Blurb:
Ainsley Moss never thought
she’d become a representative for the dead. But as a newbie obituary writer for
the Aurora Fall’s Guardian, she gets a sneak peek at her new profession. Her
ex-best friend and rival newspaper worker turns up blue and stiff as a board in
the women’s bathroom—after they’ve had a less than civil confrontation.
Ainsley’s in the habit of
memorializing the dead, not finding them. But now she’s saddled with a motive
for murder—killing to drum up obituaries in order to further her career in a
dying newspaper business where everything is going digital.
When another victim meets
his maker with a connection to the first victim, Ainsley has to make nice with
a hard ass, bombshell Detective who’s dead set on closing the case or risk the
calm of their cozy town. Ainsley’s charming, ex-boyfriend turned roommate Gage
Sullivan comes to her aid as they throw themselves into deadly research. Every
obituary interview brings them that much closer to finding a killer connection.
While fighting her new rep as a prime suspect, her matchmaking, Stepford mother
is intent on keeping her daughter’s dirty laundry under wraps and her sex
addicted wealthy grandparents want to buy her way out of jail. Or at least help
her learn how to make a shiv.
None too thrilled with the
idea of making friends with a cell mate named Betty the Bruiser, she’ll wade
knee deep into a cesspool of the town’s secrets, gossip, and lies. But with a
whacky cast of characters hell bent on keeping the peace, no bit of personal
information is sacred. They have to find a killer—before Ainsley loses her
freedom and her chance to make peace with a fate that scares her more than
anything else in life.
Excerpt 1:
“Excuse me, Miss?”
My
head swiveled to the right and the left—no one. I looked up into the industrial
lofts circling around and up the perimeter of the building, where all the
important people in the newspaper business kept their hours. A stranger stuck
his head out over the balcony. I couldn’t get a good glimpse with my head at a
whackado angle and all the blood rushed into my temples.
I
quickly stood up, fighting off the dizzy spell, and the pinch of my heels. I
clamored up the winding, wooden circular stairs into the lofts and toward an
epically tall man with razor sharp cheekbones that could make women riot in the
streets. His light green gaze narrowed and he cleared his throat. His bleached
blond hair was curly at the ends with black roots, and he wore a suit that was
more vintage 1920’s than anything I’d seen in my coastal college town—and yet
it fit him to utter perfection. A gorgeous, trim swimmer’s body beneath his
light cream dress shirt and…this couldn’t be going anywhere good.
If
this was my new boss—well, I wasn’t going to finish my thought.
His
brow’s raised in expectation. Maybe my day was less gloom and more va-va-voom.
He offered me a smile which shifted heat down to the bottom of my curled toes.
“Yes?”
I slung my black studded messenger bag over my shoulder with a thump and the
bag hitting against my hip made me wince. “Nice to meet you. I can’t wait to
get chatting, let me just get my resume out.” I stuck my hand out waiting for
his firm grip in mine. When he didn’t extend his hand to take mine, I mentally
brushed off the dust from my social skills, and dug in my bag for my resume. He
kept walking down the hallway and I swallowed the lump in my throat.
I
followed him down the creaky steel balustrade to his office. He paused at the
entryway where I almost slammed into what I imagined was a firm backside. The
seconds ticked by while I was busy fumbling through several notebooks, open
packages of orange Tic-Tacs, and wadded up pieces of paper. Until I sidled past
him and maneuvered into the generic wooden chair facing the typical name plated
desk of my future boss. Streamers of spring light dappled across the dust
mote-strewn room and I looked back down at the bag in my lap.
“Here
we are,” I practically shoved the crisp paper into his chest. He hovered above
me and I dumped my bag to the side of the chair. “Hit me with anything, I can
take it.”
My
confidence was likely to take the blow as I folded my hands in my lap, crossed
my ankles, and pasted on the fake smile of interviewees everywhere. Not the
best start to new and improved Ainsley—but at least I’d woken up this morning,
there was that. I watched him as a curled lock of his platinum hair fell
against his forehead, released from its prison of hair gel, while he scanned my
resume. One side of his mouth curled upward. Was his smile because of the work
experience at the University bookstore or my creative use of effulgent? Sure
the ink was slightly smudged from the typewriter, but damn it, laptops melt in
dorm room fires. Not as though mine was impervious.
“I
can type as fast as you need me to and I’m an advanced master in spellcheck.
The little squiggles don’t know what they’re in for and I know my master’s
degree is in library science but I’m a really good reporter, I’ve seen the
movie Newsies, like eight bazillion times and who doesn’t know about
dead people? I’ll do them justice—”
“While
I’ll take that all into consideration, Miss Moss, um, I don’t work here. I’d
actually called your name because your mother had mentioned to me that she
wanted to get you out of the house and…you don’t recognize me, do you?”
