draw attention to himself. He is the one who found the problem, isn’t he?”
“I don’t think he was acting when he insisted someone was trying to kill him. Try again.”
“I don’t know that I could eliminate anyone right off the bat. He has a knack for getting under everyone’s skin. I’ve wanted to smack him myself once or twice.” She studied her boss with an intense gaze that missed nothing, noting the tension in his posture, the narrowed eyes, and the downturn of his mouth. This show was his baby. The last thing he needed was bad publicity for Good Life. “You really do think someone actually tried to kill him?”
“What else can I conclude? This cord was sliced right through to the wires.”
“It couldn’t have been an accident? Maybe when he was waving his butcher knife around, he nicked it.”
“I don’t buy it,” Pete told her, shaking his head. “I’m afraid we’ll have to call in the Metropolitan Police.”
“Crap,” Daphne sighed. “We can’t afford another scandal, not after Roger White had that little tussle with his bimbo in the elevator and Horatio McDonnell took a slug at the pugnacious audience member.”
“What choice do we have? This is pretty serious, Daph.”
“I know. I was just hoping we’d be nominated for a TV Times award. I guess we can kiss that honor goodbye for yet another year,” his production assistant said with resignation. He ignored her disappointment, still stuck on the current problem.
“This was definitely a premeditated act. What would the motive for killing Nigel be? Is this revenge?”
“Rumor has it that he’s been sleeping with the wife of an MP,” she acknowledged. “That’s a good reason to frost his cookies.”
Pete shook his head, unconvinced. “If this is politically connected, there are easier ways of getting rid of the guy. Run him down in the street. Mug him on the sidewalk. Push him into the path of a train. Whoever did this has access to our set, Daphne. You can’t just walk in off the street and go poking around our props.”
“True.”
“No, if this really was an attempt on Nigel Fortescue’s life, it’s got to be connected to his cooking, not his amorous peccadilloes.”

In the Blink of an Eye, a US Marshal Saves a Life

He was in the right place at the right time, but that wasn't enough....


When Marigold Flowers unexpectedly gets a visit from the US marshal who handles her for the Witness Protection Program, it turns out to be a lucky fluke. She doesn't know there are two contract killers coming after her. Neither does Marshal Tovar Abajo, but it is his quick thinking that saves Marigold Flowers from a certain death.


Busy finishing up after an evening wedding at the Gilded Nest, the wedding planner with the assumed name comes face-to-face with a killer on a mission. And that killer has competition. Why would anyone want to kidnap her? What do professional killers want with her?






Who Hates Marigold Flowers?
Book 1 of the Cornwall & Company Mystery Series
Free eBook


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Does it have anything to do with what happened to her family when she was a teenager? That's when she entered Witness Protection. Not only has she spent many years living a lie, with a carefully crafted story meant to protect her, she's grown used to it.


Forced to reexamine her life for the smallest of clues that were missed, Marigold struggles to understand what's happened to her. Why does the US Marshals Service think she's a security problem? How can they think she would ever participate in a crime that would lead to the shooting of the man who was so willing to protect her?


Flash back to that time in her life when fate brought her into Jared Spears' moneyed world in Newport, Rhode Island, and everything changed. That unexpected engagement seemed a little too fortuitous, but the man with the Midas touch swept her off her feet. How could she say no?


Little by little, the life she's led as a protected witness began to unravel. And then the unthinkable happened. Marigold Flowers came home to find her fiancé dead on the floor of her condo.


Flash forward to the moment she escapes from the trunk of a Toyota Corolla, as the weight of that car breaks the ice of the frozen lake and begins to sink. She's completely on her own. The only man who can possibly save her is fighting for his life, felled by a barrage of bullets back at the Gilded Nest. How does she prove her innocence? How does she convince anyone that she played no part in this malevolent plot? How does she uncover the truth of what happened to her?


The New York State police who rescue her from her icy grave have their suspicions that something isn't right about her story. She's definitely on someone's hit list. But why? Jackson Cornwall and his wife, Philomena Papadopoulos, are seasoned investigators. They know something happened to her, but they can't figure out what that is. Enter Lincoln Cornwall, Jackson's brother. He's an FBI agent who's willing to dig for the answers with the help of his old FBI mentor, Tom Erikson, and his wife, Jojo Erikson, an FBI support services coordinator.


But what is the one saving grace that convinces the Cornwall family to take on the task of solving the riddle of the contract killers hired to kidnap and murder Marigold Flowers? It's all because Tovar Abajo of the US Marshals Service risked his life to save hers. They know that he did what he did to save her life at the Gilded Nest. That one act of incredible bravery tells them that Marigold Flowers is innocent. That one act of amazing dedication to his job as her handler lets them know that Marigold Flowers is the pawn in a dangerous game of cat and mouse.


Without that one act of bravery on the part of US Marshal Tovar Abajo, a cunning killer would have escaped without notice. But because the marshal did his job right, the Cornwall brothers begin to link together the pieces of this heinous plot, bringing in their oldest brother, Jefferson, the thriller writer and television producer, to help.


Don't expect Marigold to have all the answers when you reach the last page. You see, when she finally is moved again for safe-keeping, it's another beginning for the next phase of the investigation. The Cornwall brothers may have found the trail the killer left behind, but now they have to figure out whether the killers are trying to kill Marigold because of what originally put her into Witness Protection or what happened to her fiancé just before he was murdered. As the brothers delve into the lies told to protect her and the lies told to ruin her, she's still living a life in hiding. Be sure to pick up a copy of the sequel, In the Shadows of a Lie to find out what happens to her!








In the Shadows of a Lie
Book 2 of the Cornwall & Company Mystery Series
$2.99 eBook


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A Year of Harrowing Drama for This Author

"Write what you know." For authors, that is the old advice on how to be credible to readers.


I've always tried to be true to that concept, especially when it comes to characters and plotlines. If there is action, I often call upon my own experiences when I dredge up descriptions of scenes, dialogue, and even action.


Some fans asked me what was going on over the last year of my life, when my writing stalled and I infrequently blogged. What can I say? "Take the last fifteen months of my life...please!" (There's my spin on the old Henny Youngman joke.) There have been so many difficult, dramatic, and even heartbreaking moments, my story sounds like fiction. And yet, it all happened. Here are some of the more pithy highlights:


"Can you get up to the lake? Something terrible has happened to your brother. He was in the middle of a business conference call and there was a loud crash. Everyone could hear him moaning, but he wasn't responding to their voices. They called the police and then they called me, but I haven't heard anything more," said my former sister-in-law breathlessly into the phone. I could hear the terror in her voice. "I'm so worried and no one knows where he is or if he's okay!"


"I'm on my way!" I promised. My trembling fingers rummaged through my purse in search of the car keys. "Dad, something's wrong. We have to get to the lake right away!"


I forced myself to focus as I put the pedal to the metal and navigated the winding roads. My apprehension only grew as my cell phone remained silent. There was no news. There were no answers. A terrible foreboding crept into my heart. This wasn't like my brother, not like him at all. In the passenger seat beside me, my father fidgeted, fretting about the possibilities.


"Hello....Hello!" I called out, removing the key from the lock as I pushed open the door and leaned in. My voice echoed in the silence of the empty house. There was no sound, save for the twitter of birds in the trees behind me. Cautiously, I stepped inside, not wanting to intrude on my brother's privacy, but having no other choice. "Are you here?"


The living room was in chaos. The floor lamp lay on the floor, its shade knocked askew. His beloved laptop sat abandoned nearby. The furniture was out of place. "I'm going to call the police. They must know where he is."

