On the edge of the chair of literature

Hit or Missus - Chapter 13

2012-02-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

In this chapter, Peri is out of the frying pan into the fire. Well, maybe not the fire. Maybe just a different frying pan... one without No-Stick Coating. She definitely feels like she's gotten herself into a sticky situation.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 13

Back at Skip's, Peri went to the bedroom, stripped off her grass-stained clothes and put on a pink flannel lounge set decorated with martini glasses. She traipsed to the family room and curled up on the leather sofa. Skip handed her a mug of hot tea and sat down with her.

"Ready to talk?"

"Okay, but try not to overreact," she said, and told him about the lunch at the country club. "It might not mean anything, but when I combine the flat tire, the head wound, and a headless bird, I'm feeling a little paranoid."

"Is this the Keller case? What are you supposed to be doing for him?"

"The usual." She took a careful sip. "Suspicious husband, possibly cheating wife. He's right, too. I saw her this morning, making out with the golf pro behind a grove of trees."

"So write up the report and be done with him."

"It's not that easy. I may have seen them, but I don't have any physical proof. No pictures, no hotel receipts, nothing."

"Peri-"

"Oh, don't yell at me, I know I should've planned it out better. I was sick of sitting in the parking lot, wondering what she was doing on that golf course, but I couldn't think of how to nonchalantly take pictures."

"How did you get onto the course?"

She told him about the missing cat story and he nodded.

"Good one. But next time, maybe you'd better think it through." He stroked her hair. "How's the head?"

"Hurts. I should take something."

He stood up. "Wait here." Returning with a bottle of pills, he said, "Take a couple of these."

She shook two orange tablets into her palm. "I don't think they were trying to kill me. They'd have hit me harder."

"Maybe they just didn't count on your head being such a tough nut to crack."

"Ha ha," she said, and then swallowed her medication with a mouthful of herbal tea.

He sat down again and put his arms around her. "Until we find out who did all this, I don’t want you to be alone."

"I appreciate that, but I don't think I can do my job with a police escort."

"Well, I've got an idea." He hugged her a little closer. "Just hear me out, Doll. You're supposed to hire Benny, right?"

She broke from his grasp. "Oh, man. I forgot, I was supposed to meet him at two today. Damn, he's gonna be mad. I stood him up and made him miss some movie on TV."

"At least now you have something for him to do."

She looked at him, her eyes widening, while the idea sunk in. "Wait a minute - you want me to lug Benny around while I finish this case? Have you lost your mind? I am not going to be stuck in a car with that man while I try to get my work done."

"I'm not saying it'd be pleasant. But I think there's someone who doesn't want you to tail Keller's wife. Either you need to decline the case, or protect yourself, and since you don't carry a gun-"

"I need to carry Benny." Peri sat back and rubbed her head. "I guess I'd better give him a call. Man, he really won't want to keep my hours."

She picked up the phone and dialed Benny's number. Skip rubbed her back as she apologized several times, then asked Benny to meet her at Skip's house at seven the next morning. Finally, her patience wore out.

"For God's sake, Ben, if I didn't have a headache before, I'd have one after talking to you. I'm sorry I was too unconscious to meet you today. I'm sorry you don't want to be at Skip's so early. If you want those community service hours, your butt will be in the driveway tomorrow, on time. I suggest you turn in early."

Skip took her mug. "I think you'd better turn in early, too. After all, you've got to wake up every two hours and tell me who you are."

She stretched up from the couch and laughed. "Good luck with that. You know how I get when you wake me from a sound sleep."

* * *

Skip was sitting at the kitchen table when she staggered through at six o'clock.

She reached over and kissed him. "How bad was I last night?"

"Including the time you called me a moron and the swing you took at me, not bad."

"I am so sorry."

"I been called worse." He swatted at her hip as she turned toward the coffee maker. "And you hit like a girl."

She laughed and walked back to the bedroom. "Gotta get ready for work. Don't want to be late for my carpool."

At 7:05, Peri looked outside to see a gleaming, black Coupe de Ville rolling into the driveway, fins sleek as a pair of sharks. She walked toward the front door, keys in hand and pink snakeskin tote over her shoulder. Skip stopped her.

"Whoa, there, Samantha Spade, you're not going outside without me."

They walked out the front door, Skip pulling it shut behind them. "I should fix this thing," he said. "The latch isn't lining up properly."

Benny Needles sat behind the wheel in Dino-casual wear, a V-neck sweater over a white collared shirt and grey slacks. He had lost a little weight since Peri last saw him, but he was still the same needy man, who wanted to be the King of Cool, if only he was six inches taller, fifty pounds lighter, and normal.

"Hi, Benny." She slid into the red leather interior. "First thing we're going to do is go get my car."

"You mean we're not using my car?" He sounded anxious.

"Your car is magnificent. But it's also easily identifiable, so we can't use it for surveillance." Peri saw his worried scowl, so she offered more. "We are parking your car at the Alta Vista Country Club. It's really ritzy - Dino would have probably played golf there if it had been around."

"No one will mess with it?"

"No. No one will mess with it."

She finally convinced him he could part with his automobile briefly, and they drove down Kraemer Boulevard to Alta Vista Street. The morning light had broken, although the low clouds prevented the sun from warming the air. Once at the country club, Benny pulled in and out of three different spaces before he found one to his liking.

One of us is not getting out of this alive, Peri thought. "Before we go driving, Ben, I want to look around the club."

"Why?"

"I need to find a vantage point to take some pictures."

"Pictures of what?"

"Of the case I'm working on." Peri sighed. "Just hang out with your car for a minute."

"Okay. No, wait - Detective Skip told me to stay with you." He said this as if he suddenly remembered his task.

"And you are," She reassured him. "I won't wander off."

She walked to each side of the clubhouse, looking for a place to get a view of the back side of the greens, where Nikki and her young lover might sneak away unseen, but she couldn't find one. To her right, a row of upscale houses bordered the golf course, their patios and gardens fenced with decorative wrought iron that didn't obscure the view. Peri was never sure whether this was to alert the homeowners of incoming shots, or because golfers all thought they were worth watching.

There was a smaller section of fence four houses down the street that didn't seem to belong to a home. Peri thought this might be some kind of easement. She turned around to motion Benny to walk with her and found him a foot away, his face pointed upwards, like a hunting dog awaiting a command.

"Dear God." She tried to whisper her surprise. "Don't sneak up on me like that."

"I need to stay with you."

"Fine. Let's go for a walk."

As they moved down the street, she wished she were alone. A woman dressed in casual wear, as she was, could be out for an energetic walk in the neighborhood. A woman in casual wear out for a walk with a chubby little man in vintage 50's apparel, however, would be more noticeable and harder to explain. But she had promised Skip she'd keep Benny with her, so off they went, following the sidewalk as it curled around the golf course.

"Sue Drive," Benny said. "That's a funny name for a street. I wonder how they named it that. Is it a lady? Or did somebody sue someone to name the street?"

"I don't know."

"I wonder how you'd find out. Maybe you could look at some old city hall meeting minutes." He hopped in front of her and turned to walk backward. "What's say, after this, we go to City Hall and look it up? I bet there's a lot of weird stuff in those old records."

"I'm sure there is, but that's not the way my day works. We probably won't have time for City Hall."

"But if we do, can we go?"

She sighed again, and pulled out her mother's pat answer. "We'll see."

When they got to the easement, she saw a large metal box, one that might house controls for power or phone lines, locked into the narrow area by a large gate. She studied the lock, and considered the climbable nature of the wrought iron. It was unfortunately not as ornate as the homes' fencing, being about six feet in height and mostly straight up, with few crossbars. The vertical bars were punctuated by arrows pointing skyward.

Peri considered the possible outcomes of trying to climb over. At five-feet-nine, she could probably heft her body over the fence, but not without a struggle, which would attract attention. Plus, she really didn't want to snag her clothes, or her skin, on those points. The view she needed was on the other end of this narrow aisle, if she could only find a way in.

She turned to Benny. "Dean Martin ever pick locks?"

"Of course. Matt Helm picked 'em all the time."

"I don't suppose those Matt Helm movies taught you how to pick them."

He laughed. "Don't be silly, Miss Peri." He reached into his pocket and took out a Swiss Army knife. "I learned how to do that in jail."

Peri stepped aside and used the back of her hand to lift her chin and close her gaping mouth, while her new employee proceeded to poke about the inside of the lock with one of the knife's many attachments. He closed his eyes and hummed a little tune as he adjusted the pin and tugged. Finally, she heard the click of victory and Benny handed her the open lock.

"I gotta say, Ben, I'm impressed."

His smile reminded her of when he was a boy and his mother would brag about him while Peri cleaned her house.

"Okay, you stay by the gate," she told him, and handed him her cell phone. "Act like you're busy, fiddling with the phone, texting or checking email or something. If someone comes, whistle."

"I can't whistle, Miss Peri."

"Well, then, cough, or sneeze."

"Which one?"

"I don't care. Sneeze. Loud, though. So I can hear you." She slipped in, past the power box, and crept to the gate at the opposite end.

There were a few well-placed shrubs, which weren't quite tall enough to hide her, but could offer some camouflage for her gray sweats and oatmeal cap. She knelt down, took out her camera and looked through the telephoto lens at the grounds. The grove of trees where Nikki and Tyler hooked up yesterday was easily visible from here. It was a perfect place to rendezvous; too far from the trail to be noticed, with the trees close enough together to hide anyone behind them, unless you were looking for them. Peri leaned back against the fence and waited.

Ten minutes later, she saw a small blonde walk along the cart path, then take a detour, up to the grove. A tall, tan form approached from the opposite direction soon afterward. Peri raised her camera and focused her telephoto lens. It was Nikki and her boy-toy. Peri kept her finger on the trigger and clicked a freeze-frame report of the meeting.

Tyler reached out to hug Nikki, who responded at first, then pushed him away. She appeared cross. Tyler questioned; Nikki whined; Tyler apologized; Nikki pouted; Tyler appealed; Nikki softened; Tyler caressed; Nikki embraced. They kissed, made up, and made out, all to Peri's adoring lens.

"Ah-Choo!"

Peri whipped around to see Benny in a rigid stance. She heard footsteps on the sidewalk, so she scooted around to the side by the power box and crawled behind it, just as a man's voice spoke.

"Good morning."

"G-g-g-ood morning, Mister Officer." Benny's voice was about three octaves above normal.

Shit, a police officer, she thought. If Benny doesn't go into Dino mode, he's gonna have a freaking heart attack.

"Someone called and said you'd been out here for awhile. I guess they were worried that you were lost or something."

Benny giggled like six-year old girl. "No, no. I-I-I was out for a walk, see? And, I started messing with my new phone, and I wasn't - um - sure of some of the buttons and then I got it stuck in some kind of mode and I forgot about walking and just kinda stood here playing with it."

Peri was surprised. It was a halfway decent explanation. She heard the officer laugh.

"Yeah, I've done that too."

"Hey, at least I wasn't driving." Benny's voice had returned to normal, and Peri detected some Dino-swagger to it.

"Good point. Well, I was just making sure you were okay. You have a nice day, sir."

"You, too, Officer. Thanks for checking up on me."

Peri listened for the footsteps to diminish. The sound of an engine meant the officer had returned to his patrol car. She watched the black and white sedan pass Benny, then turn around in a driveway and leave, before she exited, making certain to lock the gate behind her.

"Let's go," she said.

As they walked back to the parking lot, Peri thought about who might have called in that report about Benny. Maybe it was dumb luck that a squad car happened by, but she popped the memory card out of her camera and slipped it into her bra. Just in case, she told herself.

"Okay, Ben, how about following me back to my office?"

"But the detective-"

"Skip said to stay with me. If your car stays right behind mine, you'll stay with me. Anyway, it's less than a mile away. What could go wrong?"

* * * * *

Want more? You'll have to wait until next Sunday. Unless you (cough, cough) want to click on the link at the right (hint, hint) and buy the book.

If Amazon is steamrolling over you, why do you continue to let it?

2012-02-02T13:59:00.000-08:00

Some weeks, I'm just chattier than others...

I should preface this post by saying that I only slightly care where Amazon ends up, as villain or hero. I own a Kindle and a Kindle Fire, so I'm hardly their worst critic. I'm only writing this post to provide some grounds for discussion.

There's been a lot of press about Amazon this week. Barnes & Noble won't stock their books because they don't play fair. Several states are suing them for back taxes, and they're fighting back. They might even win. They're taking over the world.

Waa, waa, waa.

Let's face it. Amazon is doing business from a business perspective. Making money is, at the very least, an amoral activity. It's not evil to want to make money. We need food and shelter and money can buy us that. But it's not altruistic to need to make enough of a profit from your goods and services in order to pay for your own room and board, not even if you keep your profits so low you have to live on five dollars a day.

If you want to keep Amazon from becoming the only game in town, what can you do? A couple of things, Ladies and Gents.

1. If you're a non-Kindle e-reader owner, buy more damn books. Some of you are already doing your part. I'm talking about the rest of you. Want authors to keep offering their books on Nook? Buy their books, help them make money, and make it lucrative to stay with Barnes & Noble. Want books available on iTunes? Buy them on iTunes, instead of getting the Kindle App for your iPad.

2. If you're a paper-book reader, buy your books from brick-and-mortar stores or non-Amazon e-tailers (Barnes & Noble, etc). No, B&N won't stock Amazon books, but they'll order them for you. If they order enough of them, they might change their tune about stocking...

3. If you're a big company, and YES, I'M TALKING TO YOU, BARNES & NOBLE, make friends with all authors and publishers. Give me an Author's page on your site where fans can come and see my latest trailer or hook up with my latest blog. Make it easy to find me. Give me some discussion boards to talk to people, not just for self-promotion, but to find out what everyone's reading and recommend other authors I think they'll enjoy.

4. If you're a big company who wants to institute a self-publishing service and YES, I'M TALKING TO YOU, APPLE, study Amazon's model, see what authors like (and don't like) and grow your model from there. Don't start out all hoity-toity with a bunch of exclusivity clauses. Amazon didn't start there, and its base model still isn't there. You have a choice, as an author, to be exclusive or not.

For consumers, merchants, authors, readers, Amazon will only take over the world if you lie down and let it. If you learn from it, you can give it a run for its money.

True confessions for February 1st

2012-02-01T19:56:00.000-08:00

She's rude. She's nasty. She pushes so many boundaries, I think she's broken into another dimension. And she's my guilty pleasure.

Really, people, I'm a nice person. I try to understand other people's viewpoints. I try to be kind, to be uplifting. I'll always laugh at myself first, and loudest. I don't pick on others, even if I secretly think they're idiots.

But, damn, I think this woman's funny. SSHHHH, don't tell anybody, 'K?

Is there a new trend on the horizon?

2012-01-31T19:11:00.000-08:00

I am forever telling my husband, "I had the strangest dream last night." He replies by staring at me, waiting a beat, then saying, "Stranger than the last strangest dream you 'ever' had?" He might air-quote the 'ever.' This doesn't deter me from announcing that every unusual dream I have is the strangest one.

That being said...

Last night truly was the strangest dream I've ever had. I can only remember one other dream that approaches it, and that one was a psychological self-realization in two acts, a divine A-HA.

This dream was strange in a different way. First of all, I wasn't playing myself in it. I was a young girl, late teens to early twenties. I can't tell you much more about my character, except I seemed to have long, blonde hair, which had nothing to do with anything that I can think of.

In my dream, Poseidon's son fell in love with me.This didn't work for me for a couple of reasons. For one thing, I lived on land and could not see a future, well, under the sea. For another thing, I already had a boyfriend, the son of another, lesser god (don't remember who). I don't know that I was crazy in love with him, but at least our dates didn't result in drowning, or pruney fingertips.

Poseidon's son was not to be deterred. He kidnapped me and took me to his home in the ocean. As he pulled me into the tide, I protested that I couldn't breathe underwater. He turned (I still see the smile on his face) and said, "I've given you gills so you can marry me and we can live together forever."

We dove into the water and it felt like I was drowning but not drowning, because my brain was telling me I couldn't breathe water while my gills were taking over and letting me breathe water. There was a very visceral feeling of all this in my throat and nose - even in my ears. It was unpleasant, let me tell you.

My boyfriend tried to rescue me, but as I awoke, Poseidon's son was threatening to take my gills away if my boyfriend didn't leave. If he couldn't have me, he would drown me. My last thought before opening my eyes was to pray to Poseidon to step in and save me from his son.

After pondering on it for a day, I'm now starting to wonder... could some YA author replace the romance of vampires/werewolves/sparkly-but-evil-paranormal-creatures with Greek gods? How about mer-men?

P.S. Aren't I right? That was a weird dream.

I am the quirk

2012-01-30T11:16:00.000-08:00

I'm about three weeks into my 90-day trial of the Kindle Select Program with Are You There Erma? It's Me Gayle. Granted, it's early, but I thought I'd give you all a status report.

I did a five-day promotion. The bad news? I only gave away 535 copies. I suppose that's a lot, but I read about all these authors who give away thousands, yea, tens of thousands, so I was a little disappointed. The good news? In addition to those, I gave away about 150 copies on Amazon UK and 2 copies in Germany. The bad news? I did get one review on Amazon UK, saying my book was so wretched, the reviewer was glad they didn't pay for it. The good news? Since then, I've sold about 10 more copies in the UK and suddenly 3 copies of What Would Erma Do? Perhaps my humor does translate across the Pond.

As far as my American Amazon, after the promotion, the hype, the being #2 on the Humor>Family & Parenting AND the Humor>Essays list for free books, Are You There Erma sunk like a rock. Then, a couple of days later, I sold several more copies and got back up on the nonfree lists. Then this weekend, I'm a rock again. A big, heavy one, sinking, sinking...

One of the enticements of Kindle Select is their "lending program." Every time your book is loaned to someone else, you earn a percentage of their lending fund. This month it's $700,000, which is a big chunk-o-change if you're not in competition with, oh, two bazillion other authors. So far, it's a moot point for me, since I haven't loaned out a single copy yet.

Like I say, it's early yet, so things might turn around. Or they may just stay the same. Or all those people who got my book for free will write wretched reviews comparing my wit to that of a rock's. It doesn't bother me on a professional level, but I do wonder about that "any publicity is good publicity" belief.

While Erma was climbing, I got all a-tingle and decided to make the break with the rest of my books. Unpublished them from Smashwords and sat around, waiting for them to be removed from Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Sony, Apple, and all the little e-bookeries. Finally, they were free, so I enrolled them all in Kindle Select. And then...

I found out from a fellow author (and I verified this in the fine print of the T&C) that while your books are in the Kindle Select Program, you are not allowed to have them in any digital form anywhere else, including excerpts on your own webpage or blog.

Wha-huh?

I considered, for a moment, hunting down and deleting all my excerpts everywhere. After the dizziness passed, I did what any other thinking control freak would do: I un-enrolled my other books. I realize Amazon is trying to make their select work "exclusive", but I'm not in the mood to have them tell me I can't post a paragraph from Clean Sweep here, or a story from What Would Erma Do there, or a chapter of Hit or Missus every Sunday or so.

They're back on Smashwords, and will be re-populating the e-book stores soon, at 99 cents.

Like I said, it's still early in my experiment, and I may be pleasantly surprised, but I truly jumped the gun with my other books. Lesson learned.

In the meantime, I'm learning another lesson. This one is about myself. I want to continue writing and putting out books. I love to meet potential readers, and I am a good at explaining what my books are about. I got great hooks. But I am not good at promoting my books, and here's why:

1. I don't want to sell you a book I think you won't like. If you only read about vampires, or only non-fiction, you will not only waste your time reading my book, you'll be pissy with me for selling you on it. If you like humorous mysteries, I want you to read mine. If you read it and don't like it, I sincerely want to know why. If you don't like mysteries, read mine and don't like it, um, okay, did you not know it's a mystery? I'd like your money, but I'm not going to trade my soul for it.

2. It annoys me to No End to see other authors crowing about where their books are on the charts or the great review they just got. It's not jealousy. I have some great reviews. My books are not suffering. I make money every month on them. I've actually tried it myself, but each time it left a nasty taste in my mouth, even though I know I should be doing it. I don't know whether it's my Midwestern Baptist fear of looking too prideful (my mother's favorite verse: "Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall"), or whether at my roots I consider writing a job. I mean, how many times do you see a welder post about how great his welding workmanship is?

It's a rather horrid lesson to learn, because now I either have to figure out how to get past it all or I have to hire someone to promote my work the way I should be doing it. One way or another, it's going to cost me, either in therapy or paying wages.

Does anyone else have this problem, of recoiling at that moment when you should be extending your hand with a book in it, saying, "You'll love this"? Do I have to learn to be a psychopath so I can shout out, "Look at me - I'm on top of the world"?

Or am I just the quirky girl in the room?

Hit or Missus - Chapter 12

2012-01-29T01:00:00.000-08:00

Happy Sunday! One week til the Superbowl, for those of you who care. I don't have much to say about this chapter, except that Peri is her usual, feisty self. Read on:

* * * * *

CHAPTER 12

Peri opened her eyes, then shut them again with a groan. "What happened?"

She heard Skip's voice, soft and grainy like a fading radio station. "We don't know, Doll. The maintenance guy found you. Lie still, the paramedics are going to check you out."

"I-I was on the golf course." She tried to sit up, but grabbed her head and sank back. "Then I was waking up. Can't tell you much more than that."

"Ma'am." Another voice intruded. "We're going to transfer you to a stretcher and take you to the hospital."