“N—no.”
Mortification
didn’t directly lead into recognition, so that would be a negative. I squinted
at him hoping maybe it would bring everything into focus. Meanwhile I tried to
ignore the blush creeping up beneath my cheeks to singe upward along my cropped
hairline. His lips pursed while he shuffled from one foot to the other and
shoved a hand in his pocket.
“You’re
not my new boss?” I lamely put out into the universe, twisting my fingers in my
lap.
“Not
so much. Only a perspective roommate. I met your mother at the Shop and Hop
this morning picking out a new box of Wheaties. Because you and I dated in
eighth grade and things didn’t work out, your mother is convinced I’m gay,
which leaves me as prime pickins when I’ve got space to rent in my renovated
Victorian.” He seemed to smile at a memory, laughing to himself. “I don’t know
what you did to that woman, but she’s more than ready to get rid of you.”
There
was a beat when I considered any number of sins I could have committed in my
mother’s eyes. The list was long and probably in alphabetical order. And while
I was still under her roof, a lot of what she thought of me still mattered a
whole hell of a lot.
“Aw, blast, where the hell are my manners
today?” He ran a large hand through his hair and eased it along the top of his
head, as if he were looking for something up there. Maybe a hat? Sure matched
the southern charm oozing from every pore. “Gage Sullivan, possible landlord,
and former dumpee. I’m here to interview with Mr. Spencer for an advertising
slot in the paper for my home business.”
He
held out my little resume. A flash-bang of sudden memory made me lick my lips.
We’d dated for two weeks in junior high and I’d dumped him for a fictional
character—a one Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, because, and I quote “he knew how to
treat a girl”. And Gage had been too busy running track, riding four-wheelers,
and sleeping in on the weekends to amuse me.
Yeah,
no idea what I’d meant with that one-liner either. But not having an
explanation for my teenage mistake didn’t keep the old memory from searing my
brain as I wrapped my mind around the pseudo-stranger’s proposition to move in
with him.
“You’ll
probably need your resume again. I just wanted to make you aware of the
situation, with the house. Your mom seemed pretty dead set. I’ll be on my best
behavior as a landlord, cross my heart and hope to die.” He winked and my
thighs tightened together as my body went taut with uncomfortable awareness. I
snatched my resume back from his outstretched fingers—piano player’s fingers.
“She’s
pretty persistent…about everything,” I muttered holding my violated resume to
my chest and wondering whether to stumble out or sit there waiting for my
actual boss. “You know I don’t have any money, right? Not exactly a great
rental prospect without rent money.”
“I’m
not adverse to IOU’s.” His light green eyes lit up and he leaned back against
the desk crossing his arms. “At least I’ll know exactly where to go for
collection services.”
Footsteps
sounded outside the door and my head twisted so fast toward the doorway I might
as well have been possessed. My fingers curled in my lap, as if I was getting
caught doing something I shouldn’t, and someone was going to call me out on it.
Whoever walked into the office next was probably my new boss. But my track
record at this point was pretty shoddy.
“Ah,
glad you two made it down here. I’m sorry for the delay, there was a pie fight
in the diner and someone had to cover the story before it got all cleaned up.
As you know, we’re a little shorthanded around here lately.”
The
voice belongs to Paul Spencer, head of our small town newspaper. Or, that was
who I thought he was given he took the seat behind the big oak desk with the
super nifty swivel chair and the name plate “Paul Spencer”. But, what did I
know? I’d been wrong the first time.
“Is
that your resume?” He pointed toward the paper still pressed against my
breasts. “May I have it?”
I
handed it to him without a word. The incredibly thin man scratched the top of
his hair, which stuck out everywhere in a garish red hue I’d recently seen in
the semi-permanent hair color aisle. It was so damn vibrant. Frankly, it made
me a bit envious, as I absently pet my own shock-rock red highlighted black
pixie cut. He straightened the bowtie at his throat, cracked his neck, and
rubbed the stubble at his chin, which proved the vibrant shade of red was au
natural. When he propped a Converse sneakered foot on the edge of his desk, I
grew a little worried.
Did
he plan on shooing out Gage or was this some kind of kinky, three-way interview
on camera somewhere? Better to go with a flow, I guessed. He made a few low
noises of approval. His hand fished in his khaki pocket until he came up with
the dreaded red pen and circled what must have been ninety things—even if I
didn’t have many things to circle on my itty-bitty resume. Mercifully, he
lowered his weapon a second later and locked eyes with me.
“Your
Sylvia Moss’s girl, aren’t you?”