"Are you a relative?" the officer on the other end of the phone wanted to know. I assured him I was. "He was taken to the hospital. He was alert at the time."


Twenty minutes later, after leaving the car with the valet parking attendant, we hurried down the long labyrinth of brightly lit corridors to the assigned treatment room in the emergency department. As we entered, my brother glanced up and gave us a half-hearted smile. There were no visible signs of trauma, no obvious injuries. Relief flooded over us. He was okay, we told ourselves. The danger was over. Little did we know what fate had in store for him. That would come when all the test results were reviewed in a few days later. In the meantime, my father was about to get a very nasty surprise of his own, one that would permanently change his life.


"Look at the funny red bumps on my leg," said my father to me a few days later, pointing to the rash that had spread across the skin on his ankle. "What do you suppose it is?"


His rheumatologist knew right away. He had seen the spots when he treated my father earlier in the week. "It's shingles. I'm going to prescribe an antiviral medication. He's got to take all of the pills."


Apparently the steroids my father had taken to combat a severe bout of arthritic pain had depressed his immune system, allowing the herpes zoster to wreak havoc with his body. The pills were hard for him to swallow and they nauseated him. He was violently ill and soon became dehydrated. He also became delirious, jabbering away as he saw things crawling up the walls and creeping across the ceiling. The nerve pain was excruciating. Sleeping was impossible, even with the opioid medication the doctor prescribed. And then it happened. Thud! The sound of his body hitting the carpeted floor was horrible. I vaulted off the sofa and rushed to his side. "Dad, are you okay?"


Of course he wasn't. The two physicians stood in the exam room of the hospital's emergency department, armed with photos of exotic diseases. A quarantine sign was taped to the door, warning personnel to take precautions. They were concerned about the extensive spread of angry red blisters that started on the bottom of my father's foot and continued all the way up his back, so they called for a specialist to diagnose him. "Shingles. Herpes zoster."


The bad news? Those opioid drugs that were meant to control his pain had caused his fall. Now my father would have to manage to get through the shingles infection without any pain meds. It just wasn't worth the risk.


The next day, there was a second trip to the emergency room. This time, it was more serious. The physician gave him his heart medications and stabilized him. It took time to get things under control, but we were finally able to go home again. But there was no relief from the endless, mind-numbing, horrible pain. He cried out day and night as wave after wave of stabbing pain struck. The only thing I could do to comfort him was to sit with him. Time and time again, my father told me, "I wouldn't wish this on anyone."


"The tumor isn't benign after all." The cheerfully optimistic initial diagnosis for my brother gave way to despair as more tests revealed the truth. Radiation. Chemotherapy. Surgery. Complications. That nightmare was just beginning. The news hit him hard and knocked him for a loop. Just when he had found love with a woman who shared his interests and his sense of humor, just when life was finally going right for him, it all fell apart. And worst of all, I had to keep the news to myself. There was no way my father could process such bad news in his condition. It was too distressing for a man who was in a constant state of pain. I pasted a smile on my face and told my father that my brother was hanging in there.


"My foot isn't working," my father announced, not long after the rash spread from the sole of his foot, up his calf and thigh, and continued onto his back. There were even shingles blisters under his toenails. Walking was painful, but it was also dangerous. The offending appendage seemed to have a mind of its own as he tried to move forward. Had he had a stroke? The doctors said no. The consensus was "foot drop", due to the shingles virus invading his sciatic nerve. Suddenly handicapped, he clutched the handles of his walker as he shuffled from room to room, a man on the brink of defeat. What else could go wrong?


He went through his sleepless days and nights on automatic pilot, barely functioning. When he garbled his conversations, relatives and friends were convinced he had had a stroke. Some thought he might be "sun-downing" in the early stages of Alzheimer's. He lost his appetite, and with it, a lot of weight. But it was all the result of the debilitating pain of the shingles virus and sleep deprivation. He was a real life zombie, moving through a waking nightmare that never seemed to end. For the first two months, he never slept more than an hour or two at a time. I didn't dare leave him alone, just in case the delirium got the better of him.

As the weeks turned into months, my brother got used to the new limitations of brain cancer. His son got married in July. It was the last time we were all together as a family. He got married a month later. He and his bride renovated the lake house as they started their new life together. They were determined to have fun, to find the joy in every day, even as they dealt with his cancer. No more driving, lest he have a seizure behind the wheel. No more hiking in the forest either.


One day he insisted on taking a walk by himself. He promised to stay in the neighborhood, just to appease his wife. It was a good thing he did. An acquaintance found him a short time later, in a crumpled heap at the side of the road. His handsome face was battered and bruised, but it was his spirit that took the worst of the beating. He just wasn't safe any more on his own.


As autumn arrived, life appeared to be back on course. My father was able to walk again with physical therapy and a leg brace. But a troublesome spot on his foot turned out to be skin cancer. He was lucky -- his surgeon was able to retain muscle and tendon while cutting away the damaged tissue.


My brother's brain cancer seemed to be under control too. He spent many hours contently working in his yard. Every time we saw him, he seemed stronger...happier. And then I blinked. When I opened my eyes, everything had changed.


"Oh, damn!" I cried out one afternoon, on my way to drop off some paperwork. I spied that rumbling behemoth of an ambulance on its way towards me, its lights flashing as it ambled down the narrow road. The siren was off and the driver didn't seem to be in a hurry. Was that a good sign or a bad sign? When the driver pulled over to the side of the road to let me pass, I rolled down my window and peppered her with questions. Was she taking my brother to the hospital? She couldn't tell me. Confidentiality rules prevented her from sharing that information. I got clever. I wanted to know if his wife was with him. The kind driver managed to let me know that my brother's wife was still at the house. "Thanks. I'll catch up to her."


More seizures. More falls. More brain surgery. Experimental treatment. Anything to buy more time to live. We were not ready for him to leave us yet. He wasn't t ready to go. Back and forth to the hospitals. Back and forth to nursing homes to recover. An occasional trip home for a few weeks or a few days, until the fluid began to build up in the brain again, triggering more seizures. When would he stabilize?


"Um, there's some bad news I have to share," one of my nephews announced when he stopped by on a Thanksgiving visit. We didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this. "My mom has pancreatic cancer."


"No!" You could have knocked me over with a feather. It didn't seem possible that our family could have another tragedy looming on the horizon. And yet, here it was. None of us said it out loud, but we knew that the survival rates for this kind of cancer were incredibly low, especially for someone diagnosed in the later stages, as she was. My former sister-in-law was optimistic about treatment. The doctors wanted to give her chemotherapy. We all prayed that it would go well. And then came another one of those phone calls, this time from my brother. "I have bad news."


She had had the first few rounds of chemotherapy and seemed to be tolerating it well enough. But a massive stroke struck her in the middle of the night and rendered her unresponsive. The woman who had danced at her son's wedding just a few months before was now curled up in her bed in the hospice wing of the hospital. Day after day, night after night, the family sat with her as life ebbed from her disease-ravaged body. Just before Christmas, we gathered at her church for Mass and said our farewells, just a few short weeks after she was diagnosed. It felt unreal. How could she be gone? And yet she was.


In January, when the bitter winds whipped across the barren landscape, our hearts grew weary of all the heartache. My brother began to spend more and more time in hospitals. Fluid filled the void left behind by the removal of that malignant tumor, and as the pressure built up inside his head, it wreaked havoc with his already frazzled brain.

By the time the golden daffodils began to emerge from their winter sleep, it wasn't the cancer that was killing him -- the endless, ongoing complications were. He worked so hard to get back on his feet, only to have his progress come to a screeching halt by one problem after another. He developed aphasia and struggled to find the words he needed to care for himself. We struggled to communicate, wanting to alleviate his stress. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.