She opened her eyes, then winced at the sunlight and held her hands up for shade. "What are you, twelve?"

"No ma'am, I assure you I'm an adult, thoroughly trained to assess and treat injuries."

"Sorry. I'm used to arguing about whether I need to go to the hospital." She whimpered as they lifted her onto the cot for transport. "This time, I think I'll let you take me."

Placentia-Linda Hospital was a convenient five minutes from the golf course, so Peri did not have to endure a long ride. Once inside, a steady stream of nurses attended to her. One took her name and insurance information, a second took her temperature and pulse, then a third wheeled her down the hall to the X-ray lab.

Each one wanted to know her name, date of birth, and why she was there. At first, she thought they were too lazy to read the chart; it finally dawned on her that they were testing her mental faculties. Eventually, they parked her gurney in a room slightly larger than her hall closet.

By the time the doctor entered, she was able to sit up with a more manageable headache. She watched him look over her chart. He was a short man, with gray hair and narrow features on a wide face. She smiled at him. He did not smile back.

At last he turned to Peri and began his examination. As he looked through the lighted scope into each eye, she tried to read his expression, but it he barely acknowledged her as more than a number with symptoms.

She decided to try a joke. "So, will I live?"

"Of course. That's a stupid question."

"I'm sorry, Doctor. I guess I'm not thinking correctly, since I got hit over the head."

He didn't respond to her sarcasm, except to put the x-rays on a display light. "It's not bad. You have a very mild concussion. You may have a headache."

"Ya think?"

"Dizziness is also common." He turned the light off and looked again at her chart. "The symptoms may last a few days, but not more."

"So, what should I do?"

"Are you dizzy now?"

"How should I know? I've been on my back for over an hour." Peri was beginning to dislike him.

"Well, you can take any over-the-counter pain reliever for the headache, and call your regular doctor if you feel dizzy for more than a day, or if the pain relievers don't work." He stared at her as if he were assessing her looks. "Do you live alone?"

She stared back, wondering whether to answer or slap him.

"You should have someone wake you every two hours," he continued. "To make certain you still know your name and address."

"I can do that."

A shadow crossed the doorway, and Skip entered the little room. "Ready to go?"

At the sight of the detective's badge, the doctor stepped back and looked from Peri to Skip. "I didn't know I was treating a suspect."

Peri frowned. "Gee, and I thought the gang tats would give me away."

She saw Skip's mouth twitch in a small grin as he took her arm to help her off the table. Her legs wobbled and her head pulsed, so she leaned against him for a moment, then stood and walked toward the door.

"Thanks for all the help," she told the doctor. "I'm sure they'll be able to wake me every two hours at the jail tonight."

"You're gonna get me in trouble." Skip's voice was quiet and low. "That doctor will probably report me for fraternizing with a criminal."

"That doctor needs to get laid," Peri said as they walked past the nurses' station. She heard boisterous laughter from the women at the counter.

Once outside, Skip helped her into his SUV. "My place tonight?"

"Sure." She squeezed his arm. "Wait, no, I gotta feed the cat."

"Wow, Doll - you're supposed to forget things when you get conked on the head, not remember them."

"Very funny. Should we go by and pick up my car?"

He slipped behind the wheel. "Why don't we just pick it up in the morning?"

"Why can't we pick it up now?"

"I just think it would be safer if you didn't drive for a few hours."

She buckled her seatbelt. "I'm fine. I have a little headache, that's all. I'll take some Motrin when we get home."

"Doll, humor me this once, okay?"

"I'm the one who got hit over the head. Why aren't I being humored?"

He started the car. "I want to make certain you're okay. Please don't argue with me. I want to get you home, safe and sound, where I can watch over you tonight."

"What about your class?"

"I already cancelled."

She grumbled. "All right. We can get my car in the morning."

As they drove back to Peri's bungalow, they talked about the attack.

"I was working my case and I needed to get onto the golf course. I discovered something, but it was impossible to get any evidence."

"Did you hear anything before -"

"Before total pain and instant darkness? No. I was, hmm, I think I was standing up on a little hill, looking at the course. I remember looking at the water, spraying up in the pond - wait - there was a sound. A whooshing, like someone teeing off." She looked at Skip. "Maybe it was a golf club."

"Maybe. You know, it's also possible you were hit by a stray ball."

"Did you find a ball nearby?"

"No, but Jason went over there to collect evidence as soon as we called. Maybe he'll be able to tell us something."

He said a lot more, but she didn't hear. She was thinking about this case, from the jogger who ran past before Officer Chou drove up, to the flat tire, to her current headache.

I'm not a paranoid person, she thought, but I'm beginning to think someone doesn't want me to follow this Nikki Keller.

They pulled in the driveway and parked. Peri eased out of the seat to unlock the front door and saw a something black on the step. She walked over to see what it might be, and cocked her head in wonder.

"I forgot to ask if you had anything in the house for dinner," Skip said. "Do you have any-"

The words died away as he joined her at the step and saw what she was staring at. He took his pen from his jacket and leaned down to poke the object around.

"It's a crow," he told her.

"Oh, poor thing. Did it hit my house and break its neck?"

She watched him examine the dead bird. "Not unless it decapitated itself with a sharp object."

An image of four women laughing at a country club instantly flooded Peri's mind. She pushed it away, while her right hand drifted up to her throat, as if to push her heart back into her chest. "I think I'm glad I humored you."

Skip stood up and pulled out his cell phone. "Hey, Jason, you busy? I need you to process a scene."

"A scene?" She shuddered. "Sounds so lurid when it's your own front steps."

He hung up and turned to her. "Jason's on his way. We're going to wait for him, and then you can pack a few things to stay at my place."

"Geez, I feel like I'm keeping your CSU-boy occupied full-time."

"It keeps him busy. By the way, I hope you understand, Craig Daniels will be working your case. Chief Fletcher thinks it would be too much of a conflict if I investigated."

Peri nodded. "That makes sense."

Jason arrived ten minutes later, slipped on his gloves and began processing the front steps.

Skip gave Peri a hug and kissed her forehead. "Let me clear the house before you go in, Doll."

She was aware of his holster pressing her chest and thought about him searching her house, gun drawn, possibly encountering an intruder. "Be careful," she said, trying not to choke.

After a few minutes that seemed longer, he finally came out and allowed her to enter. Once inside, she opened a can of food to meet Mr. Mustard's insistent demands. She felt disembodied, as if her hands prepared the cat's meal while her mind wandered through the events of the last couple of days.

Skip stroked her neck. "At least they didn't break in, whoever they were."

"Yeah, whoever." She moved away from him. "I'm gonna go pack a bag. Be right back."

Skip held her arm."Is there something else you'd like to tell me?"

She didn't look at him. Instead, she stared at her curio cabinet, studying all the moose figurines she collected. The array of antlered bric-a-brac, gathered from her early childhood, calmed her. "Give me a little time, Skipper. Then we'll talk."

She disappeared into her bedroom and came out a few minutes later with a small overnight duffel. On the way out the door, she stopped and rubbed the cat along his spine as he ate.

"See you tomorrow, Mr. Mustard."

The cat sat down and licked his paw, and then rubbed his face. If he was going to miss her, he didn't say.

* * * * *

Read more next Sunday, or BUY THE DANG BOOK. Sorry, did I say that out loud?

True confessions

2012-01-27T22:09:00.000-08:00

I think maybe I'll do a true confession post once a week.

One of mine is to be like this chick, down to the melodrama.

I want to walk like her and talk like her and do my makeup and hair and clothes like her. Problem is, if I did, I wouldn't look like her at all.

I'd look like the whore of Babylon.

Come and whisper in my ear, what's your deepest desire?

Hit or Missus - Chapter 11

2012-01-22T00:00:00.000-08:00

Happy Sunday, you all! Last Sunday we left Peri in a kind of pickle. Actually, it was more of a coma. So what's Skip been up to while Peri's, um, out? Read on.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 11

John Patterson sat behind a large mahogany desk and extended his fleshy pink hand to Detective Skip Carlton. He offered the obligatory greeting. "John Patterson, Keller and Patterson Development, nice to meet you."

Skip nodded, his obligatory response.

"Please, sit down," Patterson said, gesturing to a buttery leather chair on the opposite side of his desk.

Skip looked at the large beefy man, but in his peripheral vision, he catalogued the room. Minimal décor, lots of chrome, glass, and leather. There were four golf trophies on the shelves, along with a few reference books.

"So, Detective, what can I do for you?" Patterson's voice was a soft tenor, in contrast to his large frame.

"I'm looking into the death of Dottie Peters, and we found a note with your phone number on it." Skip turned a page in his notebook. "We were just curious what business you had with her."

"Peters? I'm not certain. Let me have Tanya pull the file."

Skip's cop senses went to work on Patterson's answer. The voice was a half-step higher and noticeably forced. His pale eyes shifted up and left. Skip was used to people lying; as a matter of fact, he routinely assumed the people he interviewed were hiding something. No one's life is an open book.

Patterson picked up the phone. "Tanya, I need the file on Peters. The paper file." He turned back to Skip. "Was this a homicide?"

Skip kept eye contact with him. "We like to cover all the bases."

"Yes, of course."

Silence gave Skip the opportunity to watch the executive fiddle with pencils, check his Blackberry, and attempt to look like he was still in control. Skip always wanted to smile in these moments, but he resisted. At last, the secretary walked in with a folder.

"Normally we have this information on the computer," Patterson said as he looked at the papers. "But we had a major crash last week and we're still re-entering data."

Skip nodded and wrote. "Can you give me a brief description of your business with Mrs. Peters?"

"Yes, yes." The words blustered out. "It says here that we offered to buy a property she owned." Skip watched his eyes focusing on the paper, jerking from top to bottom. "Yes, I remember now – she and her husband have a parcel of land near Palm Desert. We're developing that area and thought we could use their property."

"But they weren't in the mood to sell it to you?"

"Well, at first, they were reluctant. Seems they've got a little trailer out there and like to go out when the wildflowers bloom, or something like that. But with the husband's recent death, we approached Mrs. Peters again."

"Thought you'd take advantage of his passing to get a piece of land from the widow?"

"Well, it wasn't as mercenary as all that." Patterson flashed a white, snake-oil smile. "We didn't actually need the parcel. It's just a neighborhood enhancement."

"Not necessity?"

"No, Detective. It's at the end of the development. We were going to put a park there, drought resistant, with benches, play area, so forth. It's good for community relations." He shrugged. "If we didn't get the land, we didn't have the park. But we still had the shopping center."

"The note made it sound a little more important than that."

Patterson smiled again, but Skip noticed a hardness in his eyes that did not match his upturned mouth. "Our assistants sometimes like to show their initiative by aggressively seeking land procurements."

Skip looked up from his notes. "That sounds like a nice way of saying you let the kids bully old people."

"Believe me, Detective, it's not sanctioned."

"But it sure is useful." Skip continued to write. "I'd like copies of everything in that folder, if it's alright."

"Certainly. I'll have Tanya do that." He bent over, behind his desk, and retrieved a crutch, then used it to raise himself out of his chair and slowly limp toward the door.

"Injury?"

"Nope, just a bad knee. Had it replaced a couple of weeks ago." He disappeared for a moment, then returned to the office. "She'll have that for you in about ten minutes."

Skip glanced over his shoulder to see Patterson standing at the door, as if waiting to make his farewell. Usually, in this situation, he would say his good-byes and wait at the secretary's desk, but Patterson had a button he wanted to push, even if he didn't know why.

He eased further into the chair and wrote in his notebook instead. Most of his notes consisted of a list of things to do, his grocery list for the week, and ideas for Ella's son, but he managed to busy himself until the secretary handed the copied file to her boss. Only then did he unfold his lanky frame from the chair.

"Thank you, Mr. Patterson." Skip held his hand out for a handshake. "I'll call if I have any questions."

Patterson took his hand, smiling, but Skip saw the bead of sweat meandering down his right temple.

He left the office with a folder and an uneasy feeling about Keller and Patterson Development Company. As he walked to his car, the familiar vibration of his cell phone on his belt beckoned him. It was Blanche

"Skip, have you heard from Peri?"

"No, but I didn't think I would. She's working a case and I teach class tonight, so we were going to get together tomorrow, if possible."

"Oh, maybe her phone's on quiet."

* * *

Nestled in the well-groomed bushes outlining the Alta Vista Country Club, the faint strains of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" drifted toward the ears of the groundskeeper as he knelt beside a palm tree and adjusted a sprinkler head. He paused and listened, then stood and walked toward the music.

It stopped, so he waited for a moment and looked around the grass. Just when he thought he wouldn't find the hidden phone, a new song started. "Message in a Bottle" pounded, a little louder than Cyndi Lauper, and led him directly to the bushes against the fence.

He put his hand up to his mouth when he saw the tennis shoes. "Dios mio."

* * * * *

How do you like John Patterson? Yeah, me neither. I'm not saying he doesn't have any redeeming properties. They're just harder to find.

Stay tuned for more, or buy the danged book!

Amazon, schmamazon

2012-01-16T16:56:00.000-08:00

In theory, I should despise Amazon. They are the Wal-Mart of the Internet, offering goods and services at such low prices, they decimate any mom-and-pop endeavors in the area, blighting towns and only hiring part-time employees so they don't have to offer any benefits. Amazon is out to rule the world, and so far, it seems that nothing will stop them.

And yet.

As an author, I'm damned happy they exist. I've uploaded my books on Kindle and created paperbacks on CreateSpace, and they are for sale in the Amazon store nearly immediately. Amazon lets me set up an Author's page, where people can come and see if I'm legit or just a fly-by-night, one-trick-writer, full of typos and horrid grammar. They make it easy for me to get my books to market, and they pay me monthly. Yes. Monthly.

Let's consider the rest of the industry: Barnes & Noble, Sony, Apple, Kobo, blah-blah-blah. At Barnes & Noble, we have the PubIt! feature, but I can't set up an author's page and they pay every 60 days. I can't figure out how to even load my own books on the rest, except to go through Smashwords. Don't misunderstand - Smashwords is a great vehicle for uploading to all e-readers, but I'm only paid a month after every quarter end.

Not as friendly as Amazon.

As much as I love people of all e-races and e-readers to have access to my books, I tallied last year's numbers and saw that I did less than 10% of my total sales on all non-Kindle devices put together.

So I'm trying an experiment. I've signed up for the Kindle Select Lending Program, for my newest book, "Are You There Erma? It's Me Gayle". For 90 days, this book will only be available on Kindle. For the next FIVE days, it is being offered as a free promotion.

This is day one, and it's at #1,093 in the Free Kindle Store, #3 in Humor, Essays and #4 in Humor, Parenting and Families. It feels a little icky to be handing out all these free copies, but we'll see how the free rankings help my sales once the free promotion shine wears off.

If it gives this book the boost I'm hoping for, I may have to go with nothing but Kindle for all my books. Sorry, Nook-folks, iReaders, Sony-ites. It's all Amazon's fault. They're treating me too nicely.

And for all you Kindlings, you've got til Friday to get Are You There Erma? It's Me Gayle. What are you waiting for?

Hit or Missus - Chapter 10

2012-01-15T00:00:00.000-08:00

It's a short chapter this week, but it turned out to be an important one. I'll discuss after you read.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 10

The six o'clock alarm stabbed Peri's temples as she flung her hand about, trying to stop the beeping. Skip was already up. She walked past him to the bathroom, then returned to stand in front of her closet, willing herself a new wardrobe. If she had to follow Nikki Keller into any highbrow places, she didn't own anything that would meet their standards.

"Up early Doll?"

"Surveillance."

He paused at the shower door, looking at her. "And you don't have a thing to wear, I suppose."

"Hmm, you could say that." She reached in and selected a pair of olive slacks and a beige top. If I can't be stylish, she thought, I'll at least be invisible.

Skip emerged from the bathroom as she pulled her cement-colored ball cap over her hair.

"See you tonight?"

He shook his head. "Teaching class tonight. How about tomorrow?"

"Sure."

Peri drove two blocks before she realized he didn't kiss her good-bye. Or was it her who didn't kiss him?

Once parked outside the Keller enclave, she didn't have time to think about her love life. Nikki was out early, her convertible flying low, around the corner and across Alta Vista Street, to the country club. Peri hung well back, staying outside the gates until she saw the little blonde dash into the building. She parked her Honda in between two grey sedans and waited.

I need to get in there and see what she's doing, Peri thought. This waiting outside will not get me any information.

She watched the maintenance workers move about the club. Sturdy Hispanic men in green work clothes and massive boots, they raked at gardens, carried trash barrels, and walked around with leaf blowers to clear the refuse out of the parking lot. A man drove a golf cart around the clubhouse and left the gate open.

"Too bad I'm not a cleaning woman anymore," Peri said. "Looks like the only way I'd get in here."

A black cat slunk from under the bushes. It stopped and glared at her, and then dashed away. With a few graceful leaps, it crossed the pavement and disappeared onto the golf course. As she watched it, Peri thought about Mr. Mustard and had an idea. She got out of the car and walked toward the open gate.

Nobody seemed to notice her as she slipped onto the grounds. She stayed on the path, taking slow steps and looking for Nikki. By the time she had reached the corner of the clubhouse, she spotted her target.

They were almost completely obscured by a grove of silver-barked trees, but Nikki appeared to be having an intimate conversation with a man, punctuated by lengthy kisses. Peri wished she could take out her camera and use the telephoto lens, but she had left it in the car, thinking it might look too obvious. She could possibly take a picture with her cell phone, but they were too far away.

A few golfers were just beginning to populate the greens. They gave Peri pleasant, if confused, smiles as they passed. She knew she didn't have much time before someone asked her where her clubs were and, by the way, what was she doing there. Continuing on the path, she kept the clandestine couple in her peripheral vision.

Finally, she saw them come up for air, and with one, last kiss, they parted. Peri turned to move back down the path, away from Nikki's advance, and ran into the golfer behind her. He was an older man, in crisp chinos and a striped jersey polo, pulling a wheeled cart full of golf clubs. She planted her feet and put her hands forward against his shoulders, to steady them both. The golf cart rattled, but stayed upright.

"I'm so sorry," she told him.

"No problem," he said, then looked her in the face. "Are you a new member?"

"Actually, no, I'm looking for my cat. I saw her jump over the fence here, and they said I could take a quick look for her. I get so worried about coyotes, you know."

"Oh, I hope you find her."

"Thank you, sir."

"I hate cats." He continued down the walkway. "They crap in the flower gardens."

Whatever, she thought, and looked around for Nikki's mysterious kisser. The cat-hating man had actually done her a favor; Mr. Kisser had just reached the path in front of her. Peri stepped forward with her best "help me" smile.

"Excuse me, but I'm looking for my cat. Did you see a little black kitty run past here?"

He was young, somewhere in his twenties, tanned and cute in that boy band way. His hair was dark, his eyes were hazel, and his teeth nearly blinded Peri when he opened his mouth to speak.

"I have seen a black cat around, but I haven't seen it today. Is it yours?"

"Yes, I live around the corner and he keeps getting out."

"I'd love to let you look around more, but we've reached our tee times and I can't let you out on the course. You might get hit by a ball."

"Oh, okay. Do you work here?"

He smiled again. "Yes, ma'am, I give lessons here."

"Oh, you're the golf pro?"

He stretched himself up a bit taller. "I have been certified by the Professional Golf Teachers Association of America."

"I'm sure you have." She smiled back. "You know, I've always wanted to learn to play golf. Where would I go, if I couldn't afford the greens fees here?"

"I'd try the Birch Hills Golf Course. It's public, and the instructor there is a friend of mine. Tell him Tyler Garvey sent you."

"Tyler Garvey," Peri repeated. "Thanks, I'll tell him."

She followed the path back to the side gate, but it was locked, so she turned around to find a door into the clubhouse. The walkway was deceiving; it looked as though it followed the curve of the building, but it took a turn away and wound up and around a putting green, before settling back to the exit. Peri didn't want to get caught on the path, but figured she'd be in more trouble if she traipsed across the well-manicured grass, so she kept moving along the paved trail. At the top of the slope, she stopped to look at the course.

It really was lovely, for a golf course. Rolls of emerald green carpet with outlined patches of beige, and rounds of lighter green, punctuated by flags. Off to the right was a pond. Peri thought she saw a fountain spray in the middle of it.

She was enjoying the view, when she heard the whooshing sound of an object cutting through air. A sharp pain at the back of her skull pushed her onto her knees and into darkness.

* * * * *

Ouch! As I said before, this was an important chapter for me. As I was writing it, all according to my outline, I got bored. And I thought, if I'm bored, I'm certainly boring my readers.

That's when I hit Peri in the head with a golf club. Of course, she doesn't know it's a golf club, unfortunately. In my first draft, I ended the chapter with the following: "She didn't see the golf club until it hit her."

Totally cool sentence, except I'm in Peri's POV (point of view), so she wouldn't know what hit the back of her head, would she?

Another fine use of language, pissed away.

The teenaged pulse

2012-01-11T13:52:00.000-08:00

I checked into my own blog today to see if any of my friends had posted anything interesting on their blogs and found a bunch of stuff to appeal to my writing career and one post from Ali ranting about people substituting Z for S because they think it's cute and she thinks it's criminally insane. As you can tell, that's the one I read (and agree with, by-the-by) and none of this has a thing to do with my post today except that it's easy to get distracted when you really should be working.