I
nodded. All of my good interview answers wasted on the phony sitting beside me.
Yes, those were my good interview answers.
Excerpt 2:
“Wh—a—at?”
I stammered and stumbled as a cop crashed into me none too gently, pushing me
into a sugar factory brick wall outside the bathroom and shoving my hands
behind my back. Before I could say holy smokes, Batman, she’d cuffed me. And
sadly, the first thought that ran through my mind wasn’t, “what did I do”, “I’m
innocent”, or “this would be a good time to find God”. Oh, no. It was so
stereotypical I laughed completely inappropriately—because my mother was going
to tan my ass for whatever this was all about, whatever mistake had fallen on
my head.
Because
it had to be a mistake. And yet the Miranda rights were chiming in my
ear. White noise was rushing through my head in a whoosh, I couldn’t quite
catch my breath, and my chest felt as though it were trapped in a vice scraping
against the brick wall. My wrists stung from the sudden abuse of the cuffs
clicking around the sensitive skin and my shoulders jutted out pretty damn
uncomfortably. Stars streaked across my inner eyelids and I knew I was a goner.
“I’m
gon…”
Lights
out in Chinatown, folks. That was all she wrote.
When
I finally swam back up to the surface, it wasn’t as if the world suddenly made
sense again. Far from it. I was flat on my back with darkness swimming at the
corners of my vision. Enough awareness crowded into my brain to groan, but not
enough to warrant opening my eyes. My fingertips were tingling as if I’d dipped
them in a bucket of ice water for several hours. And my last memories were of
Juliet’s lifeless face staring up at me.
“Hey,
welcome back.”
Maybe
I should have known the husky feminine voice, but nothing was registering.
Until someone pulled up my arm and forced my hand around a cup. That was when I
noticed my mouth was drier than a dust mote. My eyelids snapped open and I
winced from the bad lighting. The glass of water tucked in my trembling hand
was looking like something to get up for, or at least enough of a reward to
attempt to move my fifty-pound bowling ball of a head. Nausea clawed its way up
into my throat.
My
wavering gaze stuck on the woman to my left side. The stranger was leaning
against the cot she’d propped me up on and was in, what I could only assume,
was a plainclothes cop uniform. Given the shiny badge, black flared pants, and
crimson silken top with her dark red hair slicked back in a high and tight bun.
She must have noticed my assessment because she went eerily still, merely
raising one well-plucked brow in silent question, as if wondering if she passed
muster.
She
looked like the kind of woman who modeled for fifties pin-up shoots, all curves
and a face that could bring whole civilizations to their knees. There was even
a small beauty mark to the right of her top lip. As if it had been Marilyn Monroe
pre-approved before she was born. She tilted her head at me and I swore her
hazel eyes flashed with a liveliness that wasn’t appropriate for the current
setting.
I
mentally willed the glass to my lips and scanned her expressionless stare.
Another sip of icy water and I was better able to address my current
epicness—A.K.A, I was still at the police precinct having to answer for—something.
God, I hoped…they couldn’t…would they pin…that on me?
“Why
am I here and who are you?”
“You’re
here for questioning as a possible suspect in the murder of Juliet Aguillard.
I’m Morgana Lipinski, lead homicide detective in the case. Now if you are
feeling more yourself, accompany me to the questioning room for further
discussion. I’m not allowed to ask anything else until you’re under
surveillance in one of our interview rooms.”
I
think I may have passed out again. For a second the world spun one hundred and
eighty degrees. When I reached with my other hand to settle myself there was a
foreign, metallic, clinking noise. In slow motion I turned my head. A handcuff.
I was handcuffed to the crappy cot with a plain clothes cop tapping her foot
and waiting for me to confess to a murder I didn’t commit—but I’d been at the
crime scene.
I’d
been at the scene of the crime. God, there’d been a crime.
“What
happened?”
“You
don’t know?” Morgana shot off, silently taking back the water glass I held out
as I eyed the handcuff still snapped around my wrist. “We’re not at liberty to
discuss anymore.”
“Then
I’m ready for my questioning.”
“Does
that mean you’re ready to confess? How lucky for me, I love the easy ones.” She
put the water glass on a table, vaulted up out of her crouch near the cot, and
reached over with the handcuff key. “When I undo this you’ll remain still until
I tell you to stand and put your hands behind your back, is that understood?”
“Yes.”
The last thing I wanted to do was provoke her to shoot me.