"Why doesn't my brother have access to water?" I demanded of the hospital social worker one day, all too aware of the repeated bouts of dehydration he had faced. The cleaning staff had tidied up his hospital room, moving his tray table out of the way, so he couldn't pour himself a glass and he couldn't ask for help. "How can he drink if he can't reach the water pitcher? It's bad enough he has so many complications. I'm not going to lose him to human error!"


The roller coaster ride from hell continued into the early days of summer. As my father improved, we talked. He had known all along that my brother's situation was dire, even as he battled the shingles virus. I didn't need to tell him the tumor was malignant. He encouraged me to do everything I could for my brother. He wanted the best for his son.


I spent many hours quietly reading while my brother napped in his hospital bed. Sometimes we would talk. His frustration increased as his efforts to get back home were thwarted. When he was finally brought to a nursing home nearby, my sister-in-law and I coordinated our visits in order to make sure he had companionship for most of the day. He and I watched old Hollywood classics together. We even laughed our way through a cooking competition for kids one Saturday. Sometimes he would tease me and call me by my childhood nickname. Sometimes he would call himself "Frankenstein", reaching a hand up to touch the ragged scar that extended across his shaved scalp, picking at the staples that held the edges of flesh together. That just about broke my heart.


So many emergencies. So many phone calls. Can you come? Something's wrong. He's confused...unresponsive...out of it...can't speak...feverish. I would drop everything, hop in the car, and hit the highway. I thought we'd seen it all, but I was wrong. One day he was making great strides, the next, disaster struck. I was at a medical appointment with my dad when my cell phone, set on vibration, startled me.


"Can you come here right away? Your brother's weak and they're taking him back to the hospital."
 I could hear the worry in my sister-in-law's voice. This was life or death. Despite having to drive my dad home, I still made it to the hospital before the ambulance did. As my sister-in-law climbed down from the front seat and the doors in the back swung open to disgorge the stretcher carrying my brother, she burst into tears. This just might be the end for him.


Pneumonia. That silent killer of the weak, the frail. No wonder he wasn't thriving after his latest round of surgery. The emergency room physicians conferred, tested his blood, and pumped him full of antibiotics and steroids. Within a few days, he was sent back to the nursing home. The physical and occupational therapists worked hard to help him regain the ground he lost, but some days, the confusion was just too much for him. He was so easily fatigued. All he wanted was to go home again. He wanted it so badly, he tried to get out of bed, even though his poor body wasn't strong enough to stand alone. And so he fell, over and over again -- despite all the safeguards. He was desperate to get out of there, to get back to the lake house where he belonged.


One day when I was sitting with him, he had a seizure. It was his second of the day. This time I was the one to call my sister-in-law to meet us at the hospital. It was my turn to follow the ambulance through bumper-to-bumper traffic, praying as I maneuvered through the maze of vehicles.


"Boy, you're a really good driver. A really good driver!" The paramedic gave me a big grin as we waited in the hospital corridor for my brother to be admitted to a treatment room. Mikal told me most people don't keep up as well as I did. My prowess behind the wheel was impressive. What could I say? I had been doing this for too long now. I couldn't forget that this might be the last time I saw him. Of course I'm a really good driver. I have to be. I'd never forgive myself if he died alone, surrounded by strangers. That's his biggest worry.


In the end, my brother managed to improve enough to be discharged from the nursing home. He rode the new outdoor stair lift up to the deck for the first and only time. He had a few contented sips of beer at sunset as he and his wife sat under the emerging stars. Day slipped away and night sauntered in. He was home where he wanted to be. No more hospitals. No more nursing homes. That was a promise. From now on, it was his choice what he wanted to do.


"Do you want more dumplings?" his wife asked him the next night, as he lay propped up in his hospital bed. I sat at his side, watching as he wordlessly opened his mouth to eat. His lovely blue eyes studied the face he loved so much, drinking in every smile, every grin, every glance that came his way. Her voice was tender as she kept up a cheerful conversation, reminding him of their adventures together. "Remember that time we went hiking, lovie? We were on the trail...."


After more than a year of waging war against the demon that invaded his body, the battle weary soldier had returned to the one place he loved with all his heart and to the woman he adored above all else. He was safe once more, surrounded by people who loved him, who protected him as best we could. It was time to go while the getting was good. It was time for him to find peace. After his heart stopped beating, we sat with his body, still not ready to let go.


Not long after my brother left the lake house on his final journey to the funeral home, I heard a loud thump in the middle of the night. Moments later, my father called out to me urgently. I bolted to my feet and threw open the door, stunned by the sight of my father in the bathroom doorway. Bright red blood dripped from a gash in his arm, the droplets splashing down onto the floor. "I tripped over my walker...."


My heart pounded as I tried to stem the flow of blood. I thought I had seen the end of the frantic trips to the emergency department of the hospital, but I was wrong. Boy, oh boy, was I wrong! Oh, crap! Here we go again!


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Sara M. Barton is the author of several mystery series. She's also known as the Practical Caregiver. You can find her cancer blog at www.practicalcaregiver.org.  You can find advice for family caregivers at The Practical Caregiver Guides.

Audible Giveaways for the Scarlet Wilson Mystery Series

Are you an audiobook fan? This post is for you!


Hours and hours of recording, editing, and mixing went into the production of the new audiobooks for the Scarlet Wilson Mystery Series. I was so excited by the prospect of narrating and producing my own books for audiobook lovers.


And then the unexpected happened. A series of personal tragedies hit me from out of nowhere and my career as an author seemed to come to a screeching halt overnight. Life interfered in unexpected ways. There was great loss and sorrow, but now I am ready to return to my stories. How better to do that than to give away free copies of the Audible audiobooks?


The Scarlet Wilson Mystery Series is all about family and the ties that bind. Whether Scarlet is bickering with brother Bur or navigating the trials and tribulations of the elderly "Googins Girls", it's always about perseverance and overcoming the obstacles that stand in the way of living life out loud. Whether it's revenge plotted by someone from Scarlet's past, a naïve teenager on the run from a killer, or a murderer stalking Connecticut State Trooper (and best friend) Laurencia "Larry" Rivera, Scarlet won't give up her effort to solve the mystery until all the clues add up. Lucky for her that her old high school flame, Kenny "Captain Peacock" Tolliver, head of the regional office of Mercer Investigations, is ready and willing to have her back, even as he cringes at the risks she takes to get the job done.


I am offering a free download of one of the available Audible audiobook versions of three of my Scarlet Wilson Mysteries on a first come, first serve basis (limit one audiobook per email address.)


What do you have to do to get an audiobook from me? Be one of the first forty five new subscribers to sign up for my Sara Barton Mysteries newsletter. The sign-up bar is on the right-hand side of this blog. Simply click on the link that says "SUBSCRIBE TO MY NEWSLETTER!"


You will have the opportunity to keep up with my latest author news, including the details of the new Cornwall & Company Mystery Series coming soon!


What's available:




FIFTEEN copies of Book #1
"Miz Scarlet and the Imposing Imposter" on Audible






FIFTEEN copies of Book #2
"Miz Scarlet and the Vanishing Visitor" on Audible




FIFTEEN copies of Book #3
"Miz Scarlet and the Holiday Houseguests" on Audible




The FORTY FIVE audiobooks will be given away on a first come, first serve basis, starting with Book #1. Once all of the coupons for Book #1 have been handed out to the first fifteen fans who sign up for the newsletter, I will begin to distribute Book #2 to the next batch of fans who sign up for the newsletter. When all of the coupons for Book #2 have been handed out, I will distribute the coupons for Book #3 to the last batch of fans who sign up for the newsletter.