What I planned to talk about on today's post is that I'm writing the third mystery and am, as always, trying to get it believable (getting it "correct" is something we'll leave alone). This particular story line involves a group of teenaged boys, including Blanche Debussy's son, Nick. For the uninformed, Blanche is my protagonist's best friend. Picture Suzanne Pleshette, make her a coroner, and that's Blanche.

Although I do remember being a teenager, I've never been a teenaged boy. But my son has. Technically, at 19, he still is. So I tried to get some information out of him that could help fortify my teen characters.

"My victim is a 17-year old boy," I began. "He breaks into a house with his friends, the house catches fire, and he dies. Now the detectives are in his room, looking for reasons for him to be in that house. What would his room look like?"

*insert crickets chirping*

"A room doesn't define an individual, Mom."

"I know that, but, like, would he be into World of Warcraft? Would he have posters on the walls? What kind of music would he like?"

"How would I know? You sound like there should be a stereotype."

"No, I don't want a cliche." I tried again. "I don't want to have him listening to last year's music, or playing games that aren't popular. In general, teens like to do what's popular with their crowd."

"Not all teens."

I was beginning to understand why Peri never had kids. "Listen to the first two words of that sentence. 'In. General.' Not 'All Teens All The Time.'"

Gradually, with much cajoling, I found out that the boy would have posters of First Person Shooter games and probably listens to a genre of music called Dubstep. Originally, I was going to have Marcus read my first chapter, but after my verbal head-banging incident, I'm not certain if that's a wise idea.

So I'm going to let you read it. Let me know what you think. Has this young fictitious boy become real to you, or is he still a little Pinocchio?

* * * * *

Cool, sparkly.

The drugs swept the teenager's mind, swirling the ceiling above him until it was nothing but darkness from which stars pulsed. He reached out for a handful but they eluded his grasp, preferring to settle on his fingertips. He smiled, the corners of his mouth feeling stretched away from their usual pout.

Dad complains I'm grumpy, but it's his fault. He barely speaks to me, anyway. Good thing. "Why can't you just," whatever, it's all he ever says. Straighten up, go to school, be normal. What for?

Mom's always telling me how she understands, she was just like me, blah blah blah. What does she know? She doesn't know what school is like, all those crappy teachers, whining crappy assignments. Homework is useless. I already know what I want to know. If I don't, it's because it's boring.

My friends are all I've got, but they're all I need.

He scowled, his hand lowering to his chest. These guys hung out with him because his parents were so generous. Mom and Dad fed them, let them swim in the pool, and were kind enough to leave beer where they could get at it. He supplied the video games and kept his parents at bay by apologizing each time the bar was raided.

These drugs are fine, def wicked. His body felt better than it ever had. For several minutes, he focused on his breath. He felt his bones move apart to give the air somewhere to go, then relax back into each other when he no longer needed that gulp. In… out… in… out…

Dylan said it was some kind of cocktail. Alex giggled. Cock. Tail. Cock tail. He laughed out loud. That Dylan was a riot.

His hallucination shifted, from night to day. Now he saw blue skies and white clouds above him. Reaching up to a cloud, he felt velvet run through his fingers, and saw a trail of white follow his hand.

The clouds in front of him began to turn grey and dirty. The air coagulated in a brown haze around him. His ribs no longer spread, although his lungs fought for oxygen. The air they drew in smelled of smoke and stung all the way down. He coughed himself out of the dream and looked around.

The room was dark and unknown to him. He remembered; this was not his home. They had broken into this place, thinking it was abandoned. Each over-filled room told them they were wrong, but no one was home, so they explored it before the white powder and whiskey took effect. Alex had ended up in what looked like an old lady's bedroom. A vanity held fancy glass bottles, and a porcelain doll nestled in the pillows that were covered by a tufted bedspread.

He heard his name being called. "Alex. Hey, Alex."

Opening his mouth to answer, he coughed again. The air was getting thicker with smoke. He saw shadows pass by the doorway, and tried again, but his throat was too raw for noise. One of the shadows paused.

"Dude, we gotta get out of here," it said, then coughed.

"Come on." Dylan's voice sounded hoarse but loud. "Alex is probably already out."

He didn't hear anything after that, so he rolled to his stomach and began to crawl. The smoke swirled around his body, much like the imaginary stars. He wished the smoke was the illusion.

Dragging his body around the corner of the room, he looked down the hallway. Red-hot light sizzled upon his face. He backed into the bedroom again and saw curtains. With an effort, he pushed to his hands and knees and scooted to the lacy ruffles. He pulled them open and yanked on the window. It was locked.

The room continued to fill with smoke and heat. His breathing felt like a fish gasping for water, and his head grew light. He felt around the frame, searching for a latch. Finding one, he slid it, the only direction it would go, and felt the window casing spring up. He reached both hands forward to remove the screen and slide to safety.

Wow, am I going to have a story to tell the guys.

That's when he felt the security bars. His last bit of effort was to grab them and prove their immobility. He slid down, to the floor beneath the window, and listened to the pretty glass bottles exploding on the vanity, as they shattered from the heat. Rolling to his side, he looked at the shards on the carpet, lit by the flames around the doorway.

He reached out his hand to them, sparkling like stars.

Hit or Missus - Chapter 9

2012-01-08T00:00:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the Sunday excerpt. How's your January going? Hanging in there with those New Year's resolutions, I hope.

Let's talk about sex for a moment, shall we? Skip and Peri have it, because they're in love. A few people have taken me to task for not adding more sex, in more detail, in my books. Here's my reasoning: back when I wrote my very first, very bad novel, I had a big sex scene in it. One night, fully realized and described in lusty detail. I won't claim it was that well-written; as a matter of fact, the book lies at the bottom of my external hard drive, where I use it for parts.

But the funny thing is, once I had written that scene, I no longer felt the inclination to write a sex scene ever again. Once was enough for me.

So Skip and Peri have sex, and you know they're having it, but I'm not going to paint you a picture. Use your imaginations.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 9

"You may want to come up for air, soon," Peri told her boyfriend, who was breathless with laughter.

"Benny…" he heaved between guffaws."Working… for you…"

"Yeah, thanks for the sympathy. Oh, look, here comes the waiter. Should I ask him for a liter of oxygen?"

Skip and Peri sat at a corner booth of Antonia's, a pizza and pasta joint in a small strip mall near the post office.

"You'll have to excuse my friend," she told the waiter before placing their order for a large pizza and two more beers. "He's… not well."

Skip wiped his eyes as his laughter subsided. "Sorry, Doll, I just can't think of what that guy's gonna do for you."

"Drive me crazy, probably. Maybe I'll get lucky and Chief Fletcher won't sign off on it."

"Oh, I think the Chief will be happy to help out."

Peri scowled. "Help Benny, or me?"

"Maybe he can watch the cat."

"Now that's not a bad idea. I wonder if Benny would like a pet."

"Aunt Esmy might," he said with a smile. Benny's Aunt Esmy studied taxidermy and loved animals - especially dead ones on the side of the road.

"Maybe, but I'd be a little worried. I mean, she does wait for them to die of old age, right?"

"We can only hope."

The waiter delivered a large, loaded pizza, two plates, and two new beers.

Skip took a long drink. "How's the case?"

She opened her mouth, then thought about how much she was going to tell him. If she even hinted at sinister conversations and possible sabotage, she'd find herself in the middle of the never-ending debate over her career choice.

"It'd go a lot better if I hadn't gotten that flat tire. Cost me a day and a half of surveillance." Peri helped herself to a slice. "By the way, did you investigate the note the cat brought me over at Dottie's?"

"Not yet. I was waiting for it to be ruled a suspicious death before I started processing the evidence."

"Oh." She savored the smell of garlic and onions, before she sank her teeth into tomato sauce, cheese, and a cornucopia of vegetables.

"Oh, what?"

"Well…" She paused a moment, wondering how much trouble she was about to wade into. "I called the number on the note yesterday." She took another bite while she let him absorb what she had said.

"You gonna make me dig the information out of you?"

"No, I was just trying to see how mad you were going to be before I told you. It was Keller and Patterson. Someone in their office wanted Dottie to decide about something."

Skip reached over and took Peri's chin in his hand. "Peri, look at me. This. Is. Not. Your. Case. Do you understand?"

She nodded and kissed his thumb. "Yes, Skipper."

He didn't look convinced. "Tell me what I just said."

"This is not my case. I understand. I get it." She smiled. "Trust me, between Benny and the cat and the case I've got now, I don't need more work."

As she reached for her glass, Peri got a whiff of inexpensive perfume, and felt a shadow darken her corner of the booth. She looked up to see Ella Mason, the police officer. But Ella wasn't on duty tonight. She was in a jersey dress, wrapped tight as sausage casing. The vibrant red and black pattern commanded attention, as did the deep neckline and short skirt. Ella's dark hair, usually tamed into a bun, flowed loose and curly around her shoulders. Her makeup accentuated large dark eyes and full lips.

"Detective Carlton," she said, smiling. "It's so nice to see you."

Skip smiled back, but Peri felt no need, as Ella hadn't even glanced in her direction.

"You look like you're ready for a night on the town," Skip told her.

"Just Back-to-School night," she replied.

Peri faked a yawn to disguise her raised eyebrows. If this is how you dress for Back-to-School night, what do you wear on a date?

"I just wanted to thank you for your suggestions about my son the other day. You're right, he should have a male figure in his life. Maybe I'll look into one of those Big Brother organizations for him."

"I hope it all works out." Skip said.

Ella stood by the table for another minute, grinning, until the silence became an abyss.

"Well, I'll see you at work tomorrow," she told Skip, finally, before swaying out the door on spiky heels, held onto her feet by thin gold straps.

Peri watched Skip watch her leave, and felt herself growling inside, like a dog preparing to bite.

Skip picked up a slice of pizza and looked at her. "You weren't very friendly, Doll. You didn't even say hello."

"Next time, you'll have to introduce me."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you knew each other." Skip turned his attention to his meal.

"I guess I didn't recognize her in her street clothes," she told him, hoping he didn't notice the way she carefully avoided adding 'walker'.

"Yeah, that was quite a dress."

Damn, Skip, she thought, I love you, but you are the most clueless man on the planet. She stared at him, trying to listen to the filter on her brain, the one telling her to be agreeable.

That filter was in need of some maintenance.

"Really? Quite a dress? In its color or its brevity?"

His eyes widened. "I've never heard you sound so-"

"Catty? Snarky? Completely insightful and observant?"

He leaned toward her, a smirk playing around his mouth. "Sexy."

Startled, she laughed, then ran her fingers across the back of his hand. "Finish your dinner so we can head back to my place."

Later, after they had finished their second round of unruly, energetic sex, Peri thought about how she used to wonder when their lovemaking would wane, from ferocious to exuberant to perfunctory. She let her fingers trace Skip's neck, around to his ear, and realized they'd have to find something else to complain about; perfunctory sex didn't exist for them.

He kissed her nose and lay back onto the pillows, which allowed her to wrap her warm body around his. They were quiet for a few moments, just long enough for her to close her eyes and drift into a sleepy twilight.

"I've been thinking." His voice rumbled through to her ear, which lay against his chest.

She sighed. "Mmm?"

"Ella - Officer Mason - is having a pretty hard time with her son."

Peri's eyes popped open. "And?"

Skip's fingers rubbed her back. "Maybe I could have a talk with him or something. Show him around the station, take him to a ball game, I don't know."

"Why you?"

"There's no dad in the picture, no men in his life."

"So..." She felt her breath slow and shallow, while she listened to his heart rate against her body. "She's in a male-dominated field, when she's off duty, she dresses - well, she doesn't hide her light under a bushel, but there's no man in her son's life?"

"Maybe she's picky. Or protective of her son." He shifted around to prop himself on his elbow. "I've never seen you jealous before. What's up with you and Ella Mason?"

"Nothing, I barely know her. It's not jealousy. And I don't begrudge you trying to help a kid in need, Skipper. I just worry about you. I don't know this kid, but you could get sucked into a bad situation. And you could be opening a big fat can of worms by fraternizing with a lower-ranking officer."

"I know, I thought about that. I just hate to see a kid dig such a hole, especially someone in our department. I could maybe make a difference in his life and save his mom some heartache."

She reached up and kissed him. "I'm sure you could make quite a difference. Perhaps you could get some of the other guys to help. Tag team him."

"That's an idea." He settled back down to entwine his arms around her. "I wonder if he likes hockey. We could take him to a Ducks game."

Peri nuzzled his neck. She told herself it wasn't jealousy, but that oozy feeling sat in her stomach. Sure, Ella Mason had been overdressed and overdone tonight, but she had made an attempt at allure, something Peri hadn't done in awhile. Stretched-out exercise gear, sad, wrinkled khakis, faded polo shirts, what was sexy about that?

She felt his hand run down her back and encircle her waist, fingers pressing lightly into her skin. Was that extra padding he was massaging?

Glancing over at the clock, she wondered if midnight was too late to call Blanche. For the first time in a long time, she felt like she needed some advice, along with a shopping spree.

An hour later, Skip's breathing indicated he had retreated to sleep, arms draped across his chest. Peri turned from one side to the other, covers off and covers on, until she finally gave up and wandered into the kitchen, throwing a shirt on as she walked. Her grocery store had a sale on Ben & Jerry's ice cream, so she reached into the freezer and got a pint of pistachio out. She grabbed a spoon, then headed to her laptop, still in the living room.

Googling 'Bettys' hadn't done her much good earlier. She kept digging through the pages and found more businesses, Facebook and MySpace people, but nothing that made sense.

"Damned if I know," she said, her voice a soft mumble.

Tired of spinning her wheels, she turned to shopping. Macy's online store had collections, outfits already put together. She chose a couple of looks that she thought a fifty-year old might wear, clicked on 'Buy' and 'Express Shipping.'

A heavy object suddenly hit her shoulder, knocking her laptop from her legs. She pulled it to her chest to keep it from hitting the hardwood floor. Mr. Mustard slipped down from the back of the couch, where he had jumped, and sat next to her. He began cleaning his face in long, languid strokes, gazing at her without expression.

"Goddamn cat. We gotta get you a home."

* * * * *

P.S. Antonia's does not exist in Placentia, although I wish it did. A funny thing has been happening in my home town. Every time I mention a restaurant in my books, it closes down. I was going to have them meet in Dario's, but it closed before I even got the last chapter entered.

See you next Sunday! As usual, you could be reading the whole story right now, by either purchasing the e-book for 99-cents, or the paperback. Look to the column on your right for details.

I'm writing! I'm writing!

2012-01-05T16:49:00.000-08:00

I'm in full metal author mode today and, having wrestling a scene to the ground, can now plow ahead with all the characters doing what they do naturally, within the environment I've given them.

So why am I here instead?

Because I need to know if anyone else who writes about present day is having problems incorporating the latest technology into their stories. In particular, consider the humble phone.

In De Olde Days, your character picked up the receiver and dialed a number. When they had completed their call, they hung up the phone.

Now everyone has cell phones. No one picks up the receiver, they dig the phone out of their purse or pocket. They somehow search for the number, or enter the number in their Dialer, and press SEND. When it's over, they press END.

It's not a particularly seamless way to describe a character having a phone conversation. As a matter of fact, every time I write about someone talking on the cell phone, I feel like I'm working overtime to make the mechanics of the call invisible to the reader. I'm constantly trying to find new ways of describing Peri retrieving her phone from her tote, not to mention having to throw out the casual SENDing and ENDing of calls.

The worst part, of course, is that no one can slam the receiver down in anger. It's hard to show the Call That Ends Badly.

Is anyone else having this problem, or am I just showing my advancing age?

Goals! Get 'em while they're hot!

2012-01-02T21:29:00.000-08:00

I really do think New Year's resolutions are silly. People make and break them right and left. Seriously, I'll bet half of you are barely hanging onto half of the promises you made on January 1st.

Still, I love to see the new year and think that I will do great things with these 365 days. And this year I get an extra day! Whatever will I do with all those hours?

Usually, I make my NYR's in a rather darkened room, or at least a shady one, where they never see the light of day. In other words, I keep them to myself. This way, if I break a resolution, there is no one to point at me and say, "Hey, didn't you resolve to do x instead of y?"

Except for me, and I'm quite taunting enough.

This year, I decided to make my resolutions a little louder. As in, I'm putting them in this blog post. I could just write them in my own private journal, but no, I'm going to shout them at the world. Okay, at my 74 followers.

Without further ado, here are my resolutions, nay - my goals, for 2012:

1. Health: I am a little overweight, but more importantly, my blood pressure is higher than it should be. Not hypertensive high, just uppity. So I've already implemented a three-part plan. One, I'm reading and following the DASH Diet, learning how to make smarter choices when I eat. Two, I'm walking Duffy once a day, for anywhere between 30 minutes and an hour. Three, I downloaded a cool app for my phone called MyFitnessPal (it's also a website). I can record what I eat, how much I exercise, weigh, etc.

Probability of success: I've already been doing this since December 2 and have lost 7 pounds. The last week has been difficult with all the Christmas/New Year's excesses, but I think I've emerged intact and still working toward my goal (17 total pounds lost). I consider my blood pressure non-negotiable, so I have to make this work.

2. Writing: I'm going to write every day, even if it's only one sentence and I'm too drunk to use a verb. I downloaded this stupid little "calendar" from The Writer's Store - it's just a bunch of boxes with 1-365 written in them and "Don't Break the Chain" at the top. Before you think I've lost my mind, it was free and downloadable. I figure, I like to make lists and cross things off, right? So I should love making red X's to cross of each day that I write.

Probability of success: It's January 2nd and I've written for two days. Not bad, eh?

3. General: I'm going to plan my week better. When I was younger, I kept my schedule in my head. As I got more involved at work and with my son's school, I started keeping a calendar of where I had to be and when. Then, when Marcus went off to college, my calendar dipped to just showing appointments, concerts, and meetings. This is why some days I get a lot done and some days I sit and spin my wheels. I need to list my tasks for the week and plan my work, including my writing.

Probability of success: Pray for me.

Oh, yeah, just to properly usher in the new year, I freshened up my website. How do I look?

What are your resolutions? Anything fun?

Hit or Missus - Chapter 8

2012-01-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

Got your resolutions made and broken yet? Or did you make rather merry last night and are just now opening your eyes and wondering if you've missed all the bowl games, or just the parade?

Never mind. Here's another chapter of HIT OR MISSUS for you. In this chapter, we meet up with an old friend, but I'll let that be a surprise. We also meet Peri's mechanic, Allen, who has his own little repair shop. Coincidentally, I have a mechanic named Allen who has his own little repair shop. That's where the similarities end. My Allen looks nothing like the Allen in the book; however, he was responsible for giving me a theory, which he explains to Peri. Also, his shop isn't on Valencia Avenue, it's on Imperial Highway.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 8

By 8 a.m. the following morning, Peri was waiting for her mechanic, Allen, at the auto shop on Valencia Avenue. It was a small, two-car bay with an office in the back, tucked in with other utilitarian businesses in a block of industrial buildings. She sipped her coffee and checked her watch as a green 1965 Shelby Mustang purred into the parking lot.

"Eight-oh-five, Dude," she said as Allen walked toward the rolling shop doors, keys in hand.

"Sorry." He held up his stainless travel mug. "Needed fuel."

She watched him take her tire out of the trunk and followed him. A tall, muscled man with a ruddy face, Allen carried the tire with as much effort as Peri used to carry her purse.

The inside of the garage bay smelled like motor oil and gasoline, with a sharp metallic finish. Allen rolled the tire around, looking for obvious holes, and then got it wet to search for bubbles. At last, he was rewarded with small gurgles on one of the treads.

Reaching down with a pair of needle-nose pliers, he pulled out a metal fragment. "Someone sabotaging your tire?"

"Why, what've you got?"

Allen smiled. "I'm just joking with you. It's a little metal shard of some kind. Probably fell off a construction truck." He pulled out a second fragment. "Of course, it would be a great way to stop a car without looking suspicious."

Peri stared at him. "What would?"

"Tire spikes."

"What, like one of those strips they stop car chases with? I think I'd remember running over one of those."

"Not exactly. These are more like, um…" He paused for a moment, moving his thumb and index finger an inch apart as an approximate measure. "Like one of those jacks kids play with, except that all of the edges are sharp."

"Never heard of those. Wouldn't you find the whole thing stuck in my tire?"

Allen shook his head. "As you drive, the spikes are driven into your tire while the rest of the metal is broken up. There's no way to tell it's a spike or accidental road shrapnel - at least, not without some serious lab equipment."

Peri thought about the voices on her recorder from yesterday. Could one of those women really have access to that kind of hardware? How would they even know where to get them?

She watched him remove two more fragments and toss them into a round pan, the metal hitting metal with a bright tinkling sound. As he worked, she remembered the Range Rover's emblem filling her rear-view mirror.

Reaching into her tote, she pulled out a plastic bag. "I think I'd like to save those pieces, just for kicks."

An hour later, Peri drove back over to the Keller house, hoping she wasn't too late to catch Nikki at home. A grey Toyota parked in front, jarring the pristine scenery of luxury cars. Peri saw an older woman at the front door, slight but sinewy, in a pale cotton shirt and denim capri pants. A large bucket sat beside her on the porch.

The cleaning lady, Peri thought. She tried to drive by slowly, but not so slow as to attract attention. The woman dug into her pocket. Peri turned her car around in the cul-de-sac and came back in time to see the cleaning woman let herself in.

Nikki had already left, she reasoned, although the cleaning woman's appearance gave her an idea for closer surveillance. She drove back to her office to do more research. On her way, she decided to stop by and see if Skip was at the police station.

His black SUV was in the lot, so Peri parked and entered. Skip stood in the doorway to his office, leaning against the doorjamb with his arm stretching to the upper molding. Sharing the space with him was Officer Mason. Her chin tilted up, her eyes meeting his face, lids slightly lowered as if focused on his mouth.

As Peri processed the scene, Jason Bonham interrupted her thoughts.

"Hey, Miss Peri, how's that software working for you?"

Peri watched Skip's head turn toward her, just as her focus drifted down to the young CSU officer, who was sitting behind the front desk. In that split second, she saw the innocence in Skip's eyes, felt her stomach relax, and silently berated herself for her pettiness.

She turned back to Jason. "I downloaded it last night, but I haven't run the file through yet. Thanks for the information, though. I really appreciate it."

Skip smiled and nodded at her, so she walked toward his office. Ella moved away from the door.

"Hey, Doll, what's up?"

Peri reached up and kissed his cheek. "Not much. Thought I'd stop by and say hello."

"How's the cat?" He sat down and began to take papers out of his inbox.

"Still alive, Smarty. I haven't had time to find a home for him." Peri pulled up a chair and relaxed into it. She watched Skip pick up papers, glance over them, then throw some away and stack the rest on a corner of the desk.

"How about Blanche?"

"No good. Paul's allergic to cats. I was thinking of one of those cat rescue places."

"Mm-hmm."

Peri sat up, seeing Skip's attention to the paper in his hands. "Anything interesting?"

"Mm-hmm… What? Sorry." He continued to read. "This is the tox screen from Dottie Peters."

Muffled conversations could be heard in the hall, while Peri waited for his next word. Finally, her thin patience wore through.

"And?"

Skip looked up, his expression grim. "Listen, I have something to tell you." She tried to keep her impatience muzzled as he paused and fumbled for words. At last, he said, "The thing is, the chief likes you, but he'd like to see a lot less of you in the station."

"What?"

"You know how the police view P.I.s - they're usually a pretty scummy lot."

Peri felt the heat rise up in her core, her cheeks burning. "He didn't think I was scummy when I emptied his trash cans at night."

"I know, but that was when you had a cleaning service, not a detective business. Now he feels that, even if you are the honest, ethical gal he knows, he doesn't want to encourage other private dicks to think we have an open door policy."

She started to speak, but Skip held his palm toward her. "And he doesn't want any impression that there's any impropriety between a detective and his sleuthing girlfriend."

"So I'm, like, banned for life?"

"Not banned. Maybe try coming less often, maybe just to pick me up for lunch or something."

Peri scowled. "This so sucks." She looked at the report, still in Skip's hands. "Maybe you could soften the blow a little." She nodded toward the paper.

"Peri-"

"Come on, Skipper. Dottie was client of mine. I liked her. What did the tox screen show?"

He sighed. "All right. Turns out she had oleander in her system. Mimics a heart attack."

"Poisoned? But why? How?"

"I don't know, but I'm glad I had Jason come over and process her house."

"My God… Who'd want to poison Dottie? Bob died of a heart attack a couple of weeks earlier. Do you think he-"

Skip stood, interrupting her. "That's what I'm going to find out. Time to get a court order for an exhumation."

Peri followed him out of the office. "We on for dinner tonight?"

"Sure, Doll." He looked at his watch. "I should be done by six."

Peri returned to her office. Back at her desk, she dug her laptop out and powered it up. If she couldn't discover anything new about Nikki, she could at least enter her notes and hours worked, for billing purposes. It irked her to not be following that woman today, but it couldn't be helped.

She thought about Allen's conspiracy theory and Nikki Keller. At the country club, she hadn't struck Peri as much of an intellectual, but intelligence wasn't needed to sabotage a tire. She decided not to make any hasty decisions about Nikki's IQ.

This time, Peri focused on Nikki's acquaintances, starting with Facebook. She had many friends, men and women, and it took Peri several searches to narrow the results down to those in the north Orange County area. Finally, she had a list of five women and three men; she printed their profiles to add to her folder.

She recognized the women's pictures from the country club. Peri thought Kim looked a lot like the jogger on the street, but she wasn't sure. She wondered why Kim didn't exit the club with the rest of her friends. Perhaps, she mused, while she was watching Nikki, Kim was busy tossing a few sharp objects under her tires.

She considered this theory as she took out her notes and began to type them. She liked to have her notes in two places, written and on the computer, in case of disaster. As she flipped through the papers, Peri became aware of a whirring noise in her tote bag, so she excavated her cell phone and answered it.

"Miss Menopause?" Although not a blast, the voice was definitely from her past.

"Benny, please call me Peri."

"Oh. Yeah. Miss Peri. I'm out of jail."

Peri's former client, Benny Needles had been convicted of receiving stolen property. With no priors and a full, weeping confession, he had only spent 30 days behind bars. She heard he was now completing a few hours of community service.

"I know. How are you?"

"I'm good. I'm good."

"I was a little worried about you in jail. I'm glad you're out." Peri didn't think Benny's obsessive-compulsive constitution would hold up well in an Orange County Jail cell. In addition to his OCD, Benny was an incurable Dean Martin fan, and had stuffed his house with Dino memorabilia. He needed his things, just as he needed certain foods, and a certain schedule. Under stress, Benny either suffered anxiety attacks requiring hospitalization, or he reverted into "Dino mode." Neither of these was good for a stint in jail.

"It wasn't so bad," he told her. "Except I missed my house and my things. And they wouldn't let me wear my suits in jail. And their food didn't taste very good. But I taught all the guys in my block to sing 'That's Amore'."

"That's nice," Peri said. "What can I do for you?"

"I have to do community service, Miss Mmm-Peri. One hundred fifty hours. It's hard."

"What are you doing?"

"That's the thing… I was working as a janitor at Aunt Esmy's church, but I guess I don't keep things too clean, which was okay 'cause they never played any Dino music there. So then I went to work at the library, but the director didn't think the Dean Martin biography belonged at the front of the shelves. We kinda fought about that, so I wasn't invited back. I tried to help out at Bradford Square, but those people are so old and cranky."

"Geez, Benny, how many jobs have you had?"

"Ten."

Peri felt uneasy about the obvious next question. "How many hours do you have left?"

"Ninety. I was wondering if you had anything for me to do."

"Well, Benny, I think you have to be a non-profit or some kind of state agency to offer community service hours."

"I know, Miss Peri, I know. But I talked to my parole officer, Miss Catherine. She's real nice, even if she likes some guy named Oscar Mayer better than Dino."

"Oscar? You mean John Mayer?"

"Maybe. Doesn't matter cause he's just another flash in the pan."

Peri took a deep breath and blew it out. "What did Miss Catherine say?"

"She says if you fill out a form and have the police department sign it, it'll be okay if I work for you."

"Um, well, Benny, I can’t really think of any-"

"Miss Peri, please." His voice rose. "I need these hours or they'll maybe send me back. I can't go back there. I can put papers in files, or dust or something. You used to clean for my mom. I could clean for you."

Peri nearly erupted in laughter, but held herself back. "I don't know-"

"I could run errands, do your shopping. Miss Peri, I gotta do something and it won't even cost you."

Not in money, but probably my sanity, Peri thought. The cat's bad enough - do I have to foster Benny too?

"Okay, Ben, we'll try it out," she told him, while Robbie the Robot appeared in her head, bellowing Danger, Danger, Will Robinson. "Bring the papers by and I'll fill them out."

"Thank you, Miss Peri. Miss Catherine will be so happy. She's hoping you won't complain as much as the other people."

"Good luck with that," Peri mumbled under her breath, then told him, "Come to my office tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock. I'll fill out the forms and give you something to do."

"At two? But Rio Bravo is on TV then, and I wanted to-"

"Don't push me, Benny. Be there at two tomorrow or the deal's off."

"Yes, ma'am."

Peri finished the call, sat back and rubbed her scalp, hard. What sin had she committed to deserve this?

* * * * *

Benny's back! I wasn't going to include him in this book, but his fans kept asking me if Benny was returning. So I found a way to bring him into the story in what turns out to be both annoying and helpful ways. I think he made a better book.

I'm tired

2011-12-29T19:54:00.000-08:00

Ah, the post-Christmas malaise. In ye olde days, I used to sleep all day on December 26th, then be up and on my feet by the 27th. This year, when I haven't been forced to work, I've been sleeping.

Of course, this is the first year we've had Christmas dinner at our house for Dale's family (mine is 2,000 miles away in Illinois). I was up at 7 a.m. to get the turkey in the oven so it could be done in time to get out of the oven and let the ham have its turn. After that was another 45 minutes for the stuffing that didn't fit into the bird and another 30 minutes for the sweet potatoes. While I wasn't cooking, I was getting out plates and arranging the tables and giving my darling son instructions about which floor to mop and what to get at the store, etc.

There's a million little things to do when you're trying to make 15 people comfortable in your home.

I got the last dish dried and put away at 1 a.m.

Don't misunderstand - I loved having the bustle of so many people in my house. It was fun to take care of them and make sure everyone had something to drink or eat or unwrap. Dale's youngest brother and his family spent the night and our nieces and nephews were nothing but good.

And now I'm exhausted.

The worst part is, the fog of fatigue has kept me from writing. It took me about three times longer than normal to write my column this week. I opened the file on my latest Peri story, looked at it, and closed it again. All I can do is play with my new Kindle Fire and do the puzzles in the newspaper.

My Fire and my mechanical pencil - that's all I need to rejuvenate.

This woman was not exhausted from cooking and cleaning, but every time I think, "I'm tired," I think of this:

How about you? How did you survive the holidays? Or are you TIRED?

Hit or Missus - Chapter 7

2011-12-25T00:00:00.000-08:00

Good Christmas Morning, everyone! If you tuned in here to read another chapter, you're in luck. Our plucky heroine is just starting her assignment, and she has her hands full. Read on:

* * * * *

CHAPTER 7

The room was a study in contrasts. The polished oak of the tables, chairs and bar could have darkened the space, but the pale walls and full-length windows stretching across the back of the room lifted it into the light. There were a few occupied tables, and a couple of servers strode from the kitchen to the diners and back again. A black man with gray on his temples and a roadmap of years on his face wiped the bar, occasionally glancing at the TV screen, where a baseball game was in progress.

A young, lithe woman in a simple uniform of white shirt, black slacks, met Peri at the door and led her to a table near the windows. Nikki and her friends were seated near the bar, all as coiffed and beautiful as she imagined. She gave them a relaxed glance as she walked past, and catalogued two brunettes and an ash blonde in addition to Nikki's golden curls. One of the brunettes looked up from her salad, and Peri could feel the intensity of her gaze as much as she could see it in her peripheral vision.

The hostess offered her the seat beside the window. This didn't give Peri more than a slight side view of Nikki's table, but she didn't want to appear suspicious, so she sat down. The same woman came by to take her order. She asked for a spinach salad and iced tea, then opened the brochure and began to read.

Twenty thousand dollars? Peri fluffed her hair and tried not to grimace as she read. Plus annual dues? And monthly dues? She turned the page. Green fees? Isn't the golf course green enough?

Laying the packet aside, she studied her surroundings. To her left, golfers dotted the grassy carpet outside. She thought they looked similar in the way they walked around the area, faces tilted to the ground, occasionally looking up, as if gauging the distance. They were all tanned, wearing standard issue polo shirts, dressy shorts, white socks and golf shoes. The men wore hats. The women had a mix of hats and visors, but it didn't matter. Their faces were all still golden from the sun.

"Hey, Girlfriend."

Peri looked up to see Blanche, casually gorgeous in a pair of tailored, knee-length tan shorts and a sheer lilac blouse, the lace of a white camisole peeking out. She got up to hug her friend and gestured to a chair.

"How nice to see you," Peri told her.

They motioned to the server, who came over and took Blanche's order, giving Peri another opportunity to glance at Nikki's table. They were lively and loud, which meant it should be easy listening.

The server brought their drinks.

"So, thinking about joining?" Blanche pointed to the brochure.

"Possibly." She noticed the volume of her own voice. As much as she enjoyed having her friend here for support, it dawned on Peri she would not be listening to Nikki's table if there was too much conversation at her own.

"You're a member, maybe you could explain what this means." She placed the brochure next to Blanche and leaned in. As Blanche looked at the paper, Peri whispered, "I need you to identify who is talking at that table behind me."

"Hmm." Her friend pointed. "Oh, those fees only count if you aren't a resident. Here, give me a pen and I'll circle the ones you'd pay."

As the server arrived with their salads, Peri heard her cell phone. Tunneling through her wallet, car keys, and assorted flotsam, her fingers closed around a familiar object, a small digital voice recorder. She often used it to take notes. While her hand was still buried, she turned the recorder on. Perhaps she could capture their conversation and listen to it later.

Pulling her phone out, she looked at the number. "Skip."

"Did you guys kiss and make up?"

"You know we never stay mad for long." She swirled the baby spinach leaves around to coat them with raspberry vinaigrette and picked up a fork full of leaf, mango, and candied walnut. A crumb of feta cheese clung to the leaf and completed the sweet-salty-umame trinity in her mouth. "We've had worse arguments."

"Oh, yeah. I remember when you tried to live together."

"I might have thrown a few objects," Peri said.

"To get your point across?"

"Hairbrushes are good for punctuating sentences."

They laughed, loudly, until Peri noticed she wasn't hearing the women behind her. She looked at her friend and rolled her eyes in an attempt to point to the table she was watching. Blanche smiled and gave her a small nod.

"So what did Don say?" The question from the table was asked by a voice that sounded like a muted trumpet.

Peri looked at Blanche and pointed back to the brochure. "What about this?"

"Some people like to pay extra for that," Blanche said as she picked up the pen and scribbled, Susan Leske.

"Oh, I don't know." This voice was high, almost childlike.

Peri took the pen and wrote Nikki? Blanche nodded, as the voice continued. "He was all, 'Nikki, do you have to find the most expensive dress in the mall? Who is this Michael Course guy, anyway?'"

Several women joined her laughter.

"Course? Like golf course?" Peri noted this voice was lower, and the words had a bit of a slur to them. She wondered if this woman had lived in the South for awhile.

Lisa Silvan, Blanche wrote.

A soft, languid voice seemed to quiet the whole table. "Your husband needs a lesson in designers, that's all. Perhaps we could instruct him in the difference between Michael Kors and Alta Vista."

Laughter started again, although it didn't erupt as much as it bubbled.

"Oh, Kim, it doesn't matter." This was Nikki again. "Don doesn't really care. He just likes to tease me."

As Blanche scribbled another note in the sidelines, Peri heard Lisa say, "Clinton does the same to me. What are those shoes again? Choo-choo trains?' They tease us, but they love it when we look good."

"Which is why I'm so happily divorced," Susan said. "I have the Jimmy Choos and no one to get on my case about them."

The server came by Peri's table and offered more iced tea. She looked confused by the silence between the two women. Blanche put the brochure back in the folder. "I'm sure you can read all this when you get home."

"Thanks for the info," Peri told her. The server busied herself by taking their empty plates, so Peri turned to Blanche again. "How's the landscaping coming?" The question sounded so banal she felt like slapping herself, but it was the safest thing that popped into her head.

"It's a good thing Paul's on travel. Took us months to work out the design with the landscaper, and now every day is a brand new day for these guys. A new supervisor shows up, doesn't know what's been done, what's supposed to go next. Then I have to step in and undo the work…"

She said a lot more, but Peri's focus went back to the women behind her.

"Oh, Susan, how you tease," Nikki said.

"At least as long as those alimony checks keep coming," Susan added.

Lisa changed the subject. "Did you see this Sunday's LA Times?"

Peri heard Nikki say, "I so want that Kate Spade outfit in the magazine. Too cute."

"It was okay," Kim replied. "I wasn't crazy about the bag."

"I couldn't get past that hatchet piece on USC," Susan told them. "How dare they say our alma mater is egotistical."

"Bet the writer went to UCLA," said Kim.

"Kim, that's not exactly fair." Nikki's words were harsher than her delivery. "There are dozens of schools who envy USC."

"Shoot me now." Blanche's voice was a graveled murmur, but it was clear she had been listening, too. Peri choked down her laughter.

Lisa spoke. "So, what's our game for this week?"

Peri thought she saw unusual activity out of the corner of her eye. She resisted the impulse to turn and look, but got a brief impression of the women's arms reaching toward something in the center of the table. There was quiet chattering, none of it intelligible. She looked at her friend, her eyebrows raised in question. Blanche smiled back, so Peri knew she'd get the rundown later.

Peri heard the light pinging of glass upon glass. Someone was making a toast.

"Bettys rule," Nikki said.

Peri's phone began to vibrate again, so she turned to her bag and noticed the women all getting their purses out, too. They were preparing to pay, which meant she had to make her exit first. Her phone had stopped ringing, but she pretended to answer it anyway.

"Hey, you ready to go?" she said to no one. "Okay, I'm on my way."

She fished out a twenty and gave it to Blanche. "I need to pick up –," here she fumbled for a name, "Benny. This should cover my lunch."

"No problem, Kiddo. I'll see you later." Blanche held out the folder to her. "Don't forget this."

Peri picked up her tote and stood. As she walked toward the door, she heard Kim's voice again, although she couldn't make out the words. She did catch a comment about "ladies room" and saw money being taken out of bags, so she continued outside, to her car.

After reaching her car, Peri put her ball cap on again and assumed the air of the inconspicuous private eye. She read over Blanche's scribbles as she waited. According to her BFF, Kim Patterson was the long-haired brunette, Susan Leske had the darker complexion, and Lisa Silvan spoke with the southern lilt.

Blanche had written her notes next to the price list. Peri saw the numbers again and rubbed her neck. If she needed to follow Nikki Keller any deeper into that establishment, she may need Blanche's help as a member.

Peri finally saw Nikki walk out of the entrance, with two of the women at the table. Susan dug in her purse while Lisa turned to listen to Nikki. There was no sign of Kim. They all laughed and strolled to their cars, hugging as each one was dropped off.

Although they were of varying heights and hair color, the trio shared a common patina. Peri thought it was the glow of money, then scolded herself for judging.

They can't help it if they're rich.

She watched a blue Beemer and a silver Benz slip out. Nikki's convertible eventually reached the entrance, so Peri started her car and eased toward the driveway. She and a dark Range Rover with tinted windows arrived at the exit simultaneously, but the Range Rover paused and let her go first. Nikki made it across the intersection just as the light changed, making Peri wait. The light was mercifully short and Peri was able to see her target pull onto her home street.

Peri drove past the Keller enclave, planning to turn around at the next cul-de-sac, but the stream of luxury vehicles behind her made her travel further into the country club homes. Turning left got rid of some of the cars, but the Range Rover still tried to push her down the street, obviously trying to get home. Finally, it turned into a driveway and Peri could return to Nikki's house.

As she rounded the corner, Peri felt her car grab to the right, then heard the familiar thwop-thwop of a flat tire. She pulled over to the curb and got out.

The tire slumped against the pavement, giving her Honda a definite list to starboard. Peri looked up the street in time to see Nikki's car whip out, toward Alta Vista.

Damn.

There was nothing to be done, except change the tire. Peri opened the trunk and peered inside. It wasn't a pretty sight. In addition to two plastic bins of paper she needed to file, the trunk was littered with papers she needed to put into the bins, along with a pair of running shoes, an emergency roadside kit, and a small bag, which was stuffed with a few toiletries and clean underwear, in case she had to tail anyone for more than a day.

So far, she'd used the roadside kit more than the toiletry bag.

Peri thought briefly about changing the tire herself. It wasn't rocket science, after all. She moved the trunk contents to her back seat, then lifted the carpet to find the spare tire release and the jack kit.

It took her exactly five minutes and two fingernails to realize that, although she had the brains for the procedure, she lacked the brawn. She called the Auto Club and spent her waiting time throwing loose papers into the plastic bins.

After an hour wait, then thirty minutes more while the tire was changed, Peri was finally able to drive, although not in pursuit of Nikki Keller. Hungry again, she stopped on the way home to pick up skordalia chicken from Sophia's, the local Greek restaurant. She felt like everyone's eyes were on her car as she drove; the little blue Honda still sat at a tilt with its emergency donut where a real tire should have been. Car troubles sharpened her cranky edge, so she decided to spend the evening working out a schedule for tomorrow.

She pulled into her driveway and stopped. Ordinarily, she left the car parked next to the front door. Her one-car garage sat back, detached from the house, and as much as she loved her older neighborhood, walking to the garage at night to get her car out made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. But she wouldn't be going out tonight, so she went ahead and yanked the garage door open, drove the car in and locked it up.

Having learned from the previous afternoon's encounter with the cat, Peri entered her house slowly, looking down to keep from stepping on the large tabby. Mr. Mustard was nowhere near. She set the food on the counter and walked through the rooms, turning on lights.

"Here Kitty-Kitty," she called.

There was no response.

"Mr. Mustard, Kitty-kitty-kitty." Peri looked in all the corners of the living room. "Great, I've lost the cat."

As she moved toward her bedroom, she heard a soft, shuffling noise, followed by thumping. She slipped off her shoes and tiptoed to the door, hoping it was the cat and not an intruder.

The sight before her made her wish for the latter. Mr. Mustard had found an old spool of red and green curling ribbon, probably under her bed, and had wound it around every object in the room. It was knotted around all of the legs of her shaker-style furniture, and had actually pulled the nightstand away from the wall, knocking a candle onto the floor. Pillows were on the floor as well, and one of them showed definite signs of shredding.