As always, I appreciate honest reviews from listeners (and readers) who like to share their perspectives on my work.

Take a Free Cruise to Bermuda with Scarlet Wilson!

Here's your chance to set sail aboard Royal Caribbean's Liberty of the Seas with Scarlet Wilson, Kenny Tolliver, Laurel Googins Wilson, and Dr. Thaddeus Van Zandt!


Use Coupon Code QK82V (expires 9/10/16) at Smashwords to download this book in your favorite format, including Kindle (mobi) and Nook (epub):


Miz Scarlet and the Perplexed Passenger


When innkeeper Scarlet Wilson is asked to accompany her wheelchair-bound mother on a five-night cruise to Bermuda, she expects to have a trip to remember. Boy, will she remember this one!

Laurel Googins Wilson's new beau, Dr. Thaddeus Van Zandt, and Scarlet's old high school flame, Kenny Tolliver, join the women as they set sail for paradise. While Scarlet loses herself in a good book on the balcony of their stateroom, poor Laurel witnesses the deadly plunge of a fellow passenger into the Atlantic Ocean. "Man overboard!”

It's the start of a nightmare that may never end. Who would want to kill George Delaney, the respectable funeral director from Caulkins Cove, Maine, on a cruise to Bermuda? While Kenny, an experienced investigator, joins forces with old school chum Marley Hornsby, now the security chief for the cruise line, and the cruise ship's security team, to find the killer hiding in their midst, the amateur sleuth known as Miz Scarlet can’t resist diving into this mystery. But this isn't a killer who wants to be found. He's dangerous...he’s desperate...and he’s plotting to kill again!

As the ship approaches Bermudian waters, the widow finds herself a suspect in her husband's murder. Did she do it? Miz Scarlet and her cohorts don’t think so. But how can they prove that Kathleen Delaney is innocent? Time is quickly running out. As soon as the ship docks at King's Wharf, the FBI plans to take their only suspect into custody.

Working late into the night in their frantic search for a murderer, the feisty Miz Scarlet and her dashing, determined heartthrob follow the clues left behind by the dead man, desperate to identify the next victim. One catastrophe after another draws the travel companions deeper into the dastardly intrigue, and the closer they get to the truth, the harder the murderous fiend fights to distract investigators with his razzle dazzle bag of tricks. Suddenly Miz Scarlet finds herself facing the wrath of a devious, dangerous stranger. Can she stay alive long enough to figure out what the killer's end game is?

Dog Names for Mystery Lovers

Need to name your new pooch? Looking for a distinguished moniker for your canine hero or heroine or for your faithful furry sidekick? You can honor an author, a character, or a fictional pet from your favorite tales. Here are some suggestions:


Douglas Adams:
Dirk Gently (picture a sweet-tempered mutt)


Raymond Chandler:
Philip Marlowe (or just Marlowe)


Lee Child:
Jack Reacher (Reacher would be a great name for a Jack Russell, wouldn't it?)


Agatha Christie:
Dame Agatha (sounds like a breeding champion to me)
Miss Marple (or Jane)
Hercule and/or Poirot
Captain Arthur Hastings
Tuppence and Tommy Beresford


Michael Connelly:
Hieronymus "Harry" Bosch (definitely a shaggy dog name, maybe a Havanese)


Patricia Cornwell:
Kay Scarpetta (as in Scar...PET...ta?)


Colin Dexter:
Inspector Endeavor Morse ("Morse!)
Sergeant Robert Lewis, AKA Robbie (feel free to bellow "Lew-is!" at the dog park)


Franklin Dixon:
Joe Hardy
Frank Hardy


Arthur Conan Doyle:
Sherlock Holmes (Sherlock or Holmes -- definitely a dog who sniffs around)
Dr. John Watson (you might have to explain your dog isn't named for Alexander Graham Bell's assistant if you holler, "Watson, come here!")


Janet Evanovich:
Stephanie Plum (definitely a hunting breed)
Bob (Golden Retriever)
Lula
Connie Risolli
Mary Lou
Joseph Morelli
Ranger
Diesel
Vinnie Plum


Elizabeth George:
Inspector Thomas Lynley (handsome, a little spoiled, but "Tommy" is definitely a good dog)
Sergeant Barbara Havers (a loyal working dog who needs a good home and lots of love)


Tess Gerritsen:
Dr. Maura Isles (definitely has a top knot with a little bling)
Detective Jane Rizzoli (puppy cut)


Sue Grafton:
Kinsey Milhone (Me? I'd go with Kinsey MILKBONE)


Caroline Graham:
Detective Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby (Barnaby's a good dog name, isn't it?)
Sergeant Gavin Troy (sidekick)
Sergeant Benjamin Jones (sidekick)
Sergeant Daniel Scott (sidekick)


Kerry Greenwood:
Phryne Fisher ("She's a right lookah, mate!")
Dorothy "Dot" Williams
Detective John "Jack" Robinson
Albert "Bert" Johnson
Cecil "Cec" Yates


Dashiell Hammett:
Sam Spade
Nick and Nora Charles
Asta (for any couple just starting out married life, Asta is the perfect "fur child")


Hergé:
Tin Tin
Snowy (who wouldn't like a little white dog as a sidekick?)


Tony Hillerman:
Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn
Jim Chee
(Both good names for hard-working dogs who track, especially K-9 recruits, aren't they?)


P. D. James:
Chief Inspector Adam Dalgliesh ("Dalgliesh, walkies!")
Cordelia Gray ( a pretty dog with a stubborn streak and a curious nature)


Carolyn Keene:
Nancy Drew
Ned Nickerson
Bess Marvin
George Fayne


John D. MacDonald:
Travis McGee (Travis or McGee, it's definitely a guy's guy dog)


Ross Macdonald:
Lew Archer (Lew or Archer -- dog who rides shotgun)


Walter Mosley:
Ezekiel "Easy" Rawlins (Ezekiel is a strong male name; or go with Rawlins, as in "Easy, Rawlins!" )


Sara Parestsky:
V. I. Warshawski (or "Victoria Iphigenia Warshawski" when she chews your new shoes)


Robert B. Parker:
Spenser (no first name)
Hawk
Sunny Randall
Pearl the Wonder Dog


James Patterson:
Alex Cross (good for a mixed breed dog, eh?)
Lindsay Boxer (self-explanatory)


Elizabeth Peters:
Amelia Peabody (You'll have to explain that you're not talking Peabody and Sherman)
Radcliffe Emerson (Emerson's a good name for a dog.)
Ramses Emerson (good for a Pharaoh Hound)


Dorothy L. Sayres:
Lord Peter Wimsey (a little snooty but means well)
Mervyn Bunter (down-to-earth and has your back)


Alexander McCall Smith:
Precious Ramotswe (what's not to love about a dog named Precious?)
Grace Makutsi (Grace sounds like a well-behaved sidekick)


Mickey Spillane:
Mike Hammer (just lock up the liquor cabinet!)


Rex Stout (now that's a dog name if I ever heard one!):
Nero Wolfe (great for any dog that resembles a wolf, such as a German Shepherd, or even for an Irish wolfhound)
Archie Goodwin


Julie Campbell Tatham:
Trixie Belden (what female dog named Trixie wouldn't be adorable?)