The cat was busily pushing the now-empty spool through the maze he'd created. He looked at Peri, jumped straight up, and then ran out of the room.

Peri looked around, trying to decide whether to eat first, or clean first, and whether she might actually be able to flush a cat. Cleaning won. She armed herself with a pair of scissors and a trash bag, and went to work. Half an hour later, she finally sat down in the kitchen with her dinner and her notes.

She was enjoying a mouthful of the rich, lemony chicken when she felt a warm, furry body rubbing her shins.

"We gotta find you a new home, cat."

As she read through her scribbles about Nikki and her friends, a rhythmic beep-beep-beep interrupted her study. She picked up her phone, but it wasn't the source of the noise.

The next ten minutes were spent checking clocks, smoke alarms, kitchen gadgets and anything else that might be setting off a warning signal. Peri finally narrowed the sound to her pink snakeskin tote in the living room. She dumped the contents onto the floor and sorted through her portable life until she found her digital voice recorder. A tiny red light flashed with each beep.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot I turned you on." She picked up the small, silver rectangle and took it back to the kitchen.

After another bite of dinner, Peri turned on the recorder and listened. There was a fair amount of extraneous noise from the room, but she could clearly hear the women's voices. She worked her way slowly through the recording, identifying each voice and taking notes on what was said. The conversation was pretty benign, even boring, by Peri's standards.

Right after Lisa asked about the game plan, she heard the server ask about more tea and turned the volume up to listen to as much of the background voices as she could. All she got were disjointed words, "blonde", "one of us", "discourage", and "force". She replayed the section several times, trying to add one more word to make it all make sense, but the ambient noise overpowered.

At last, she gave up and let the recording continue to the end. She heard the scrape of the chair as she arose, and the fluctuation of sounds as she moved through the room. Closing her eyes, she pictured where she was at each rasp, rattle, and voice. Suddenly one voice became clear.

"There goes the mark," Kim said in a whisper.

Peri's pulse trotted a little faster, wondering if she was Kim's "mark". She listened to the last part a few more times, but was unable to hear anything else. Leaning back in her chair, she speared another piece of chicken and put it in her mouth. She chewed, thinking.

If I could somehow separate the different sounds like they do on those TV shows. Grabbing her cell phone, she called Jason Bonham. He probably wouldn't be able to process her file, but he might be able to tell her what kind of software program would.

Mark or not, she was going to find out the game for the week.

* * * * *

Well that sounds ominous. Is Peri their "mark"? What are they planning to mark her with, a Sharpie? Tune in next Sunday and learn more.

P.S. Did Santa bring you a new Kindle or Nook? You could be reading HIT OR MISSUS right now, for only 99 cents!

Hit or Missus - Chapter 6

2011-12-18T00:00:00.000-08:00

I have a couple of things to point out about today's chapter. First, when you meet Linda, know that I secretly want to be her. Well, I guess it's not such a secret now. What I mean to say is that I am a short redheaded gal who sometimes catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and thinks there's a gnome in the house, and I would love to be that tall, graceful woman of a certain age who dresses with taste and comports herself with great dignity. I amuse myself by thinking Dale would not have married that woman.

Second, I had a hard time writing the scene where Peri goes to the country club. I'll talk about it after you read.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 6

Under normal conditions, Peri liked to show up early in a client's neighborhood and park a few houses away to observe the comings and goings of the person she was tracking. The Kellers lived near the Alta Vista Country Club, their house backing up to the golf course. This small area around the country club was the high-end of Placentia; the homes were large, even if the lot sizes were small, and all of them maintained their million-dollar worth, regardless of the economy.

Mr. Keller had told Peri his wife was usually still asleep when he left at seven, but Peri didn't want to miss anything, so she pulled into the Alta Vista community a little past six in the morning. The Keller house was on a corner, which would not have made parking in an unobtrusive spot difficult, but her first pass through the quiet streets made her realize she couldn't park anywhere and remain unnoticed. A little blue Honda sedan would be considered nondescript in most neighborhoods, but not here. The curbs were littered with BMWs and Audis, and her econo-car would stand out like a sore thumb.

She passed a jogger as she drove around the block to the main drag out of the enclave, and tried not to watch the woman stare at her. In her rear view mirror, she saw the easy kick of tanned legs as the jogger tossed one more glance over her shoulder and continued on her route. This was not going to be easy.

The thoroughfare onto their street was not so ritzy. Block walls bordered the sidewalks, making the boulevard look stark. A few random cars were parked here, of the more economical variety. Peri found a spot on the side where she could blend in with the others and still see a corner of the Kellers' driveway. She might not be able to see details, but she could at least tell when a car was pulling into or out of the drive. Tucking down in the seat, she pulled her black ball cap over her brow, put her camera in her lap, and waited for movement.

A few minutes later, she saw the jogger again, running toward her at a healthy pace. Peri tried to push her tall frame further into the seat, but the woman didn't appear to notice her, allowing Peri to get a better look. The woman looked sleek in her fitted running clothes, black spandex capris and a turquoise, racer-back top. She wore a matching ball cap and Peri could see a long brunette ponytail swing like a pendulum as she ran.

She was definitely from the neighborhood. Peri had seen plenty of these women, and was always amazed at the 'something extra' they possessed. It wasn't that their skin was just tanned, it was golden and smooth, as if they had it buffed and polished every morning. And their hair wasn't simply blonde or brunette, it had an additional sheen of copper or silver or gold to make it burn brilliant in the sun. They wore makeup that never smudged and lipstick that never disappeared from their soft, unwrinkled lips.

Looking that good must be exhausting, even if I had the money. Peri licked her lips. They were dry, as usual, so she applied some balm.

By seven o'clock, she watched Keller drive out in his Mercedes SUV, a sleek dark silver model that exuded luxury. She thought he glanced at her car, but wasn't sure. A few other residents drove past, but none paid any attention to her. A flickering light in her rear view mirror distracted her, so she looked up.

It was a police car.

Although she wasn't doing anything illegal, she had a sudden urge to hide her activities. Rumor had it, the police didn't really like private investigators and might try to make her job difficult.

She stashed her camera under the seat, and fumbled in her glove compartment as the officer approached, looking for her insurance card, registration, and a reason to be parked in a high-end neighborhood. There was a first-aid kit, a flashlight, two old tampons and a notebook. She took the notebook.

"You okay, ma'am?" The officer stood just behind her open, driver's side window. Peri recognized him at once, Officer Kenneth Chou.

"Yes, Officer. Is there a problem?"

"No, ma'am, we just had a report that a car had been stopped here for awhile."

"And you wanted to make sure I wasn't dead or something?"

The young, Asian policeman smiled. "Or something."

Peri held up her notebook. "I'm taking notes."

His smile remained, unchanged.

"I'm counting the number of cars in the morning, to see whether we need a traffic light at the intersection."

He continued to smile.

His stare was making her nervous, but she tried not to let it show. "There are a lot of new homes here, you know. Traffic has increased. We need to think about the children who walk to school this way."

A car rolled by them, so Peri wrote in the notebook. "See? There goes one more."

She wasn't certain if he believed her, but he suddenly spoke. "Aren't you Detective Carlton's friend? I don't know if you remember me, but I worked the Needles case."

"Yes… yes, of course… Officer Chou, isn't it? How have you been?"

"Good, thanks. You working a case?"

"Kind of." Peri didn't want to give away too much information. "I'm doing some research for a background check. Pulled over to write up some notes."

"Oh, sure. If another call comes in, I'll handle it."

"Thanks, Officer." Peri smiled at him. "I'll be going soon, anyway."

She watched him walk back to his car, talk on his radio and prepare to leave. As he pulled away from the curb, the jogger reappeared in Peri's side mirror. This time, she caught the glimpse of a tattoo on the woman's ankle, obscured by her sock. Again, she didn't look over at Peri as she passed, but Peri could have sworn she saw the woman smile.

The street grew quiet again and Peri settled back to wait. An hour later, she finally saw a metallic blue BMW whip out of the development, with a stunning blonde behind the wheel. This was Nikki Keller, in all her morning glory.

Peri rolled away from the curb, watching Nikki turn left onto Alta Vista Street before she drove forward to follow. Even though it was small, the little sports car was easy to tail from a safe distance, and Peri's Honda was able to get lost among the rest of the vehicles on the road.

She traipsed along as her client's wife ran mindless errands, to the dry cleaners and the local Bank of America, before stopping at the Brea Mall. Peri watched Mrs. Keller enter the Glen Ivy Day Spa. The spa offered everything from massages to pedicures. After waiting ten minutes, Peri entered.

The front desk sat at the entrance to a gift shop on the right and a lounge area to the left. A small door past the chairs probably led to the spas. The piped-in music was an inoffensive tune played by a trio of harp, flute and running water, and the scents of several flowers and herbs fought for control of Peri's nose. A young woman, exotic in an Asian-Hispanic-Polynesian way, looked up from her computer screen behind the desk and smiled at Peri as she approached.

The phone rang and the girl answered. "Just a moment," Peri heard her say, then watched her walk over to the gift shop.

It was an opportunity Peri couldn't resist. She quickly moved around to the side of the desk and scanned the appointments on the computer screen. Nikki Keller was here for a manicure and pedicure with Emma. The girl returned.

"Sorry about that," she said. "May I help you?"

"I was interested in your services. Do you have a brochure?"

The young girl handed Peri a small catalogue, done in soft neutrals and matte finish. Peri thanked her and left, returning to her car.

As she waited for Nikki to finish her manicure, Peri read the brochure. Holy crap, fifty bucks to get your nails painted? At some point, she might need to get chummy with Emma, but not until she had to, not at those prices.

Two hours later, Nikki's next stop was the Alta Vista Country Club. The club was a jewel in Placentia's crown, a yawning sea of greens that reached up to Rose Avenue, crossed Alta Vista and came to rest at Buena Vista Street.

Peri parked in a section far away from Nikki's sports car and checked her watch. Twelve thirty seemed too late for a golf game, but what did she know? A jaunty little tune began playing in her Bluetooth, so she tapped her earpiece and answered.

"You busy?" Blanche's voice was unmistakable.

"Working a case. I'm waiting outside the country club, thinking of going in. Why?"

"No reason. I got the day off and was bored. Thought I'd see if you wanted to come over."

Peri had an idea. "Want to join me for lunch at Alta Vista?"

"Oooh, can I be part of your operation?"

"Yeah, my very special ops team – of one. I'll go in and get us a table and nose around for info."

"I'm ten minutes away."

Removing her ball cap, she fluffed her hair away from her scalp, and then put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with clear lenses. She also slipped out of her gray zippered hoodie, before stepping out of the car.

Tall glass and wood doors stood at the end of a long colonnade of stone columns, which supported an oxidized metal roof. Square, window-paned lights hung inside, illuminating the way.

Peri watched herself walk toward the door in its glass reflection and stopped. When did her khakis get so wrinkled? And her blue polo shirt, the one she liked so much because it brought out the blue in her eyes, looked baggy and tired. Were these people going to believe she could afford to join their country club?

She took another step forward. Dressed up or not, someone should be able to give me information.

She hesitated. But I might get more information if I was dressed like everyone else.

Peri watched her hands smooth over her slacks in the reflection. Beyond her image, inside the clubhouse, she saw someone walking past. With a deep breath, Peri set her shoulders back, lifted her chin and reached for the brass handle.

Maybe Skip is right, I do need a little shopping trip. After I talk to some employees in this place.

The foyer was large and reflected the craftsman-style architecture of the exterior. Rich browns and caramels with slashes of burgundy were brightened by the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows that peeked from the rooms in the back. Peri heard the quiet murmur of a man's voice announcing scores, so she guessed one of the rooms was a bar.

An older woman was on the phone, checking a computer screen. "I see a foursome for tomorrow morning," she told the caller. "But nothing under Barber."

While she waited for the crisis to be resolved, Peri looked at the latest newsletter. Very glossy, high end printing with lots of pictures, it told of members and their accomplishments, as well as their absences. Peri recognized Don Keller's partner, John Patterson, in a small blurb about having knee surgery. The article wished him a speedy recovery, as the Heritage Golf Tournament and Banquet was coming up.

The woman turned toward Peri and smiled. "May I help you?"

"My boyfriend and I were thinking of joining the club, and I was wondering if you had any brochures."

The woman stood, almost as tall as Peri, and reached across the desk. She was elegant in her crisp, long-sleeved white shirt and navy slacks, her silver hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. A small pin on her shirt said 'Linda'. Holding out a blue folder with a business card, she told Peri, "This folder has all of our fees, and services. And this is the manager's card. You can call Jeff if you have any-"

At that moment, a collected burst of laughter from the bar interrupted them.

Peri smiled at her. "Sounds like a lively crew."

"Yes, that group of ladies meets here for lunch every week."

"Wow, so they're members - do they play golf here as well?"

"Oh, yes, they're a regular foursome."

Peri nodded and smiled. "How lovely, to have a group of friends to do things together." She picked up the folder. "Thank you so much, Linda. I have to discuss this with my boyfriend, but I hope to be in touch soon."

Another round of laughter could be heard from beyond the foyer. Peri looked up, tapped the folder against her palm, and hesitated. "You know, maybe I'll have lunch here, if it's okay. Give me time to read over this information and see if I have any questions."

"Absolutely," Linda told her. "Our restaurant is open to the public."

Peri turned toward the bar and felt her chest tighten. If she guessed right, Nikki's group of friends would be as casually perfect as darling Nikki. She smoothed her wrinkled khakis one more time, blew out the air she had trapped in her lungs, and walked toward the restaurant.

It felt like being back in high school.

* * * * *

Were you back in high school, too, as Peri walked into that room? If so, were you sitting with the cool kids or the chick with the wrinkled khakis?

In my original draft, Peri didn't go into the country club at all. Concerned about her appearance, she went back to her car and waited. The problem was, the scene wasn't working.

How did I know?

It felt flat, like Peri was doing all this surveillance, but nothing was really happening. Going back to her car and waiting for Nikki was boring. There was also something about Peri's character returning to her car that felt stilted and unnatural.

After a lot of head scratching I finally figured it out. I had broken two rules. One, I had let the tension wane by keeping Peri out of potential danger. Two, I had forced her to do something out of her character. Peri is too stubborn and curious to let wilted khakis and a sad polo shirt stop her from getting information. She wouldn't walk away.

So I rewrote the scene and had her go into the country club, and all the way into the restaurant. In my second draft, she went in alone. When I rewrote again, I had Blanche join her as a way of giving Peri someone to bounce ideas off, and get information from.

As always, HIT OR MISSUS is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, other booksellers, and the right side of this blog, where you can purchase an autographed copy from the author.

Wrapping up Christmas - at least the fireplace

2011-12-15T21:47:00.000-08:00

As I've said in a previous post, I'm responsible for decorating the inside of our house for Christmas. Or Halloween. Or Easter. Or Whateverthehell Day. For the most part, I can handle this. There's only one thing that I could really use an extra pair of hands on:

Aw, you say, what a lovely garland. Lovely, my eye. This thing is about 25 feet long and is not soft or flexible. As a matter of fact, it is as pliable as a corpse with rigor. With a one-story house, there is no bannister to drape it over, so I wrap it around the fireplace chimney.

If I can get Marcus to help, he's tall enough to hold one end while I wrap, then grab the middle, etc. If I do this by myself, I am using fishing line, heavy objects, and the stepladder to accomplish the same thing.* By the time I am finished wrestling this monstrosity, this is what it looks like to me:

I know what you're thinking - Why does she put it on the fireplace in the first place?

See the book-like object on the left? It is an Advent Calendar. Inside, there are 24 teeny books on strings that tell the Christmas story. When Marcus was a wee little lad, every night he would read the 10-15 words in the appropriate book, then he would hang the book on the garland. I believe the last time he did this, he was a sophomore in high school and there might have been some mild protestations as he did them.

And so Gayle makes one more trip down Nostalgia Lane.

Here. Just listen to Nat while I go sit by the tree with some wine. A really big glass of wine.

*Why don't I ask my hubby to help me? Because when we work together, it sounds like this:

Dale: Mrmfaphljf.
Me: What?
Dale: I. SAID. WHAT. DO. I. DO. WITH. THIS.
Me: Wrap it around there (gesturing).
Dale: Where?
Me: There.
Dale: Mrmfallphfhl.
Me: Never mind. I've got this.

Away in a manger

2011-12-13T12:14:00.000-08:00

Before I do anything else, I want to direct you to Christine Henderson's blog, The Write Chris, where I am being interviewed. I hope I was good. Even more than reading my interview, if you go back to her post of Monday, she's got all these great links for charities that could use donations, like, buying a goat for a village or helping the Salvation Army.

I confess, when I look about at all the need in the world, I feel a little guilty about what I'm going to share today. My Nativity.

Different, yes? Some might say sparkly.

Some might even say gaudy.

Some might wonder why there are disco balls, pearls, and glitter in the creche with Baby Jesus. I know Vegas is in the desert, but I don't think it really compares to Bethlehem.

Here's the thing. I've had this nativity set since I think about 1984. It is a one of a kind, uniquely made for me by one of the Three Kings in the Glory of Christmas. His name was Richard. If I wasn't trying to think of his last name, it would come to me in a flash, but my memory enjoys hiding things from me (it usually gives me the answer in the middle of the night, causing me to bolt upright in bed).

Let's face it. Even these guys look a little Brokeback Mountain...

At the time I knew him, Richard lived in Laguna Beach. He was a floral designer. Am I leaving enough clues here?

He was sweet and funny and I had the best time hanging out with him backstage (I was a flying angel). Somewhere around 1987 or so, he moved to Hawaii. I haven't heard from him since, but I hope he's alive and well and having a wonderful Christmas.

A side note about my baby Jesus: I know it is tradition to hide the baby until Christmas Eve, but my baby is glued to the manger. He ain't goin' nowhere.

So each year, I give you, LIVE FROM LAS VEGAS -

THE NATIVITY!

(insert wild applause here.)

Please remember, there is a two drink minimum at this show.

And now for a little light caroling

2011-12-12T10:08:00.000-08:00

It's a rainy day in southern California, which is as close to looking like Christmas as we're going to get, if you don't count all the fake snow at the theme parks. I had planned a lot of things to do that involved going outside, not because I hadn't seen the forecast, but because I was in denial that it would come true. So now I'm going to spend the day mostly inside. I may force Duffy to go out for a walk later.

He is, of course, excited about this opportunity to be cold and wet.

I thought this would be a great time to listen to a little holiday music, starting with Dean Martin. The only thing I don't like about this video is that it doesn't show Dino - how crazy is that?

Honest to Pete, I don't know what it is about his voice and this song, but it all sounds so flirty and masculine I just want to giggle like a schoolgirl.

I also found this video of Dean singing a song I don't think I've ever heard but it's totally cool. What's totally uncool is that embedding has been disabled, so all I can do is point to this link.
Here's a version of "The Christmas Song" I stumbled upon while cruising for Dino tunes. Makes me feel all nostalgic.

Finally, it wouldn't be Christmas without these kids.

Confess: how many times have you watched this show? For extra points, how many times have you watched it NOT at Christmastime, just because it's so delightful?

Hit or Missus - Chapter 5

2011-12-11T11:00:00.000-08:00

Good Sunday morning, everyone!

Here's your next chapter of Hit or Missus. I thought I'd do something a little fun with the text today. I've attached links to some of the places mentioned in the chapter. That way, if you're interested in where Peri and Skip go around town, you can look things up easily.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 5

Two steps into her kitchen, Peri's shins made contact with a soft but immovable object. She stuttered forward, trying to stay on both feet and hold onto the bag of Chinese food she'd just bought at Pick Up Stix. The object yowled as her foot came down on it and she fell to her knees, sending her chicken teriyaki bowl and egg rolls dashing across the floor and into the wall, where the container tops exploded.

"Ow-ow-ow." Pain pulsed from her hands to her elbows, her knees to her hips. She eased back onto her heels and rubbed her palms, looking at the chaos that was supposed to be her lunch, now splashed on the wall and floor.

Her new guest wandered over to the mess and sniffed. He picked up a piece of chicken and proceeded to shred and eat it.

"Damn cat, I forgot about you." Peri stood and limped to the paper towels.

Mr. Mustard sat and licked his paws while she picked up the food, then bolted away when she got out the spray bottle of cleanser.

Later, as she curled on the couch and ate a peanut butter sandwich while reading her notes, she felt a warm prickle on the back of her neck, as though she was being watched. She looked up to find two large, yellow eyes staring, unblinking, at her.

"Finding everything you need here?" She reached out and rubbed his ear. "Poor kitty, losing Bob and Dottie within a month. Don't worry, I'll find a good home for you. Someone who loves kitties."

Peri finished her sandwich and thought about Bob and Dottie. It wasn't unusual for elderly couples to die within weeks, or even days, of each other. Still, she thought it was curious.

She wadded up her napkin, and heard a strange, giggling sound. The cat at her side leaped to attention, staring at the paper ball in her hand. She held it up.

"You want this?"

The cat's tail vibrated. Peri threw the napkin across the room and watched him run after it, capture it, and return to her, the napkin in his mouth. She laughed and threw it again. The tabby gave chase, then dropped the napkin at her feet and waited. They spent a few minutes in this game, until the cat suddenly walked away and curled up in the window for a nap.

Peri thought about their game, and remembered the morning's events.

The paper Mr. Mustard gave me – "DECIDE NOW" – what was that phone number? She closed her eyes and visualized the note. It had been written in bold, dark print, making it easy to recall. Five-five-five, oh-six-two-four. She reached for the phone and dialed.

A woman answered, her voice low and words enunciated. "Keller and Patterson, how may I direct your call?"

"I'm sorry, I think I misdialed - is this 555-2624?"

"No, ma'am, it's oh-six-two-four."

Peri apologized once more and hung up. Why would Dottie have a note to call her client's office?

Forcing herself back to her own case, she logged on to her laptop and did a preliminary hunt for Nikki Simms Keller. A pass through the woman's internet presence was enough to give Peri indigestion. According to Classmates, Nikki Simms enjoyed life as a high school cheerleader before attending the University of Southern California as a communications major.

She checked Facebook next. Usually, people had their privacy settings so no one could read their information, but updates to the online social network sometimes reset preferences. Nikki's privacy settings were in the middle of the road, so Peri could see some of her information, such as her friends, her photos, and her notes.

Looking at her friends' photos, Peri saw one that looked familiar, Carol Hanlon. Carol was a woman she had once cleaned house for and was now in her Facebook friend list. She guessed Carol was Nikki's friend because they both belonged to the Alta Vista Country Club. Clicking on Carol's name, Peri was able to read some of Nikki's status updates.

"Party time tonight for all my Bettys," was the latest.

What are Bettys"? Peri searched the Internet, trying to figure out the meaning. Google was of no help; all of the pages were about businesses with 'Betty' in the name.

"No, I don't mean Betty's Baked Goods," she told her computer.

She printed basic information about her client's wife, including her previous addresses and criminal history. Peri glanced at them as she put them into a large purple folder with a number on the top. Apart from a few recent traffic citations, Nikki had no criminal history, and it didn't look like she had spent any significant time outside California.

The question of Dottie Peters and Don Keller's development firm tugged at the back of Peri's brain, so she decided to take a break and do a little digging in another direction. She was still wandering aimlessly through Dottie and Bob's histories when she heard a key in the back door, followed by the sound of the hinges, a simultaneous thump and cat's scream, and then Skip's growling expletives.

"Watch out for the cat," she said.

An orange streak flashed by her as the cat ran toward the bedroom. Skip walked in a few moments later with a bottle of beer.

"Thanks for the warning." He reached down and kissed her before collapsing into the couch.

"Rough day?"

"Not bad, except for Dottie. Death just leaves me feeling kinda… spent."

Peri put her laptop aside and wrapped her arms around him. "Sorry, Babe. Even when someone's older, it's hard." She kissed his neck. "And the older I get, the younger Dottie seemed."

They sat, entwined, for awhile, listening to the music from the stereo. Peri had put on Joe Sample, and the strains of smooth jazz piano floated through the room like a grown-up lullaby.

She reached for his beer. "What's for dinner?"

He glanced at his watch. "It's pretty early. We could go for sushi."

Peri caught his wrist and checked the time. "Five on a Tuesday. Hmm, I guess Fish in a Bottle won't be that busy."

Their heads bent together towards the watch, his upper lip close enough to brush her lower one. In less than a second, they were kissing, losing themselves in the moment while they tried not to spill the beer.

"How hungry are you?" He nuzzled her neck. "Could we get something a little later?"

"Mmm, sounds tempting, but I could eat shoe leather right now. The damn cat spilled my lunch."

He kissed her again. "Here one day and he's already ruining our love life."

She stroked his cheek. "Well, feed me and we can get back to business."

* * * * *

Check back next Sunday for Chapter 6, or buy it now and read for yourself!

Run for your lives! Frosty's on the warpath!

2011-12-10T17:33:00.000-08:00

This is the scene on what I think is called my couch table (it's the table behind the couch) in the family room. My lovely sister-in-law, Mindy sent me these cute little Americana style decorations over the years, so I feel inclined to display them together. I was looking for a table runner that looked more like snow, but all I could find was this Christmas-y quilt pattern, which did fit in with the home-spun nature of the decorations.

The problem?

The perspective seems a little off. As in, "due to atomic mutation, Frosty the Snowman terrorized the small community of Quiltville." I'm not certain how the townsfolk conquered the attack of the fifty-foot snow monster, but as you can see in the left corner, chocolate was involved.

The train set is, in itself, problematic. In addition to the train, the set came with a town.

I'm thinking no one in town is tall enough to be the engineer. Heck, even Quiltville Trucker Bob needs a stepladder to get into his duelly.

(By-the-by, pay no attention to the starry Santa and tall-but-not-gigantic snowman in the picture. They only got half the dose of radiation that zapped Frosty.)

The train reminds me of a circus train, all brightly colored, just like the one that carried Dumbo across the country. But look at the animals in the cars.

Pigs,

Sheep,

Horses?

What kind of train would haul barnyard animals?

Oh. Oh, that kind of train.

Don't worry, kids. This train goes to the petting zoo. That's right, the petting zoo. Maybe Frosty will step in front of the train and stop it, and the animals will escape. They will run away and find a kind and gentle girl who will take them in and keep them safe. Then everyone will live happily ever after.

Even the people in Quiltville.

Welcome to the mind of a writer. We never stop making up crap.

A Christmas Sing-a-long!

2011-12-08T11:07:00.000-08:00

I really have a bunch of cleaning to do today, but I had to get this out of the way first.

I was itching to do a promo video, and asked my son to provide the soundtrack. Unfortunately, he's all tied up with things like finals and juries (these are finals that you sing), so he was unable to help. That means it's up to you.

Let's have a sing-a-long! Here's your motivation (in addition to not being a singer, I'm also not a photographer, but play along):

Okay, in your best Karen Carpenter Dulcet Tones, sing along with me:

(insert beautiful piano intro here)

I'll be home for Christmas,
You can count on me.
Please have Nooks,
And lots of books,
And Kindles 'round the tree.

Christmas Eve will find me
Where the stories lead.
I'll be home for Christmas,
With lots of stuff to read.

Happy Holidays with much love for your support and friendship,

Gayle.

Aw, Christmas tree.

2011-12-07T09:44:00.000-08:00

I meant to have this post earlier, like yesterday, but I took pictures with my phone and mailed them to my email in order to post them here. It sounds convoluted, but it gets worse. The pictures took For.Ever. to get to my inbox, and I could have just downloaded them from my phone but I was too lazy to go dig out the cable.

Sue me, I'm a day late.

Anywho... on Monday, when I completed Decorating, Round One, I posted this picture of the tree to Facebook. Everyone oooh'd and aaah'd over its beauty, and I told them all Christmas trees look beautiful in the dark with twinkling lights. In the daylight, my tree looks like ornaments have flung themselves, willy nilly, at the branches. Don't believe me?

Here's the proof. There is no rhyme or reason to this. Angels, trains, golf balls and horses all clump together. If this was a novel, it would be one of those experimental pieces of literary fiction that would be hailed as genuis by that community out there who never believes a cigar is just a cigar. Don't be fooled. This tree is a hot mess. And why is there a string of plastic pearls running around?

Because it was in the box of decorations, and when I decorate for Christmas, I firmly believe in gilding the lily. Excess is not enough.

Let's add to the merriment with a side shot: Turns out, the tree trunk takes a slight list to starboard halfway up, a fact that I didn't see while I was evaluating the tree's worthiness on a hillside. The bottom trunk looked straight, which it is. The top half careens like a drunken sailor. This is why we tie the tree to the wall every year. Fishing line: it's not just for catching your limit.

It works out, though. Every evening, I sit on the couch with the lights aglow, a fresh smell of pine in the room, and toast the tree with a glass of wine. The tree's had enough.

Oh, what a Christmas to have the blues

2011-12-05T21:06:00.000-08:00

It took me a solid day, but I have all the Christmas decorations out and up - almost. I still have to put the reindeer in the front windows, but I can't find the sucky-things with hooks to put them up. Most years, I wander around looking for them, give up in frustration and go out and buy more. Somewhere in my house, there are thirty sucky-thingies, not sucking.

This is not the first year I've put the decorations up by myself. Dale covers the outside lights and I do the inside. Marcus was never much for decorating anything. It wasn't that he was unhelpful; he just became too pre-occupied with sorting and counting the ornaments to actually hang them on the tree. Last year, he was still away at school (okay, away as in 20 minutes away), just like this year.

But this year I feel the emptiness.

Last Christmas, Marcus helped me take the ornaments off the tree. As we took each little figure and ball from the tree to the table, where I'd box them eventually, I pointed out the ornaments that were either made by him or about him. You know, Baby's First Christmas, etc.

"One day you'll have your own place and your own tree," I said. "And these are all yours."

He looked at the assortment of bears and balls and bells. "Nah, that's okay."

"Are there others you'd like instead?"

"Not really."

That's when I found that my son was not sentimental about any of our Christmas stuff. I don't suppose it surprised me. Boys aren't usually wired to be sentimental. It was okay.

Until this year, when I looked at all the boxes of shiny doodads and thought, it's the end of the line for you.

When I am gone, no one will care about the first ornament I ever got, from the mother of my first boyfriend in kindergarten. She was not an educated woman. Their family was, along with ours, on the low end of the middle class. I say this because you may notice that the G in Gayle is upside down. It's endearing to me, that this kind, lovely woman did her best to give me something nice.

No one will care about the angel that my friend LaLa made for me, or the one my friend's mom handpainted for me. No one will want to keep the silk corsage Dotty Trapp gave me after going to the Glory of Christmas and seeing me fly. Marcus will probably not even put up a tree, much less pack each branch with ornaments like his lunatic mother. (You might have noticed, in these pictures, a certain lack of theme and attention to chaos.)

It's enough to make me melancholy, but I rallied and reached for a glass of wine. Then I called and w(h)ined to my friend Michele. We decided that I'd put a condition in my will, where my son would have to put my decorations up every year or forfeit his inheritance.

But in case he doesn't, I thought I'd spend a little time posting every day, or every other day, about some of the decorations around our house and what they've come to mean to me. Some of them, like the corsage, are kind of poignant. I worked for both Dotty and her husband, Bob, for years at Hughes. She died of cancer, too young, too soon, and there's still a part of me that feels the loss.

Some of them are funny, like the handpainted angel that my friend Judith kept making her mom do over because she kept getting the hair wrong. The hair ended up pink, but I didn't mind. It's the cutest little porcelain angel, and I love the little feet under her gown.

I even have a creepy ornament, sort of. I worked with a woman who thoroughly hated my guts, as well as the other parts of me, I'm sure. She felt she deserved the promotion that I got (and earned, thank you very much), and couldn't stand it when she had to work for me. That year, she handmade ornaments for everyone on our team. It was weird, but I could almost feel the venom in that piece of glass. I think I "lost" that ornament, but since Dale worked with her, too, I put his ornament on the tree. It wasn't tainted.

Do you have any decorations with stories, or histories? I'd love to hear them.

Hit or Missus - Chapter 4

2011-12-04T00:00:00.000-08:00

You're in luck! Just for the holidays, the e-version of Hit or Missus is only 99 e-cents. Amazon even lets you give an e-book to a friend or loved one as a gift. There's no e-excuse!

Okay, I'll e-stop and get to the chapter. Enjoy.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 4

Peri usually didn't mind the steady 78-degree temperature maintained in her office, but today it wouldn't do. Meeting a wealthy client like Don Keller meant dressing for more success than usual, so she had worn her charcoal suit, which was tailored, professional, and too warm for autumn in southern California. Upon entering her office, she cranked the thermostat down to seventy.

Cold flooded the small space. Peri stood by the vent to push the air down the front of her sapphire blouse and up over her temples until she was sufficiently dry. The hormone regimen had taken care of most of her hot flashes, but stress and sudden activity could still trigger a round of profuse sweating. Comfortable at last, she returned the thermostat to its normal setting and put her suit jacket back on.

Keller was due in her office at ten. At ten thirty, Peri heard a loud male voice coming down the hall. She couldn't quite make out words, but no one else was talking, which meant the guy was either on a cell phone or a raving lunatic. Just at the point where she wanted to go outside and thump whoever was blabbering, her office door flew open and a man charged in. He let the door slam behind him and looked at Peri.

She rose and extended her hand. "Mr. Keller? I'm-"

"John, he's been telling us to wait a week for the past month." Keller ignored her and dragged the guest chair around until it was halfway toward the door, facing the wall to her right. He sat down, propping an ankle on the opposite knee and alternately glancing at the door, then out the window. A large silver Bluetooth earpiece was implanted in his right ear, effectively cutting her off from any conversation with him as he continued talking on the phone. "I know you like the guy, but we can't give him any more time. Get the paperwork started, I'll be in to sign it later."

Peri sat back and watched the scene, astonished, wondering why she wanted him as a client, apart from his deep pockets. From his navy wool suit to his shiny Oxford shoes, he oozed both money and power. The faint scent of high-end cologne drifted across the room, a combination of sandalwood and cigars that crawled up her sinuses and clung to the front of her skull. She hated cologne.

Mr. Keller continued to yammer, unconcerned about her presence. For a real estate developer, he wasn't very charming. With the rich and mighty, always a little patience, Peri thought, remembering last night's viewing of The Philadelphia Story.

She tried again. "Mr. Keller-"

He held a hand out to silence her as he prattled on with the unseen caller. Peri felt the warm glow of irritation creep up her chest. To hell with patience, she didn't want this client badly enough to be abused for the privilege.

She reached into her pink snakeskin tote and pulled out her iPod, selected a song, and plugged it into the docking station. The Who's "My Generation" began playing. Peri pointed the speakers toward Keller and pressed the volume controls until the walls vibrated with each stroke of Keith Moon's drumsticks.

At the first sound of music, Keller gave a disapproving look to the iPod, then scooted his chair closer to the door. By the time the volume reached critical mass, he was glaring at Peri and shouting over the noise.

"Just a minute, John," he said as he left the office.

Peri turned the music off. She hoped Keller wouldn't tell all his friends what a horrid witch she was, but he was so disrespectful, she almost didn't care. Besides, she had plenty of other clients who would rebut his claim. She took off her jacket and opened her laptop to work on some billing.

As her computer whirred to life, the door opened and Don Keller walked back in. He pulled the chair up to the desk and sat down, facing Peri. She was happily surprised, until he opened his mouth.

"Miss Minnowpia, are you ready to discuss business? I don't have a lot of time."

Despite her desire to throw something large and heavy at his head, she kept her expression as neutral as possible. "Neither do I, Mister Keller. If the appointment you made with me was inconvenient, then you need to reschedule. I have other clients to see after you, and I have no intention of making them pay for your lack of consideration."

She had no other clients to see, but her blood had gone from boiling to pure steam heat.

"And by the way, it's Minn-ee-OH-pa." She sat back and stared at the rich businessman, then looked down at her watch. "But you can call me Peri if it's easier. Now, what can I do for you?"

The hum of a vibrating cell phone interrupted them. Keller looked at his phone, and then at Peri. The moment hung between them like a heavy fog, the phone's low tone purring at intervals. At last, Keller reached down and turned his phone off.

"I need someone to investigate my wife."

Peri opened a file on her laptop. "I can do that for you, Mr. Keller. I'm assuming you suspect your wife of having an affair."

He smiled, revealing a row of perfect teeth, the front two slightly pronounced, all white as porcelain against his tan. Peri noted his wavy blonde hair, blue eyes and dark eyebrows, and wondered how much was good genes and how much was the work of professionals.

"Let's just say I wonder how she spends her days. Vicki Cheavers recommended you. She said you were very thorough and very discreet."

More discreet than she is, Peri thought. Her client told her philandering husband who she'd hired to track his movements, and the husband repaid Peri by trying to kill her.

Handing him several papers, she said, "This is my standard contract and statement of my rates. If it's agreeable, you can sign it and we'll get started."

She took the signed documents back from him and placed them in a folder. "So, what makes you so curious about your wife's whereabouts?"

"Little things. Some I can understand, but some of them-" He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small notebook, then opened it and skimmed through the pages. "Consistent tardiness for one."

"Is this something new?"

Keller tilted his head, as if thinking. "Yes and no. Nikki's always been scatterbrained. I mean, I love her, but she can be the definition of a dumb blonde sometimes. So she's been late to things before, but lately it's, I don't know, different."

"Can you pin down 'different' a little? Is she late to every event?"

"Maybe not every event, but more than she used to."

"How about her demeanor when she's late? Has that changed?"

Keller nodded. "Maybe that's it. You used to know Nikki was late. You'd hear high heels clicking, then she'd burst into the room. I swear the lights would get brighter, just from her energy."

"And now?" Peri typed on her computer as she spoke.

"She slinks in, doesn't announce herself. By the time I see her, I have no idea how long she's even been there."

"How long has this been going on?"

"I'm not certain, but maybe as long as six months. I guess I just wanted to think everything was normal." He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. "Then there's this. I found it in our trash."

Peri took it from him. It was a receipt from the Titan bookstore, on the campus of California State University, Fullerton. Sunglasses and a tee-shirt were purchased. "And what's the significance of this?"

"Nikki's a USC grad. She'd have no reason to be on the Fullerton campus, much less buy a shirt and sunglasses there."

"So you suspect her of buying these items for someone else?"

"I've never seen her wear them."

"Have you talked to her about any of this?"

He shook his head. "Odds are, she won't tell me the truth. Why should I tip my hand?"

Peri sat back and smiled. "Pre-nup?"

"I don't think we need to discuss that." He tore several pages out of his notebook and tossed them on the desk, then pulled several bills from his wallet and handed them to her.

"Thank you, Mr. Keller." She put the money and notes in the folder, and wrote a receipt. "How do you want me to get in touch with you?"

"Call my cell and leave a message, nothing too detailed. I'll call you back." He opened the door, and then turned, smiling. "Looks like your next client is running a little late."

Peri stared at him, smiling politely. "Some clients aren't very considerate, are they?"

She glanced at her watch as the door clicked shut. A little past eleven did not signal the lunch hour, but she hadn't eaten anything, apart from some cranberry juice. She had promised lunch with Skip, so she called him.

"Sorry, Doll, I can't get away before one," he told her.

Lunch plans cancelled, she stopped at a Chinese restaurant and picked up a quick bite to take home, where she could do a little research on Nikki Keller.

* * * * *

Stay tuned next week for another exciting chapter! Or, look over to the right of this blog - it's for sale in paperback, in e-book, and even as an autographed copy from moi!

P.S. I know there are a lot of exclamation points in this post, but I don't get to use them in my books, so I like to get them out and let them run around a little.

It sounded like such a simple plan

2011-11-30T17:36:00.000-08:00

I am exhausted, Peeps, and I still have errands to run. Blame it on the holidays, and my own damned creative streak. You see, I had an idea. An awful idea. I had a wonderfully awful idea.

Every year, my family takes a Christmas photo (see this blog post for how that goes), and I write a Christmas letter. I try to keep the letters brief, inject a little humor, tug on a heartstring, etc. For years now, I've been submitting our picture to either an on-line service, or schlepping to the local drugstore, to make picture cards. Some years, it would be the 4 x 8 card, with our photo on one side and some kind of "Season's Greetings" on the other. Some years, I opted for the 5 x 7 folded card with the message inside.

But each year, I had to print the letter separately, and then find a way to fold it into the card. Neither style of card lent itself to inserting an 8-1/2 x 11 inch piece of paper, unless I folded it into some kind of origami critter.

This year, we ended up with some good pictures, and one really funny one. I couldn't decide which photo to use. Then I got the Most Brilliant of Ideas. If I used a brochure template, I could put one photo on the front, then the other photo on the first fold-out, and finally, the letter on the inside. It would be Per.Fect.

I went to Office Max and behold! They had brochure paper, nice and thick, and already scored for easy folding. I could print as many cards as I needed, without wasting. I wouldn't have to wait for my cards to be processed and shipped to me. And no more origami letters!

Here's the thing: I have two printers and they BOTH hate the brochure paper. It's the wrong weight for them. It's like I'm trying to feed a hamburger to confirmed vegans. Neither of them like to grab it and feed it in, to be printed. They get a corner, wrinkle the paper, then announce that they "need paper." They do not need paper. They are both big wussies.

So in order to implement my brilliant plan and save money/time, blah, blah, I spent all morning in front of my wireless printer, feeding it one sheet of brochure paper at a time, in order to produce 60 copies of our Christmas card/letter. Many bad words were said. Many names were called.

It did not feel like the most wonderful time of the year.

So here's the front of our "Christmas brochure:"

Open it up and you'll see this:

Unfold the last flap to read:

If I need to make more, I may just take my files to Office Max and let them make copies. It costs a lot more to make color copies, but it will definitely save my sanity.

Got any Christmas photos/letters floating around the internet that you'd like to share? Perhaps a story or two of the sacrifices you've made to get those cards in the mail?

Hit or Missus - Chapter 3

2011-11-27T00:00:00.000-08:00

I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Unless you're not American and you don't celebrate the third Thursday of November by overeating, watching football games, and getting into some kind of tizzy with the relatives. Then I just hope you're having a nice weekend. Here's another chapter of HIT OR MISSUS. As always, if you want to purchase your own copy, see the right column. It's available in paperback, in ebook and I can even send you an autographed version. After all, I'm here for you.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 3

Skip had smelled the decay as soon as he stepped onto the front porch. Too bad Peri's not here, he thought, she could probably determine TOD from that super-sniffer of hers.