If you just can't bring yourself to give your dog a human name, why not consider:
Conundrum
Dunit (when you call your dog and someone says "Who's Dunit?", it's okay to snicker)
Enigma
Paradox
Quandary
Riddle
Sleuth
Solver
Stumper
Thriller


Or go with one of my favorites -- Miss Terry

My Ongoing Love Affair with Real Bermuda

Ah, Bermuda. My "happy place". I fell in love with this island nation the first day I stepped off the plane and felt the warm sea breeze kiss my cheek back in 1976. I've been in love ever since.




It's hard not to feel the romance of Bermuda. The glistening pink-tinged sand is just stunning. The shimmering turquoise water is enticing. For an artist like me, it's all eye candy. I want to soak in the beauty I see. Everywhere you look, there is vibrant color. There are charming cottages nestled along the shores and hillsides of the many islands that make up this British Overseas Territory. There are boats of every shape and size dotting the waterways. And the tropical foliage that decorates the landscape constantly reminds you that you are in paradise. But it's really all about the the meeting of shore and sea. Magnificent!


Oh, I've been to other places that were intriguing enough. There was a memorable trip to Hilton Head Island during an extended heat wave (that unfortunately left the swamps and bogs spewing a gaseous aroma into the too-still air). Crabs popped up in my wake as I walked on the seemingly endless stretch of palm-tree lined beach. There was plenty to do on the resort island, from tennis to biking to golf. But it was hot...it was SO hot, the fish were cranky. Never in my life had I ever had one bite me on the derriere, but during one rather brief dip, a school of them decided I was fair game. Was it my colorful bathing suit? I admit I tend to go for wild tropical prints. Or was it the murky water? The water in Bermuda isn't murky.


Of course, I will admit to having a love-hate relationship with things in the ocean that like to nibble or pinch. I am fascinated by underwater creatures. You will find me with my nose pressed against the glass at any aquarium. And on most occasions, I'll be the fool with my hand out, willing to touch some sea monster, even as it wriggles and writhes. I have always wanted to learn how to scuba dive, but I've never quite gotten around to it. Time and money have never afforded me the opportunity to indulge in my passion for all things sea. (I swear I am buying a boat and hiring a crew just as soon as my ticket is chosen for the Powerball. Our first cruise? The Florida Keys. We'll take the Intracoastal Waterway all the way down to Florida, with stops in Charleston, Beaufort, and Savannah. Who's in?)


But when I'm in the water, I don't want to unexpectedly step on anything that has claws or a hard shell. Of course, this is probably a good time to mention that I got my swimming badge as a kid when I passed the test at a freshwater lake known for its snapping turtle population. With fear as my coach, too terrified to touch bottom, I developed a really strong kick that got me over the finish line in a respectable time.


I also once found myself facing a "gang" of electric eels out at the raft in Long Island Sound just a day or two after couple of folks had made the mistake of getting too close and got zapped. I'm pretty sure I came close to breaking the local record for eight-year-old swim champs when I did my Australian crawl into shore. To be honest, I probably would have hung around and watched those shocking snake-like critters if the water was turquoise and clear, like Bermuda. But with so much seaweed floating in the sound and plankton thick enough to choke a seahorse, it's hard to see what lurks on the sandy bottom in this tidal estuary.




But one of my favorite things to do in Bermuda is to people-watch. I've met some amazing characters that way and learned a lot about life on this small island nation.



You might see a fisherman with a drop line in the harbor and just assume that he's killing time. But I was lucky enough to have a lively conversation with this gentleman. He was actually hoping to snag something he could sell at the market. What can you catch along the shore? Anything from bonefish to barracuda (watch those tootsies!), snapper, or pompano. And best of all, especially for tourists, there's no license required if you want to drop a line into the water and do some shore fishing.


No trip to Bermuda would ever be complete without a good swim. Whether you like a quiet, secluded beach (remember that I said this was a romantic place) or a busy one, there are some amazing spots to take a dip.


What keeps it real? You can take the #7 bus along South Road, sharing it with Bermudian residents and tourists. You might sit beside school kids in uniforms, a grandmother on her way home from the market, a court clerk headed for work in Bermuda shorts and a proper jacket, or even some guy from Milwaukee who's there for an engineering convention.




It's easy to disembark from the pink bus and head to the beach. You'll walk down the steep hill (or catch a ride down by van for a couple of dollars), where you can buy burgers and soda at the food stand or rent chairs. Horseshoe Bay Beach has free-of-charge changing and restroom facilities that make it easy to enjoy a few hours of swimming or snorkeling.


People-watching is fun at the infamous Horseshoe Bay Beach. You can sit down on the stone wall along the path to the beach and gaze upon the constant parade of people coming and going.


Once you've got your suit on,spread out your towel on one of the top beaches in the world and take in the amazing view. Go for a dip in the crystal-clear sea. Lose yourself in a good mystery while you soak up the warm sun. If you snorkel, you might see angelfish, parrot fish, snappers, and even sergeant majors.




But one of the best opportunities for people-watching comes on Harbour Nights. That's when you'll see the locals mixing it up with the tourists. Everyone enjoys this street festival on Wednesday nights during high season. You can sit on any one of the many benches that line Front Street and admire the non-stop street action. The vendors offer their wares, the restaurants are packed with people, and everywhere you look, people are having fun.


Some people think of Bermuda as an expensive place, and given the fact that just about everything has to be imported, it is. But it's also a place where real people live their lives. If you treat the locals with respect, they are more than happy to share their stories with you. Some of the best conversations I had on the island were started on the ferry, at the bus stop, in this shop or that shop. The residents of this little paradise will happily tell you the "must not miss" places off the beaten path, but only if they think you will respect Bermuda and appreciate this treasure for what it is.


That's why I've got Bermuda on my to-do list. There are so many more scenes I want to paint... sunlight falling on cascading flowers in a crowded flower box, the sun setting the sea on fire in a blaze of glorious gold as evening arrives...colorful fish darting past the remnants of a shipwreck...and the faces of Bermuda. It's the people who make the island as special as it is. Without them, Bermuda is just a bunch of rocky little spits of land in a sea of turquoise water. With them, Real Bermuda is a delightful place to be.




My newest book is Miz Scarlet and the Perplexed Passenger . It takes place on a cruise to Bermuda.

What Kind of Sleuth Would You Make?

Did you ever wonder what kind of sleuth you would make in real life? Here are several scenarios. What do your responses say about your potential detective skills? Take this totally unscientific quiz and find out!


Most of these incidents are real (they actually happened to me) and two are pure fiction (I made them up). Can you guess which are real and which are not? Read each scene and decide what you think is the best option for you under the circumstances. Which answer makes you a Daffy Duck (Goofy is as goofy does), a Sitting Duck (you're just asking for trouble by sticking your amateur neck out), a Dead Duck (you're probably not going to survive the experience if you get caught in the act of snooping) , or a Lucky Duck (the written scene is a piece of fiction!)


Scene One:
Do you ever wonder if you've got what it takes to "save the day"? It's so easy to fantasize stumbling into a murderous plot and rescuing the victim just as the bad guy gets ready to dispatch him or her. But is it? You're having coffee in a small café, sitting by yourself as you flip through your emails on your laptop. A heavy-set, bearded man wearing a fedora, a dark sunglasses, and a black wool overcoat waddles past you, breathing heavily. You feel the back of the booth shake as he sits down at the table behind you. A moment later, you realize he is not alone as you find yourself listening to a hushed conversation between the man and an unseen woman. You try not to eavesdrop, but it's almost impossible not to hear their whispers back and forth. When you hear the phrases "insurance policy", "accident", and "alibi", you are immediately on guard. What do you do?