He still felt vaguely uncomfortable about their conversation this morning. Peri's reaction surprised him. Granted, her trip through menopause had resulted in some enormous burrs under her saddle, but he didn't expect her to be so combative, when he was trying to be complimentary.

Officer Ella Mason held the door for him. In her mid-thirties, Ella had been on the PPD for five years, beginning as the property room clerk. She had worked her way into the field, keeping her uniform sharp and her mind sharper. Skip noticed she held the back of her hand to her washed-out face. He smiled a little, remembering his first murder scene.

"First D.B., Ella?"

She nodded, and turned to face the rose garden before taking a deep breath.

"She's been here a few days, sir. No sign of foul play."

Skip walked through the door into the small bungalow. He saw a petite brunette kneeling by the body, which was already showing the signs of decay. Covering his nose with a handkerchief, he knelt down beside her.

"Hey, Blanche, how's it going?"

She paused from her work and looked over her glasses at him. "Hey, Skip. Peri with you?"

"Why would she be?"

Blanche's look became a stare. "Because she lives two blocks away, she used to clean the Peters' house, and she wouldn't pass up a chance to look at the scene."

"She was going to come, but-" Skip couldn't admit their argument. "She's got a meeting this morning."

"Meeting, huh." Blanche scribbled in her notebook, then stood up. "Well, offhand, it looks like a heart attack, which only means there aren't any signs of anything else. I don't know if she was under a doctor's care. Pretty coincidental that Bob had a heart attack less than a month ago."

Skip stood and looked at the scene. The coffee cup lay on the carpet, a dark patch in a splatter from the chair. "Yeah, that's what Peri said. I suppose two heart attacks in two elderly people isn't that odd." He paused, thinking. "But a blood panel would be a good idea, even if she has a note from her doctor. I'd like to rule out poisons, overdose, that sort of thing."

"You bet."

"Maybe it's a coincidence, but we should cover our bases." Skip walked through the small house, to the single bathroom. He opened the mirrored medicine cabinet over the sink, checked under the counter and opened all the drawers.

"I don't see any prescriptions," he told Blanche as he returned to the living room.

He saw Officer Mason standing in the doorway. She appeared to be talking on a cell phone, her face flushed and body tense. He walked toward her; as he approached, she pushed a button and stuffed the phone into her pants pocket.

"Everything okay, Ella?"

She looked at him, opened her mouth, and burst into tears.

Crying women were not Skip's forte. He tried to be comforting, but he really wanted to tell them to snap out of it. Peri understood. Sure, she cried sometimes, but mostly when she was physically injured, and usually she acted like she wanted to tell herself to snap out of it. Bracing himself, he stepped in closer to the young officer. Her hair smelled like a piña colada.

"Something you want to talk about?"

"Sorry, sir," Ella replied, taking several breaths to calm her sniffles. "Personal matter."

"Need some time?"

"No, sir." She straightened and looked him in the eye, her face puffy.

Skip stepped back. He and Ella stood and stared at one another while a clock in the living room ticked through the awkward silence. Ella blinked first.

"It's my son. He's in the principal's office again. I can't keep him out of trouble."

"Do you need to go take care of it?"

"No, not this time." She shook her head. "I've been jumping down to the school every time they call. Jorge treats it like another day off. I told him this time he'd have to tough it out in the office until my shift ends."

"Can't his dad help out?"

"We don't see much of him."

"That's too bad." Skip didn't know what else to tell her.

"It's just hard for Jorge. He lives with me and my mom and my sister, and I think he feels like there are too many moms in his life and not enough dads."

"I understand. Maybe if he was on a sports team, or maybe he could be in that Big Brother program."

She looked up at Skip with a smile that told him his suggestions were nice but not new, or helpful. "We'll work it out, Detective."

"All right, then," Skip said, patting her shoulder. "See if you can find a name around here of someone to notify. Talk to the neighbors."

He watched Ella turn for the door, wondering if he had just been as useless as he felt, but was interrupted by Blanche. "Why don't you call Peri? She used to clean their house."

"Yeah, I know." Skip opened the top drawer of the desk next to him and rifled through some papers. Most were stubs from bills, a few lists written in a shaky hand, but nothing said, In Case of Emergency.

"She probably knows where their contact information is."

Skip opened another drawer. "Yeah, I know."

Blanche held up her phone and smiled. "I got her on speed dial."

"Thanks, Beebs, I'll take care of it." He retrieved his phone from its holder and pressed Peri's number. His finger poised over the Send key, he hesitated. Peri's sarcasm was the worst part of her.

Man up, Carlton, he thought, and pressed the button.

"Hi, you've reached Peri Minneopa, Private Investigative Services…"

Skip waited for the end of the greeting, happy to have avoided any more arguments. He left a message, and then resumed his search of the house. More papers were in a pile on the small accent table next to the recliner. Skip leafed through them, documents in legalese, describing a parcel of land, title searches and name affidavits. It appeared the Peters had bought land out in Palm Desert. The documents were dated within the last year, but Skip wondered why they were lying out on the table. On a hunch, he dug his cell phone out again and pressed a number. It answered after one ring.

"Bonham here." Placentia's crime scene unit consisted of one officer, Jason Bonham, who tagged and bagged evidence before sending it to the Orange County forensics lab.

"Jason, can you bring your kit to the Peters' residence? …Yeah, it looks like natural causes, but her husband died recently, too… I know, but I just don't like coincidences."

Skip hung up and walked back through the house. Blanche was watching the gurney with Dottie's body being wheeled out by two young men.

"Everything okay with you and Peri?" Her gaze remained on the black bag.

Women were like sharks, he thought, when it came to relationships, they could smell a drop of trouble in a sea of love. "Sure, fine."

Blanche walked toward the door. "I've got another call, but I'll get the autopsy and tox screen results to you as soon as I have them." She smiled and waved on her way to her car. "There's Peri now."

Skip watched Peri lope up the sidewalk, then slow to a walk. She took her iPod from its casing around her arm and pressed some buttons, then put it back and took her ear buds out, draping them around her neck. He studied the way she pulled her cap down and her ponytail back as she started up the path to the house.

She stopped by the coroner's van and talked to Blanche. Skip saw the way the two women smiled and grimaced and laughed in a way that made him feel like he was the main event. Peri glanced up at him and waved, confirming his suspicions.

He stood at the door, ready to hold it for her, but she paused again, at the clump of police officers, chatting and smiling. They smiled back.

He had to admit, even in sweaty running clothes, Peri was a good-looking gal. Craig Daniels, a recently divorced detective about their age, laughed at something she said, and Skip felt just a pinch of jealousy, mixed with the pride of being her – her what?

"Boyfriend" was so high school, "significant other" so dry. Forget "soul mates", that was just plain chick-flick. There was no term to describe them, but he was hers and she was his and they knew it, even if they had no rings or paper or even shared living quarters to prove the fact.

Peri bounded up the steps to the front door. "Hey, Skip, did I miss much?" She took a deep breath, followed by a shallower one. "Wow, it smells in here."

"Body's gone, but come on in. I was trying to find a number for someone to notify."

She gestured toward the hallway. "You can check Bob's nightstand, but I know they didn't have any children. They might have siblings - I think I remember a Christmas card from a brother."

A plaintive meow came from the hall as a large, orange tabby appeared. He trotted over to Peri, only looking at Skip to blink before leaning his body into her legs.

"Mr. Mustard, I forgot about you." She bent down to scratch his back. He arched his spine into her nails, his head cocked and eyes closed in kitty bliss. "This is Dottie and Bob's cat."

"He won't be able to stay here," Skip said. "I'll call Animal Control."

Peri continued to massage the cat, from face to rump. "Like, the pound?"

"I guess. Why?"

"Hmm, nothing. Well, actually, when I was little, I used to go to the shelter in Salinas with my mom. She was a rescuer."

"No wonder you don't do pets."

"It was nothing like that. I've told you about my folks. They were free spirits, but they weren't hoarders. Helen would take the adoptable pets home, spend some time socializing them, then unload them on gullible neighbors."

Skip laughed. "Gullible, huh? How'd your dad like your mom's hobby?"

"Erik didn't mind."

"I still can't believe you call your folks Erik and Helen."

Peri stood up and stretched her arms skyward. "Like I said, free spirits." She looked over at Mr. Mustard, who had strolled away to sharpen his claws on the leg of the sofa. "How long does he have, til, you know?"

"Til what? Oh, I think they keep them for a week before they put 'em to sleep."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I think." He watched Peri walk over and scratch the cat again. "Maybe less."

Mr. Mustard, having reached his fill of attention, nipped Peri's hand and ran back down the hallway.

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. "I know I'm going to hate this, but I'll take him home with me."

Skip looked at her. "The woman who can't keep goldfish alive? You know, you can't flush a cat, Doll."

"Ha ha. It's just temporary, until I can find a new home for him. Besides, I doubt if he'll let me forget to feed him. Fish don't meow."

The cat bounded back into the room, stopping at Peri to butt his head against her shin before dropping something at her feet. She reached down and picked it up.

"Mr. Mustard likes to play fetch." She opened the wadded paper and read. "'Decide now, five-five-five, oh-two-six-four. Think it's anything?"

Skip took the note from her. "I don't know, but we'll run it down. As soon as Jason gets here, I'm off. Want to get together later for lunch?"

"Sure, um, I've just got that meeting." Peri looked at her watch. "Crap, I'm running late. Can you drop the cat over at my place? His crate's in the hall closet, litter box in the bathroom, food should be on the second shelf in the pantry."

"Oh, Doll, I don't have time-"

"Come on, Skipper, please? I can't carry all that stuff back without a car." She reached up and kissed his nose. "I'll buy lunch."

Skip smiled. "Think you can afford me?"

She leaned into him and ran her hand down his shirt, her fingers massaging his chest. "I think I can make you forget about lunch altogether."

* * * * *

Who's thankful?

2011-11-21T19:44:00.000-08:00

When I was young, I was destined to be an artist. My mother's side of the family all drew and painted. My mother's brother was a professional artist. He spent a good chunk of his life working at ad agencies and drawing whatever schlock they required, but he also drew and painted and sculpted prolifically, and was finally able to leave the advertising world behind and support his family on his artwork.

Everyone saw my potential. I could make a tree look like a tree! I could draw Fred Flintstone and I was only ten! So even though my favorite thing to do was tell tales (which I did, using my crayons, see the Crime Fiction Collective blog on this subject), I was happy to go down the rainbow-colored road with ma familia.

When you're a kid and your parents and grandparents are all screaming BRAVO every time you pick up a paintbrush, what else is there to do?

After one year as an art major at Millikin University, I discovered two important things:

1. If I really wanted to be an artist, I was going to have to fight my parents' idea of artistic quality in order to forge my own artistic identity and vision.

2. If I didn't get out of my parents' house soon, I would have more in common with Van Gogh when he was going crazy than when he was being a brilliant artiste.

Either way, it was going to be uphill all the way. My discovery led to my decision to marry my boyfriend and "start living my life." It was not a wise decision, but I folded those lessons learned into future choices. We'll leave the discussion of how that worked out for a later time.

I didn't save much of my artwork from my youth. The only thing I have is a rather bizarre painting of a girl in a one-horse open sleigh. I do have one remnant from my year at college: an animation I did for my Winter Break class, a one-month session. In four short weeks, I drew and colored over 1800 pictures, took the stack to my uncle to be shot with his 16-mm camera, then took the film to be processed. Being the Stone Age, the film had a turnaround of five days. This meant I really had three weeks to do everything else.

I remember finishing the camera work at 3:30 in the morning and sleeping until about 4:00 p.m. the next day. My dad was kind enough to take the film in to be developed.

My instructor screened it in my presence. He not only loved it, he pronounced me "twisted." Art professors love twisted students.

For years, the film traveled around with me, spending time with the mayo in my fridge. At some point, I had the contents transferred to videotape. The VHS version also wandered from address to address. Yesterday, it dawned on me that VHS was moving on to greener pastures, so I had Dale transfer it to a DVD, which I then loaded on my computer and fiddled with. It is a completely silent film, so I added some sound effects. They are, admittedly, less than stellar. Perhaps my son could write a soundtrack for it. Just sayin'.

At any rate, for your viewing pleasure, here is the reason we can all be thankful I am not an artist today. (Note: it is also the reason to be thankful I am not an actor.)

Hit or Missus - Chapter 2

2011-11-20T00:00:00.000-08:00

Hola, Peeps. Hope you're all having a wonderful weekend. Here it is, just as promised. Chapter 2 of my latest mystery, HIT OR MISSUS. If you're interested in purchasing it, just look over to the right side of this blog.

* * * * *
CHAPTER 2

"Peri, you see my other sock?"

"In the kitchen, under a chair."

"And my tie-"

"On the printer in my office." She rolled over on her side and pushed herself from the bed. "Okay. I'm up."

Skip walked over and kissed her forehead. "Stay in bed, Doll. It's only six."

She stretched her long legs out before putting her feet on the cool wood floor. "And yet, we've already had such a lovely chat." Yawning, she shuffled toward the bathroom. "I should run before my meeting, anyway."

Ten minutes later, Peri followed the smell of coffee to the kitchen and found Skip sitting at the table, reading the paper. He looked handsome in his creamy button-down shirt and chocolate slacks. A Placentia Police Department detective badge lay on the table, along with his gun.

"I thought you had to leave early." She dug around in the refrigerator, moving last night's takeout boxes to get to the cranberry juice.

"I've got enough time to read the sports page. What's on your agenda for the day?"

"New client at ten. Don Keller."

"Don Keller? The developer?"

Peri closed the refrigerator, a small bottle of juice in her hand. "That's him."

"Why does he want to see you?"

"Oh, I don't know, because I'm a private investigator and he has something to investigate?" She frowned. "What's wrong with him coming to see me?"

Skip put the paper down. "Nothing. It's just that, he's kind of high-end."

"So was Mrs. Cheavers, but she came slumming to my part of town." She swallowed a handful of vitamins with her juice. "Of course, her husband shot me, which only proves you can never judge people."

Skip rose and picked up his badge and gun. "Well, if this is another cheating spouse case, maybe you should ask Keller if his wife is packing before you take it." He pulled Peri to him for a kiss, then took a step back to look at her.

"Shouldn't you get some new running clothes?"

Peri looked down at her gray tee-shirt and black spandex shorts. She grabbed the shirt and held it out toward Skip. "Property of the PPD. Don't you like it?"

"It's just looking kinda old and sad."

She laughed. "Since when do I care how I look when I'm running? As a matter of fact, why do you care?"

"You got a great body, Doll-"

She patted his cheek. "For a fifty-year old."

"Well you don't look more than thirty-five. But those shorts are all stretched out, and I'm pretty sure that's my shirt."

"Again, who cares? I'm running a couple of miles, after which I'll be a sweaty mess anyway."

"I just think you could look a little nicer-"

Skip's cell phone interrupted them. Peri wrapped a scrunchy around her thick, blonde ponytail and stuck it through an Angels baseball cap.

"That was Dispatch," Skip said. "They got a call from your neighbors. It's Mrs. Peters."

"Uh-oh. Is she?"

He nodded. "It's gonna be pretty gruesome over there. I guess no one noticed they hadn't seen her in awhile."

She winced. "Eew. Poor Dottie. Bob died of a heart attack just a few weeks ago, and now she goes."

"Sometimes it happens like that."

"Can I come with you to Dottie's?"

"I thought you were going running."

Peri leaned into Skip, tilting her face to meet his. "I was, but I'd rather visit the scene."

"You have that meeting at ten."

"It's not even seven. I just want to peek in, Skipper."

He grimaced. "Dressed like that?"

"Oh, dear God, what is it with you and my clothes this morning? Did you get up on the fashionista side of the bed?"

"Now, Peri-"

She threw the juice bottle into the recycle bin, causing the other plastic bottles to spring up and scatter on the floor. "Never mind. I'm going running."

"We on for dinner tonight?"

Peri turned to face her boyfriend. "I don't know - I gotta get my tiara out of the dry cleaners." Her final word hit at the same time as the slamming door. "Later."

Who does he think he is? Peri's mind raced as her legs pumped along the sidewalk in her Placentia neighborhood. Normally, she started out at a slow trot, stretching, and increasing her speed. Today, her anger spilled into her muscles.

Stevie Ray Vaughn played a scathing riff into her ears, louder than usual, but she didn't adjust the volume. Instead, she let the shrill music goad her into running faster, the cool October air waking her lungs. Small, Spanish-style bungalows flew past her vision as she loped down the street. Even in this working-class neighborhood, the tiny front yards were well manicured. She caught glimpses of flower beds with a variety of color, from tall birds of paradise to the lower night-blooming jasmine. The occasional whiff of the jasmine smelled delicious, and Peri noted how much she loved the tiny, tempting wafts of scent, even if she hated the same smell in a perfume bottle.

She moved to the pavement, where she liked to run whenever possible, as the asphalt was kinder to her knees, even if it meant keeping an eye on the traffic. All the way, she griped soundlessly at her boyfriend.

Skip Carlton, thinks he's all that, just because he's a detective on the Placentia force… a good-looking, single detective… how dare he complain about my running clothes? It's because of that stupid article in the Register last week.

The Orange County Register had published an interview with Skip as part of Chief Fletcher's desire to raise the dial on the PPD's friendly meter. Peri couldn't wait for the article to be published; after she read it, she couldn't wait to burn it. The female reporter made it sound less like a career profile and more like a resume for a dating service.

"Placentia's most eligible detective?" she'd read aloud. "Because we're not married, you're eligible?"

Skip acted perplexed. "I don't get it. All she asked was, if I was married."

"And you said?"

"No."

Damn his police training, she thought, remembering the conversation. Never offer more information than you're asked. Now he thinks he's hot stuff, giving me fashion tips - about what to sweat in? What a horse's ass.

Peri rounded the corner near Morse Elementary School and headed back toward her home. She could hear a vague cacophony of sound and glanced over at the campus. Children of various sizes and shades littered the grass, running and jumping and standing and falling. It seemed early for the school day – this was probably the day care shift. Adults, teachers perhaps, hustled in and out of the low, brick buildings.

A ball jumped against the metal fence surrounding the playground, and a small boy ran up to get it, red-faced. His mouth moved, but Peri couldn't hear him over the music pounding through her head. She decided to make a little detour and run by Dottie's house, just in case there was something to see.

In addition to being her neighbor, Dottie had been one of her clients when Peri owned her housecleaning business. She gave a discount to every elderly client, but she especially liked the Peters and knocked a few dollars more off their bill.

Two police cars, the coroner's van, and Skip's dark SUV were still parked in front of the house. Peri slowed down to a trot and crossed the street. She saw two shadows just inside the screen door. The smaller shadow, a female, leaned into the tall, male frame, who bent over her.

Peri stopped short of the yellow tape as soon as she recognized the tall shadow. Skip looked cozy with someone.

Part of Skip's job entailed comforting people, so she had no reason to be jealous. Still, something tugged at the bottom of her stomach, like sour milk. She wavered, briefly, and glanced down at her tee-shirt, which was dark with perspiration. Was that a hole next to the 'D'? Maybe this wasn't her best look, even if she did want to snoop around Dottie's house.

Peri made a U-turn and headed for home. She trotted easily for a block before stopping. The hell with appearances, she wanted to see inside that house.

Sorry, Skip. Looking good will have to wait.

By the time she returned to Dottie's, she saw a familiar brunette walking toward the Coroner's van. In addition to being the assistant coroner, Blanche Debussy had been Peri's best friend since high school.

Peri slowed to a walk and met Blanche at the van. "I heard about Dottie. How bad was it?"

"She was definitely on the compost side of the street." The petite woman put her glasses in their case and looked up at her friend. "How are you?"

"Good, considering Skip and I started off with a fight this morning."

"How many rounds?"

"Fifteen. No decision." Peri laughed. "He got on my case today about my running clothes. I mean, really." She looked down at her outfit, gesturing. "What else do you run in?"

"Looks like what I wear."

"Exactly. I guess now that he's the PPD's most eligible bachelor, he needs me to dress like arm candy."

"What a horse's ass." Blanche's husky voice made every opinion sound like fact.

Peri looked up and saw Skip at the front door. She smiled and waved. "Yeah, but he's my horse's ass."

* * * * *

Popcorn for the brain

2011-11-18T11:14:00.000-08:00

At one time in my youth, I pictured myself as a literary novelist. You know, the Serious Writer, who wears black and sits at the Big Kids Table. If you fast-forward a couple of years, you know that didn't exactly happen. I write humor and mysteries. They are not Deep Metaphorical Life Lessons. They are easy to read, digest, and perhaps forget. I only say that because, of all the mysteries I like to read, many of them are satisfying reads but few of them stick to my ribs.

I have no problem embracing who I am as a writer. When I am in the middle of writing, I am quite serious about finishing the piece, even if it is not a Serious piece. I do wear a lot of black because it's slimming (I'm told). And I don't believe it's sour grapes to think the Big Kids Table isn't as much fun as the Little Kids, where you get to tell jokes and spill stuff and then run off to play as soon as you've convinced the grown-ups you're FULL.

My son and I were talking about what it means to be an "independent" artist. There are people who grit their teeth and argue that self-published authors are NOT "independent authors". They equate the word "indie" with indie film and indie music, all of which takes a team of people and has some financial backing, so that more than one person has vetted the work and believes in it enough to get it in front of the masses. An indie author needs only to write a book, make a cover for it, and upload it on Smashwords. Ta.Da.

"Books and music are really apples and oranges," my wise, music-major son said. "Indie music was developed to fill a need for people who didn't fit the mold of popular, Top 40 stuff, whatever the style. It was for stretching the boundaries of what music should sound like. Although I'm sure indie artists wanted an audience, they were looking more for the niche, cult group of loyal listeners. Some groups even lost fans when they started to become more popular."

The other point he made about music that makes it difficult to compare is, with most listeners, as long as it's got a beat and the singer isn't godawful, it has a chance of being accepted. There aren't 'typos' or 'grammatical errors' to interfere with the listening pleasure, and it's so brief, compared to reading a book. It interests you for a few minutes or it doesn't and you move on. When you've invested several chapters into a book and keep seeing the author use it's for its, you get a little pissy. You don't listen to a song and tear at your hair, saying, "It should be E Major, you fools!"

At least, I don't.

This made me think about the music and movies made by "indie" artists. Sure, they're passed through a bunch of hands and developed using state-of-the-art technology and someone believed enough in them to toss money their way, but at the end of the day, they can still make dreck. Good-looking dreck, but it's like putting sewage in a Waterford glass. The packaging might look lovely, but the insides reek.

I think the self-published authors out there can call themselves Indies, without trying to fit into the film or music model. They are, for their own reasons, doing things the way they want them done. And no matter how many hands touch their manuscript, and how pretty the cover is, and how well formatted it is, they could be writing dreck. Vetting is no guarantee of quality.

So, just for the record, I'd like to state that I am an Indie author of mysteries and humor. My books are not going to fill your cultural cravings. They are popcorn for your brain.

Just like this:

BTW, I still don't know what it means, and I want the moves like Jagger.

Have a great weekend, and tune in on Sunday for another chapter of HIT OR MISSUS.

How deep are your roots?

2011-11-16T21:32:00.000-08:00

I'm a mutt, ancestrally speaking, and yet... On my mom's side, we're Irish, Scottish, German, Dutch, Cherokee, and Sioux. On my dad's side, there is Welsh, Swedish, and Cherokee. Let's leave the Native Americans out of the picture for a moment. First of all, this is all according to family lore, so I'm not certain of my native heritage. Apparently, it's kind of popular to claim you are Cherokee. I don't know why. Second, if you look at my picture, I dare you to find any genetic evidence of any ancestor with dark skin, hair or eyes.

What do you see when you look at me? That's right: Irish, Scottish, Welsh - Celtic. Strong genes, those Celts.

Not that it mattered growing up. We didn't cater to anything but being Midwesterners, with a slight Southern accent. Our songs were country & western. Our folklore was family stories about Great Granddad getting drunk and painting his car John Deere green with a whisk broom. Our food was fried or otherwise cooked past the point of recognition.

So imagine my surprise one Christmas eve when my husband popped a tape in the VCR as we were getting ready to go to church, and the music it played felt like a fisherman tossed a line in my soul and reeled me to the TV. The tape was Riverdance, which is a Celtic celebration. I'm sure many people think the music is beautiful, but honest to God, I thought the mother ship was calling me home.

I didn't do anything special about this. I enjoyed the moment, but I didn't seek out more music, more Celtic entertainment or enlightenment or knowledge.

Skip forward a few years. The family is up in Big Bear, celebrating the New Year, because it seemed like a good idea at the time. A bunch of us are wandering through the shops downtown. We stop at a mystical shop, where one of the girls is getting her palm read, and Marcus is bugging me to buy him a Pan flute, and I am absentmindedly looking at all the shiny things. Hanging on a display are "Celtic Birth Charms."

Of course, I looked up my birthday, February 21. This is what I found:

CWN ANNAN
Mystery

How interesting is it that the mystery writer has a mystery birth charm? Here's the full text:

"The Hounds of the Underworld, Cwn Annan enliven the Celtic folk-tales of the famed Mabinogion, bounding across the cold night sky in an exhiliarating and impressive wild Hunt. In Wales, they are said to appear around St. David's Eve. Cwn Annan individuals project mystery and hidden depths."

The charm now hangs on my wallet. It may just be advertising. It may not mean a thing. Or it may be a piece of the puzzle that is my heritage. My background has never been important to me, mostly I think because it was never important to my family. I've always considered people to be the luck of their DNA draw.

Now I'm wondering. Does it matter to you that you were born Irish or German or Hispanic or Jamaican or whatever? Should it matter to me?

Hit or Missus - a freebie, just for you!

2011-11-12T22:03:00.000-08:00

I think I've given you all a Sunday Sample of one of my books before. Maybe it was even Hit or Missus. At any rate, I'm old and get easily distracted by shiny objects, so I'm giving it to you again. Here, for your reading pleasure, is the Chapter 1 of Hit or Missus. Enjoy.

* * * * *

In the end, it was a good thing Mr. Mustard didn’t like coffee any more than he liked baths.

"I'm sorry, Mister," Dottie Peters told the large, orange tabby. "But you were stinky."

The elderly woman wrapped a thick towel around her wet, struggling cat and lifted him to the rim of the bathtub. She rested a moment, then hugged the bundle to her chest and rose. Steadying her body against the wall, she finally stood erect, more or less, while the cat fussed in her arms.

"Oof, hold still."

Dottie put her nose to the towel and inhaled the warm, primal scent of feline, mixed with baby shampoo. She moved the morning's newspaper from the old leather recliner and sat down, still gripping her entrapped cat. After fumbling with the remote until the TV clicked to life, she leaned back into the overstuffed chair and began massaging her furry hostage. The morning news show burbled with happy tones, but Dottie didn't smile.

"Bob used to sit here," she said as she rubbed. It had been two weeks and a day since her husband's heart attack, and in his absence, the cat had become her confidant. "He used to have his coffee here in the morning and watch The Price Is Right, remember?"

Mr. Mustard howled.

"I know, Sweetie." Dottie rubbed at the tears stinging her eyes. "If coffee didn't give me heartburn, I'd turn the channel, but I can't watch The Price Is Right without a cup of coffee. It just wouldn't be the same."

Mr. Mustard gave one last growl and disentangled himself from his terrycloth prison, leaping from his mistress's lap. He marched out of the room without glancing back, his tail twitching.

"Fine, Grumpy." She turned back to the TV and watched a young woman point out the latest traffic snarl, happy she didn't have to navigate southern California freeways. Everything she needed was less than six blocks away from her small bungalow. Bob usually drove their little beige sedan anywhere she needed to go.

"Suppose I'll have to do all the driving now," she said to no one, tears pooling again before they tumbled to her cheeks.

She and Bob were no spring chickens - she knew that. Still, the sight of him slipping from his chair like a bag of potatoes from a shelf, kept replaying in her mind. Death was inevitable, but did it have to be such a damned surprise?

She rose and shuffled into the kitchen. "I think I'll have a little coffee anyway – for Bob. I can always take some Tums later."

The yellow paint on the walls of the small kitchen had faded, and there were grease spots over the stove that could have been wiped away, if Dottie's eyesight was better. An oak table stood in the corner with two matching chairs. Only one of them had a cushion, for Bob. Dottie always joked she brought her own padding to any chair she sat in.

She stretched up to the cabinet above the sink and retrieved a small tin of coffee, decorated in a gay autumnal theme, an orange bow still on the lid. After filling the coffee pot, she made sure it gurgled and sputtered before she walked back into her bedroom.

While the coffee brewed, she changed into a housedress, a shapeless swath of blue cotton with small pink roses decorating the collar. She returned to the kitchen and filled a green mug halfway with dark, aromatic liquid, then went back to the recliner.

A cooking show blared on the TV, the celebrity hostess showing the viewer how to make grilled shrimp escabeche for a family of four.

"Whose child would eat that?" Dottie switched the channel to watch the game show. She sipped her coffee, and puckered.

"This tastes different than I remember." She took another drink and watched Drew Carey invite a screeching young woman on stage. Dottie sighed. Different host, different coffee, nothing stayed the same.

She picked up the paper from the table next to the chair and read it while she drank. "Damned vultures. Think just because Bob is gone, I'll sell out."

Her pale brow wrinkled as she pushed her glasses back up on her nose.

An adhesive note was stuck to the paper. She pulled it off and looked at the message scribbled in bold black. DECIDE NOW, with a phone number, screamed at her.

"Pushy SOB." She wadded the note in her gnarled fingers.

A feline voice trilled from the hallway and Mr. Mustard trotted into the room, his tail high and vibrating. Dottie smiled and tossed the note across the floor. The cat ran to the paper and batted it with his forepaws, before picking it up in his mouth and carrying it back to his mistress. He leapt to the recliner's arm in one graceful bound and dropped his toy on Dottie's lap.

She threw it again, and, once again, the tabby gave chase. Retrieving scraps of paper was the cat's favorite activity. Bob often joked they couldn't teach the cat to use the scratching post, but he could fetch like a damned dog.

Dottie looked up at the TV. Drew Carey appeared fuzzy, so she took off her glasses and cleaned them on her dress. It didn't help.

A moment later, she clasped her right hand over her breast, just as Bob had done two weeks ago. As she reached out for the telephone, she lost her balance and fell to her knees. She managed to dial '9' before losing consciousness.

Mr. Mustard returned to the recliner and sniffed the coffee, splashed across the carpet. Sneezing, he walked out to find a warm spot for a nap, taking the crumpled paper with him.

* * * * *

You can order in paperback or ebook, from a variety of sources. Amazon, Barnes & Noble, lots of bookstores for paperback. As far as ebook, just go to whatever e-store you shop in (iTunes, Kindle, Nook, Sony, etc) and it'll be there, for the very affordable price of $2.99. Or, of course, you can order an autographed copy from me, if you just look at the Paypal link on the right.

How much character do you want?

2011-11-08T23:13:00.000-08:00

Now that I've got Are You There Erma? It's Me, Gayle on its way to immortality (or is that e-mortality), I can go back to writing the third mystery in my Peri Minneopa series. I took a few convoluted turns and twists before settling on the plot (see Thursday's edition of the Crime Fiction Collective blog for an explanation) and am now thisclose to completing the outline. I really like this story and can't wait to tell it to you.

Usually, I get so wrapped up in what I'm writing that I can't imagine another plot and think once this book is complete, the well will dry up and I'll never come up with anything else.

Not this time.

After this third book is written, I have an idea for a new series, with new characters. So far, I only have the location and the murder. I still don't know if my main character will be a man or woman, single or married, childless or a parent. I only know they'll be a sleuth and not a member of law enforcement. Probably no close friends in the law enforcement field, either.

The only thing I know for certain is they must be a character.

The lead must be someone a reader wants to follow through the story, at a minimum. It's hard to care about boring people in books.

A friend of mine mentioned she really liked Columbo. "You should make up somebody like that," she said.

I'm pretty sure I don't want to write Columbo, Part Two. But I started to think about the detective's signature style. To the world, he bumbled and fumbled and acted so disorganized it was a wonder he ever got a shield. And yet, he caught the killer every time.

Was he really that much of a scatterbrain? I mean, I never pictured him acting any differently, so when he went home and his wife asked if he picked up a loaf of bread, he'd touch his forehead and feel around in his overcoat and finally pull a loaf out of one of the pockets. Was that really him, or did he come home with a grocery bag like normal people? Was he secretly winking at us all, having his little joke?

More importantly, why did we believe in him? Millions watched him every week, knowing he'd solve the crime, and finding him completely endearing.

Here's my question: What if Columbo was a woman? I mean, maybe not in a rumpled trench coat and a cigar, but a woman in sensible shoes and outfits from Land's End, digging in her tote bag for a notebook and fiddling with her earring in thought. Would you find her endearing? Or unbelievable?

What if we changed her to be a young blonde wearing designer clothes and a Coach bag? How about adding some fake boobs and a squeaky-high voice? Could she solve a murder? Or is she too ditzy?

There are no right or wrong answers here, and I have no resolution. I'm just investigating the nature of characters and who we'll root for and who we'll roll our eyes at. I'd love to hear from anyone out there about what makes a character both believable and likeable.

My weekend pot pourri

2011-11-04T20:00:00.000-07:00

I don't have anything earth-shaking to say. Just a few notes on this and that, some random scribblings, and a slight touch of news.

ONE:
This morning I got a craving to have red beans and rice for dinner. I don't have "a recipe" for red beans and rice. I usually look it up in my cookbooks and online and pick something new to try. Anyway, while I was trying to figure out whether to add a hamhock or andouille sausage, a friend of mine called. She was in a bind, being away from home on a field trip with her class, while her babysitter bailed on picking up the youngest kiddo. Could I do her a favor?

Of course.

The Fates were actually in her favor, since I had to cancel riding lessons today due to rain, so I had the afternoon to pick up her daughter, take her to dance class, then take her home. The only thing I didn't have time to do was do the quick soak of the beans, because they'd be soaked too soon. I didn't want to start them cooking before I ran my errands because I never leave the stove unattended. I did, however, have time to let them soak for 6-8 hours, then start cooking when I got home, which is what I did.

The bad news is, by the time I got everything chopped and dug the ground thyme out of the spice cabinet, it was 7:00 p.m., so the beans won't be ready until 10. They'll be great tomorrow, although I'll probably still have a small taste of them before I go to bed, just to confirm they're good. (Note to self: learn to chop faster.)

What's a girl to do? I ate dessert first. A decadent chocolate cupcake, heated ever-so-slightly, with vanilla ice cream. Show of hands - who thinks that was wrong? Okay... and how many of you think it was the only reasonable thing to do? One, two, three, you - in the back - is your hand up or down? Okay.

Reason wins.

TWO:

50 books - and Duffy's ball

I'm pretty sure postal workers hate authors. Even if you are published by the big houses, I'm betting you have a cache of your own books to hand out. Those books have to be delivered by someone. Someone with flat feet and bad knees and hip replacement in their foreseeable future. To all the UPS drivers, postal workers and delivery people in general, please accept my apologies. Someday we will all be so wrapped up in the digital age, we will not need physical books to give away and autograph. Until then, can I offer you an Advil?

THREE:
I've got a giveaway going at Goodreads (say that fast five times, I dare you). If you want a chance to win an autographed copy of Are You There Erma? It's Me Gayle click on the link and enter.

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Are You There Erma? It's Me Gayle

by Gayle S Carline

Giveaway ends November 14, 2011.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

FOUR:
Since my books are physically here now, I'll be updating my Paypal button so you can order autographed copies of them. If you just can wait for me to get my act together, shoot me an email and I'll get a copy to you.

FIVE:
Don't forget to set your clocks back tomorrow night. Doesn't that extra hour seem luxurious?

Start making sense

2011-11-02T13:38:00.000-07:00

Most of you know I live in southern California and today it's Santa Ana Winds week. We get static-charged dry air along with 60-mile an hour winds (no, I'm NOT kidding) that rearrange everything everywhere. Me? I get a headache.

I read some doctor's claim that there are very few sinus headaches and people who say they get them are simply misdiagnosed. I'd like to exchange heads with him for one of these Santa Ana days and see if he still believes that.

But even though I'd like to take a rock and hit myself in the head (unconsciousness would be good right now), that doctor has given me something to post about.

Science - what does the data really prove?

In my very first psychology class as a college freshman, my professor said the most astounding thing: "There is no scientific proof that cigarettes cause cancer." What?!? He then explained. To establish scientific proof, scientists would have to set up three groups of people of the same age. One group of people would never EVER smoke ANYTHING. One group would begin smoking a pack a day at age eighteen. The third group would smoke something that looked like cigarettes but were placebos.

"Then when they were all sixty, we'd count the survivors and have our proof," he said. "There is, of course, a moral and ethical code about running these kinds of experiments, which is why we have laboratory mice and we make comparisons and extrapolations and it takes years to convince anyone to put a warning label on a pack of cigarettes, instead of a skull and crossbones."

(By the way, he smoked. He just admitted it was not his safest choice.)

From that moment, I looked at all pronouncements, scientific or statistic, with a degree of skepticism. How was the testing done? How were the results gathered? Who is behind the study or poll? What do they have to benefit from the results?

I can say this attitude has served me, in that I no longer panic when a headline screams, "Analysts Predict Worldwide Financial Collapse Within Fifty Years." Which analysts? Define "financial collapse." How did they arrive at their conclusion?

It also made me fall in love with the idea of the pure test, without any anticipation of results. Let the data prove what it proves, instead of looking for your own personal AHA.

What does any of this have to do with books and writing?

Because I read Publisher's Weekly and a bunch of other publisher/agent/author blogs, I'm always reading about how e-books are overtaking print books - NO WAIT - the print books are still in the lead - NO WAIT - independent authors are becoming more legitimate - NO WAIT - the Big Six Publishers are still calling the shots - NO WAIT...

Good grief, I'm exhausted just trying to figure out what kind of data they've used to arrive at their conclusions. At the end of the day, I can only do what seems right for me at the time, but I do consider the headlines because 'what's right for me' has to include what the market is doing.

So when Joe Konrath threw this little test up in a recent blog post, it got me very excited:

Visit publishers' websites. Pick ten books by new authors that are being released in November. Then set up a Google alert for each title, so you get all the marketing, news, and publicity associated with it. Also watch and track Amazon and BN.com rankings.

Follow these books for a month. See for yourself how well publishers do in breaking out these ten new books. Do any get on the bestseller lists? Visit some local bookstores. How many copies do they stock, if any? Contact the authors and ask how they're being treated.

Then you can find out for yourself what a Big 6 publisher does for a new author, and you'll have a much better reason for either taking, or rejecting, any deal they might offer you.

A test with real data I could collect and use! This is useful to me because even though I've self-pubbed my last three books, I may still want to submit the next one to a publisher. Maybe - if they can do things for me that I can't do for myself, such as reach a broader audience. But how do I know they are helping their authors sell as many books as possible?

Joe's test can be a more analytical, less anecdotal, way to determine that, which can only help me.

If you're an author, is there any criteria you use for determining what path to take your career? Do you find yourself relying on anecdotes for your choices?

If you're a publisher or agent, are you seeing any differences in authors these days? Are you also looking at the anecdotes and making adjustments in your own career/company to meet the market needs?

I hope this makes sense, in spite of my "non-sinus" sinus headache.

Cleanup on Aisle Five

2011-10-31T11:00:00.000-07:00

Geepers, I'm a mess today.

Here it is, Halloween at last, and I should be giving you all a blog about how scary and fun it all is. I was all set to dress up my life-sized, cardboard Dean Martin in my feathery, sequined Mardi Gras mask and pose in my very own costume (a T-shirt that says "Drop Dead" and a witches hat), and give you a visual you'd never forget.

But then last night, Dale ran over one of the cables that feed the TV from the satellite. Sorry, did I mention he ran over it with the lawnmower? Yeah, sliced that puppy in two, instantly cutting off the signal and my regularly scheduled programming. He got it mostly working with the remaining cable, but he needs to purchase a new cable in order for us to DVR one channel and watch another. I predict much fighting over the remote until he gets this done.

To distract myself from Dale's attempts to fix the cable, I went to the store to buy our pumpkin to carve. We always decorate the house and carve a pumpkin. Unfortunately, all of the Albertson's pumpkins were warty. I mean look at these things. Our jack-o-lanterns are going to look like they've got acne.

But he's my baby!

Also, last night Marcus went to a Halloween party. I don't know any of the particulars, except that he came home to get his Renaissance costume to wear. Marcus is a 19-year old college student living in the dorms at CSU Long Beach; he could be going to a party every night of the week, drinking heavily and trying every drug on the planet. I have no idea what he does. I only know that when I know he's at a party, I have a rather fitful night's sleep and look around the next morning for some reassurance that he's okay.

Today I saw a post from him on Facebook, so I can relax. He at least made it back to his computer.

To top everything off, I can't find my Mardi Gras mask. I honestly can't remember where I put it, but two months from now, I'll be walking through the house and the image of where it is will hit my brain like a locomotive. It's how things work with me.

So today, I'm not going to give you my planned post about Halloween at the Carline house and how it has changed over the years and ask if you decorate your house and dress up and ask you to reminisce about your kids and the night the dog ate the pumpkin, etc. Instead, I'm going to ask a question that's been bugging me all night:

Why aren't there horror films about big, dangerous animals?

We have horror films about mutant small animals, like ants and lizards and octopi and even rabbits.

We have horror films about possibly dangerous, yet smallish creatures that attack in numbers, like bees and pirranha and spiders and rats. But how about lions and tigers? And bears? They're pretty nasty when they're just starved for a couple of days and then turned loose. What if they were starved and mutant? Why doesn't anyone ever make a horror movie about that?

If I made a horror movie, I'd make it about bears. Mutant teddy bears that all turn into large, slobbering, real grizzlies and eat all the parents, and no one would know how to stop them because we don't hunt bears in New York City, for Pete's sake. The mayor would have to call in some old, lonely, misogynistic guy from northern Alaska who hates the city and would just as soon see all these miscreants eaten by the rampaging teddy-grizzlies, but they give him enough money for booze and a plane ticket home, and he hunts the bears down. All except the last one, who is a very smart she-bear, and she is shot by the plucky female sheriff's deputy, who has been dogging Grizzly Man's steps from the beginning. And then, they'd have an awkward moment, where Grizzly Man would like to like Plucky Female, except it's against his religion so he mumbles some kind of "Gee if you're ever in the Arctic Circle, come by and I'll defrost your mukluks," invitation. And as he gets on the plane, you see a little teddy bear has somehow made its way into his duffle bag, and it has the weirdest little grin.

And this would be its theme song.

Happy Halloween!