A. Pull out your cell phone and record the rest their conversation, on the off-chance you can catch them in the act of planning a murder.
B. Record their conversation, photograph them, and immediately post it to your Facebook page, warning the world that someone is in danger.
C. Get yourself another cup of coffee and continue eavesdropping.
D. Hit the "save" button, because this murder-for-hire scheme is going to make you a boatload of money when you publish "Death Benefits", your latest insurance fraud thriller, because this scene never happened.


In real life, you'd be a Daffy Duck to record the conversation, photograph the couple, and post everything on your Facebook page. What if they're not guilty of any actual crime? You are violating their civil rights and invading their privacy. But if they're guilty? You've just publicly identified yourself and made it easy for them to track you down. Yes, they'd be suspects if anything happened to you, but that doesn't guarantee they would be jailed for harming you. It might seem smarter to secretly record the pair's conversation, but in most states, unless you are associated with a law enforcement agency that has probable cause to monitor a dangerous situation, that's not going to catch any bad guys and put them behind bars.  At best, you might be able to save a potential victim from harm by interrupting the plot, but that recording won't be introduced into the court record as evidence because it was illegally obtained. More importantly, if these people are serious about killing someone, you might wind up a Dead Duck when they figure out you're snooping on them. All they have to do is steal that secret recording you made and investigators will probably never learn the truth of your demise. Should you happen to overhear their plan to murder someone because you're eavesdropping, you might be a Sitting Duck when they figure out you're listening, but if you contact law enforcement with the information, professional investigators might be able to stop a murder, especially if you call them before the couple leaves the café. Fortunately, you won't have to do that because this is actually a scene concocted by a Lucky Duck.


Scene Two:
Spy thrillers are always filled with glamorous locales, sexy characters, and lots of action, but is that real life? Unlike the wild exploits of the infamous James Bond and other fictional intelligence officers, good spies keep their actions hidden from view and never advertise their work. They don't like to draw attention to themselves. You're a student visiting London, staying at a youth hostel. On the first day there, a charming young Arab man introduces himself to you. He offers to show you the sights of his city. Everything seems fine at first, but you begin to get nervous when you catch him in a lie...and then another one...and another. You decide that it's best to go back to your youth hostel, only to find that your companion is doing everything he can to prevent that from happening. Starting to panic, you insist you must go. You grab a taxi back to where you are staying, only to find you have been locked out. You scale the fence, desperate to get back to your accommodation, where your luggage is waiting for you. In the morning, you are worried when you see the same young man waiting outside for you. He is very persistent, so you try to give him the slip, making your way to the public tennis courts nearby with your tennis racquet and balls. He follows. Suddenly, a handsome Israeli from the nearby embassy approaches you and wants to play tennis with you. He seems friendly enough, but those piercing blue eyes of his watch you like a hawk. You suspect he's most interested in the Arab student who is following you. What do you do?


A. Run back to your youth hostel as fast as your little legs can carry you and book a flight back home pronto.
B. Decide to find the nearest double-decker bus and take a tour of the Tower of London.
C. Hit some tennis balls with the Israeli, even as you keep an eye on what's happening around you.
D. Hit the "save" button, because this piece of fictional intrigue is going to be the start of "Girl Caught in the Middle of a Deadly Tug-of-War", a great spy novel because it's pure fiction.


Given the fact that it looks like you've gotten caught in the middle of some kind of unsavory international intrigue, you don't really have a lot of good options. If you run back to your youth hostel, you might be running head first into danger and that could make you a Dead Duck. If you skip out, hoping to avoid a catastrophe by hopping onto a double-decker, what's to stop the Arab student, who's already following you, from getting on that same bus, perhaps with something sinister in mind (oh, just imagine the wild bus chase if the tennis-playing Israeli joins you on the tour!) You'd be a Daffy Duck to take that kind of risk. So far, the handsome Israeli with the piercing blue eyes hasn't done anything overtly deceitful. Being a Sitting Duck on the tennis court and hitting some balls back and forth is probably going to be your safest choice. It sends a strong message to the Arab student that it's time to take a hike. And no, this was not a plot dreamed up by a Lucky Duck who can type.


Scene Three:
Ever wonder what you would do when you unexpectedly come face-to-face with a dangerous situation? Will you jump in and play hero or run for the hills? Most of us never know until that moment arrives. You're sitting in a car, having a conversation with an acquaintance. You notice a commotion ten feet away. A young man, blonde, well-dressed, is screaming at a city police officer, who is yelling back. The officer grabs the young man as the hostilities escalate. Suddenly they tangle, exchanging punches. There is a loud thump on the hood of your car as you sit frozen in the driver's seat. Now the pair is wrestling just a few feet from you. The young man threatens to kill the police officer. You observe the young man reaching for the police officer's weapon as he tries to call for back-up. You realize someone might get shot and that someone could be you. What do you do?


A. Honk the horn, so they can come to their senses.
B. Get out of the car and help the police officer to restrain the aggressor, allowing him to complete the call for back-up.
C. Start the engine, back up, and quickly exit the parking space, putting the pedal to the metal, expecting them to get the message when they fall off your car.
D. Hit the "save" button, because you can already see your plot for "Gonna Kill That Cop!", an exciting detective novel that tracks a wanna-be social media star as he films his exploits for Youtube.


Think about this a moment...if you honk the horn and distract the cop, that agitated kid could get his hands on that weapon and kill the cop. You'd be a Daffy Duck to do that. But what happens if you try to drive off while they're wrestling on the hood of your car? If that kid gets the gun, YOU could be the one who gets shot and you'd wind up a Dead Duck. Even though you're taking a huge risk, your best option is to get out of the car and grab the kid's hands, allowing the cop to direct fellow officers  to his location. This might make you a Sitting Duck, but better that than to stand by and risk someone getting killed. And no, this wasn't written by a Lucky Duck, sitting safe and sound in front of a laptop. FYI, if your first thought isn't to get the hell out of there, there's something wrong with you. You should always want to survive any dangerous situation. Courage to act comes when you ask yourself : "What would I want someone to do for me if the shoe was on the other foot?"


Scene Four:
How many times does a gun-running plot show up in books, movies, and television? Wham! Bam! Talk about an adrenaline rush! Or is it? You're at a social gathering. You're sober, but you can't say the same for some of the other guests. A stranger brags that he has been involved in a covert operation on behalf of a government agency, helping to transport weapons to another country. He turns out to be the relative of an acquaintance of yours who works in law enforcement. He also turns out to be addicted to cocaine, of which he has a seemingly unending supply. What do you do?


A. Leave the party as quickly as you can without causing a scene and hope that when the braggart comes to his senses, he won't remember his indiscreet blabbing.
B. Tell the cop relative his boy is off his rocker and possibly a danger to others.
C. Call the government agency and report the incident, so that it can be investigated.
D. Hit the "save" button, because this piece of fiction is going to be the quintessential eighties "drug wars" thriller. You can call it, "The Day It Snowed Bullets and Glocks".


If you think that it's a good idea to call up a government agency and report a stranger's erratic behavior, you're definitely a Daffy Duck. For one thing, you never actually saw any government credentials for the guy. Is your best option to contact the relative? What if the relative is involved in running the weapons? Maybe he's the brains behind the operation. How do you know this is actually connected to a government  agency and is not part of a sophisticated and illegal drug trafficking operation, loaded with corrupt cops protecting the criminals? You might wind up a VERY Dead Duck. Unless you have actual proof that the coked-up stranger poses a direct threat to you or anyone else, walking away is your best option. Get out of there as soon as you can and consider yourself a Sitting Duck at least for a few days, until you're sure the coked-up stranger thinks he's safe. In most cases like this, international smuggling operations, be they weapons- or drug-related, are at the very least suspected and possibly monitored. While this whack-a-doodle incident sounds like pure fiction, no Lucky Duck with Typing Skills plotted this out.


Scene Five:
Ever wonder what it would be  like to have a criminal confess all to you? What could be sweeter than bringing a bad guy to justice? It would be the ultimate detective triumph, wouldn't it? Unless you get that confession in a moment of weakness, from a guilt-ridden criminal. You're stranded in an unfamiliar crowd, dragged there by an old school chum who immediately goes off to pursue her current love interest. A man you've never met before strikes up a conversation with you. You both step outside when the party gets too rowdy. During your conversation, he makes a doozy of a criminal confession. The minute you hear it, you immediately wish he hadn't shared that with you. Now he's waiting for your reaction. What do you do?


A. You force yourself to be as calm as possible, even though your heart is pounding, and you keep your responses as neutral as possible.
B. You chuckle and tell him he's brilliant. You almost fell for his con. It's a good thing you know he's fibbing because otherwise, you'd drive yourself to the nearest police station and report him.
C. Tell him you think that what he did is the most vile thing imaginable.
D. You hit the "save" button, because you can feel it in your bones. "The Man Who Didn't Know When to Shut Up" is going to be a New York Times best seller.


Is it your job to investigate the wild claims of some guy you never met before? Do you have the skills and resources to track down leads and verify information? Most amateur sleuths in fiction don't, but that doesn't stop them from plowing ahead. But in real life, the answers are never all that simple and the clues aren't that easy to solve, even for people who are trained in forensics and other aspects of investigation, working with physical evidence. Never treat a confession with disgust unless you're in a safe place, surrounded by lots of burly guys with bulging muscles who are on your side. That's the kind of thing that could make you a Dead Duck. And mocking a guy who has just admitted committing serious crimes is never a good idea, especially because he's likely to get really, really, REALLY angry. Only a Daffy Duck would do something that silly. As much as it would be nice to say this scene was written by a Lucky Duck who loves fiction, it wasn't. If you can manage to convince the confessing criminal that you don't have a strong opinion either way about his terrible secret, you might be a Sitting Duck for a while, but things will get better once you put some physical distance between you and the man who has unburdened himself to you. Trust me when I say a guy like this has probably already popped up on law enforcement's radar. Let the professionals handle this.


Scene Six:
Hostage situations seem to be more and more frequent these days, whether it starts with a carjacking or a robbery. In fiction, we often think that just having the SWAT team roll in with their heavily armored vehicles will convince the bad guys to surrender. But before that SWAT team is activated, there has to be verified threat. You're sitting in a parked car at a gas station just off the Garden State Parkway. In the next lane, you spy a woman in the back seat of an SUV. She appears to be distraught. In the front seat are two burly men, laughing as they converse. They seem to be ignoring the woman's crying. She seems startled when she catches you watching her and buries her head in her lap. Is she being held against her will? Did these men kidnap her? The gas station attendant finishes pumping gas in the SUV and the driver pays with a credit card. He's about to drive away. What do you do?


A. You get out of your car and approach the woman, knocking loudly on the window. You ask her if everything is okay and if she needs help.
B. You tell the gas station attendant to yank the hose ASAP from your car and replace the cap. You take off after the SUV while you quickly dial the New Jersey State Police to report a hostage situation.
C. You nonchalantly get out of your car, walk behind the SUV and snap a photo of the license plate and any identifying marks, such as a dealer logo, finish your transaction with the gas station attendant, and get back on the Garden State Parkway,  to tail the SUV for a few miles, observing the occupants.
D. You hit the "save" button because this will make a great opening scene for your newest mystery series, featuring the adorable amateur sleuth Brianna Hornsby and her equally cute sidekick, Delia Delvecchio, matching wits with the two thugs in the front seat.


There you go, you big ol' Daffy Duck, imaging that a weepy woman in the back seat of an SUV is evidence of a hostage situation. She must have been kidnapped and dragged, kicking and screaming, into that vehicle. No doubt that's why the two men are laughing. If you report this sighting as a hostage situation, don't be surprised when the New Jersey State Police hand you a bill and expect you to pay the costs of having their SWAT team mount a rescue. Let's hope they don't charge you with falsely reporting a crime. But let's just consider for a moment there is the slightest chance you're onto something. If you go up to the window of the SUV and knock on it, drawing attention to the crying woman, what do you imagine the laughing men will do? If they really did kidnap her, they are probably armed and  dangerous. Before this drama all plays out, you will likely wind up a Dead Duck. If you absolutely feel you must snoop, do it discreetly, Lucky Duck-style. Snap a photo of the license plate. Tail the vehicle for a couple of miles. If you see something suspicious, be sensible in how you report it. Then again, since this scenario was fabricated, it's a moot point.

Fictional Sleuths J. B. Fletcher and "Miz Scarlet"...Two Peas in a Pod?

Fictional character Jessica Fletcher, better known as author J. B. Fletcher, from Cabot Cove, Maine, is a retired school teacher who slogged her way through clues on the TV series "Murder, She Wrote". Fictional character Scarlet Wilson, better known as "Miz Scarlet", from Cheswick, Connecticut, is a semi-retired school teacher, and she is my inspired creation from my popular Scarlet Wilson Mystery series. So, what are the differences and similarities of these two former teachers?


Both taught high school for years and mastered that "school marm" thing long ago.


Jessica Fletcher has used her experience in the classroom to teach budding writers and even jaded cops the intricacies of mystery-solving. Some law enforcement folks even seek out the prolific best-selling author for her perspective on murder mysteries now and again, although others find her meddlesome ways to be annoying. She sometimes uses that old “I’m so disappointed in you” face with wayward cops and liars, just the way she surely did when she taught high school English.


Scarlet Wilson also has a knack for irritating trained investigators, but she does so with greater regularity. Or, as her best friend, Laurencia "Larry" Rivera, a Connecticut state trooper who works on the Major Crimes squad and deals with murder on a daily basis, has pointed out over and over again, REAL cops have to present actual evidence that can be used in a court of law. No judge is going to accept "Miz Scarlet" and her hypothetical theories about a crime. That's probably why Scarlet is constantly getting in over her head. She hates it when people dismiss her as an amateur, even though she is one. She, too, is an author. She wrote Teach Your Teenager to Think Straight , a top-ten educational guide book at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. As a veteran of afterschool detention, Scarlet isn’t easily intimidated by anyone, especially if she believes the other person is wrong about the facts. That makes her feisty and very often funny when she challenges the status quo.


Both women pride themselves on being physically fit and healthy.


Jessica Fletcher doesn't drive (who among us can forget that time she got into the driverless car and nearly went over the cliff and into the Atlantic Ocean?), but she does enjoy riding her bike and jogging. In fact, she's discovered a corpse or two while out gallivanting. She’s been known to nag Seth Hazlitt when he helps himself to an extra piece (or two...or three) of pie. It’s safe to say that she’s no Raymond Chandler. You won’t find her pulling a bottle of Dewars or Maker’s Mark from her desk drawer and pouring a shot as she hunches over the old typewriter, trying to make her publishing deadline. Nor does she get tipsy when she’s out socializing. She’s too much in control of herself, her emotions, and her life to lose control. You never see her on the edge of falling apart because she applies logic to everything that goes on in her life.


Scarlet Wilson drives, but there are times some folks think she shouldn't...like the night she engaged in a desperate high speed chase on the Jersey Shore to evade a demonic killer.  "Miz Scarlet" grew up playing in the forest on White Oak Hill. She regularly hikes there and knows the trails like the back of her hand. She's also rather competitive, thanks to the sibling rivalry she and her older brother Bur share, but if you asked her, she'd deny it. She's an eager participant in any game of skill or strategy, and loves to match wits, but she's not, as her mother has pointed out on a number of occasions, a great partner for bridge. She’s so used to taking care of people that she sometimes forgets to focus on her own needs, especially when it comes to love and romance. Laurel Googins Wilson has no qualms about giving her daughter a shove in the right direction whenever she deems it necessary.


Both snoopers...er, amateur detectives, have their own modi operandi for their sleuthing.


Jessica Fletcher tackles the clues and follows the evidence trail by employing her great organizational skills as both a teacher and a mystery writer, plotting out the crime on a time line, recognizing the leads, and identifying possible suspects. She's rather methodical in tracking her killers from Point A to Point B, and often consults with her sidekick, Doc Hazlitt, when he does autopsies and injuries. She's the go-to person for Sheriff Amos Tupper, who knows he's just a small town cop when murder comes to Cabot Cove. Sheriff Mort Metzger, on the other hand, retired from a big city police department, so it took him a while to appreciate Jessica's natural instincts when it comes to crime. She often has to talk him into considering alternative scenarios once he decides he's solved the case. Jessica has a more even temperament than Scarlet does. She's steady and reliable, a trait that often develops after years of practice and experience.


Scarlet Wilson works very differently. She often gets a gut reaction, a sense of unease that she can't easily explain away. Things nag at her, driving her to react. Scarlet, with that Googins streak (her mother's family) of passion, tends to fly off the handle a little too quickly, landing her in hot water on a regular basis. Part of that reactiveness is the result of having been the target of a very dangerous man, who plotted to destroy the Wilson family. Her sidekick, Kenny "Captain Peacock" Tolliver, might have been the assistant director of public safety for Princeton University, but that doesn't make him a "campus cop", something Scarlet learns the hard way. He expects her to err on the side of caution, but that doesn't come naturally to "Miz Scarlet". And as for working with the cops, she's had her fair share of run-ins with law enforcement. Usually, Larry has to jump in and sort out the mess, but at least Scarlet gives her something to work with and that leads to the apprehension of the bad guys.


Both characters are passionate about putting bad guys behind bars and protecting society.


There's no doubt that both Jessica and Scarlet want to see thieves, con artists, and killers behind bars. The difference is that Jessica tends to contain the miscreants with her cerebral gymnastics. She employs logic to solve the equation and identify the creeps and cretins. That's why she is able to confront them with confidence. That and she usually has good cops waiting in the back room, the closet, or the shadows, with their guns drawn. She doesn't normally have to worry about anyone seriously trying to whack her because something always alerts her to the danger, although she has been held against her will on occasion.


Scarlet is a little too emotional to rely solely on logic, even though she's a very logical person. She tends to sense things and relies on her intuition about people. She can get jittery when she feels that something's just not right. She has a lot of "Ah ha!" moments that leave her suddenly knowing the identity of the bad guy at the worst times, usually when he's standing only a few feet away. She is also much more "hands on" when it comes to confronting the bad guys. She has been known to thwart them with any weapon that's within reach, from her brother's favorite baseball bat (someone was trying to kill Bur) to her car (someone was trying to kill Jenny), and even once stopped a killer by stomping on his foot with her leg cast (someone was trying to kill her).


Both are unmarried and childless, but not by choice.


Jessica Fletcher, who was happily married to Frank Fletcher for years, is a widow. She and her late husband never had a chance to have kids, although some folks thought Frank had an illegitimate child while he was stationed overseas. Jessica has taken a number of relatives under her wing over the years. Frank's nephew, Grady, sent her first manuscript to a publisher and got her career as an author up and running. He is like a son to her. But she's also mentored several others, including nieces Pamela, Victoria, and Nita. She's also played a crucial role in the lives of many of her former students, encouraging them to become writers. She seems quite content to live alone, whether in her cottage on the Maine coast or her modest apartment in the Big Apple. While she does have the occasional date, she doesn’t seem overly interested in settling down again with another man, but maybe because she's been so disappointed in love after the virtuous Frank. She had one prospective lover who turned out to be a killer, another who turned out to be a con man, and let's not get into the Michael Hagarty situation....


Scarlet Wilson has never married, nor has she had children. Despite the fact that it has driven her mother bonkers, none of this bothered Scarlet until she confronted a very fiendish stalker and found herself having regrets about missing out on life's great experiences. She and her first big crush are finally rediscovering each other now that they've hooked up again. But even though motherhood has eluded Scarlet, she feels that tug of the ticking clock. Luckily, her maternal instincts kicked in when she met Jenny Mulroney, a cancer orphan, and took her under her wing. She's determined to see the teenager graduate from the University of Connecticut as a nurse, and to that end, Scarlet puts her money where her mouth is, helping to pay her sidekick's tuition. She also has given Jenny a safe place to live and the chance to earn some money as her assistant. The camaraderie of the residents and guests of the Four Acorns Inn is a testament to the desire of the Wilsons to make everyone feel at home, so much so that some folks don’t want to leave.


Both women live in small villages where life is good and people are kind, until some fool goes and ruins everything.


Jessica Fletcher lives in Cabot Cove, Maine, which occasionally looks like the murder capital of the United States, but she also ventures out into the big world, stumbling upon bodies with frightening regularity. For the most part, the people of Cabot Cove are decent, law-abiding citizens, with a desire to keep that neighborly feel alive and well, even as folks are kicking the bucket left and right. (In the real world, criminologists would converge on the tiny town, seeking to end its homicide epidemic and reassure its citizens that they are safe from further harm....)


Scarlet Wilson lives in the tiny village of Cheswick, Connecticut, and even though a few murders have taken place, she often finds herself in a position to prevent crime, a concept she embraces wholeheartedly. There are times when she faces down intruders and thugs. She's willing to go to great lengths to save lives, even if it means working around the clock, in between scrubbing toilets and making beds for the inn guests. Thus, the number of dead bodies surfacing in Cheswick is relatively limited because "Miz Scarlet" is on the case.


Both women tenaciously believe in themselves and their abilities to unravel the mysteries they confront.


Jessica never seems to doubt her own skills at taking the pieces pf a mystery and putting the puzzle together. In fact, she's often so confident, she only misses the tiniest of clues, the ones that make sense of the big picture. When she finally recognizes the significance of what she has laid out for all to see, she is triumphant as her tenacity finally comes to fruition.


Scarlet believes she can teach herself to do anything she needs to do, that she can learn whatever she needs to learn to complete the job, so she allows her impetuousness to drive the bus to her destination. Thus, when faced with a desperate situation, "Miz Scarlet" will put her nose to the grind stone and dig in until the secrets are revealed and the mystery is solved. Sometimes the only things she has left when her back is against the wall are that sheer willpower and tenacity of hers.


Gazing into my crystal ball, what does the future hold for "Miz Scarlet"?


With time, Scarlet is likely to become much more like her older (and some might say wiser) counterpart. She will probably stop chasing bad guys on foot and start mentally matching wits with them, as she heads into her fifties. But for now, she's having too much fun with the adrenaline rush of plowing through the clues to uncover the secrets to some very complex crimes.


Two of the books from the Scarlet Wilson Mystery series are “perma-free” at Amazon:



Miz Scarlet and the Vanishing Visitor -- Kindle Edition



Miz Scarlet and the Holiday Houseguests -- Kindle Edition



Other Digital Retailer Links to the free "Miz Scarlet" eBooks