Morgana
nodded tightly with her lips pressed together. I couldn’t draw my gaze away as
she sunk the key into the lock and twisted. Like magic, I was free. At least
from the physical bondage part. I still had my semi-good name to clear, and I
needed to sort through a wealth of backstory and Aurora Falls knowledge to stop
being suspect number one solving my own personal mystery—who in the hell killed
Juliet? And who decided it would be an even better idea to blame me? Whoever
had made up all the mayhem and invited it into my life was getting a very
strongly worded letter once I was released. And son of a bitch, I hoped this didn’t
go on my record.
“Get
up and put your hands on the wall.”
“Sure.”
I did what she told me and shuddered when she brought both my arms backward
snapping on the cuffs. “Again?”
“It’s
the rules.”
Rather
than stutter something inappropriate, I shut my trap as she led me through the
precinct. My first time in a police station and the sight wasn’t endearing. The
ringing of phones and chatter was nearly deafening while she led me by the arm
around the sea of desks in the middle of the room. No one even looked up or
budged from their daily grind. Meanwhile new people flowed through the doors
like water—both employees and people facing minor infractions or a slap on the
wrist. Which was probably too good a punishment to think about in my case.
When
she led me down an offshoot from the main room into a wooden-paneled hallway, I
could refocus on her rough grip. Another police officer waited outside of a
similar adjoining room. He gave her a small nod. But he didn’t even acknowledge
my presence, which I should have expected.
“We’re
going in here.” Detective Lipinski took a key, unlocked the door, and led us
inside where the door closed with a sickening thud. “Please have a seat.”
Before
I could comply, she pushed me down into the chair and poured me another glass
of water from the pitcher on the table. She slid it across with one finger
before taking the chair opposite me. Her smile was sickeningly sweet. And when
my cuffs rattled and I realized I couldn’t go for the water, I knew why she was
so pleased. Someone took way too much pleasure in their job.
Looks
as though it was my job to overlook the little…oversight.
“I
don’t want an attorney, I didn’t do anything. So let’s get this show on the
road, please. I’ve got places to be today.”
That
slapped the smile off her face. But she pulled a little notebook out of a
pocket somewhere and clicked her pen into writing mode. At least we were
getting somewhere.
“It
wasn’t hard to find you, you know. A distraught woman pointed you out from
across the newspaper room. The very same witness claimed she heard you
threatening the deceased before someone else found her dead in the stall. You
weren’t the first killer to take a second peek.”
That
all sounded so compelling I didn’t comment. No need to dig the hole deeper
while she nibbled on the edge of her pen. It was as if I’d made her job a
hundred times easier and she was imagining winning awards, ribbons, and getting
free pie. Everyone likes free pie. And yet, I had to be the bearer of bad news.
Good news for me, because I didn’t do it. But she didn’t know that and I could
only hope to convince her while her whole world revolved around me as a prime
suspect. I’ve watched murder shows, I know how these things pan out.
I
stayed silent. Her eyes narrowed, matte red lips twisting into a look of
distaste.
“We
have an eyewitness and a video tape proving you were at the scene of the
crime.”
“You
got video evidence that quickly?” Mostly I was amazed because the building was
so ancient, I expected something a little less high tech. More groaning and
lumbering with a side of useless—and why were there cameras in the bathroom? “I
didn’t do anything. Might as well state that for the official record.”
“Since
you’re going to be stubborn, tell me what exactly did happen in that restroom.
The cameras aren’t posted there for obvious sexual harassment purposes, so I’d
like to be enlightened. But we did catch you on tape as the last one to go into
the ladies room before the incident and the time stamps match up with the ME’s
supposed time of death.”
“Did
the eyewitness mention I was dragged into the bathroom and held hostage by
the…victim?” My stomach bottomed out on the last word and another death sunk in
while I closed my eyes for a single heartbeat.
“You?
Held hostage?” The delightful detective panned her gaze from what she could see
of me behind the table before smirking. “Please do explain.”
So
I spilled my guts. Every sordid bit of detail that would probably make a good
plotline for a daytime soap, if they were still on the air in the afternoons.
What more did I have to lose? She already had me in lockdown for her starring
role as murderess. The least I could do was be cooperative and hope my
willingness busted my ass out of the clink. Somehow I knew withholding
information wasn’t going to get me any bonus points.
“So,
you see, she’s been harassing me for quite some time.” I breathed out at the
tail end of my story of the bathroom incident and watched as she took notes.
“And
you filed prior reports?”
“What?”
“You
went to the police at your college and told them about what the victim was
doing to you,” she spoke slowly as if I were an idiot before blinking a few
times. “No restraining order? No paperwork? Nothing?”
“I
didn’t want to make a big deal…”
Detective
Lipinski snorted and whipped her notebook closed.
“From
woman to woman, some advice. If another broad is that intent on making your
life hell, you get someone involved with a badge and a gun. Because crazy tends
to escalate and there’s nothing crazier than a girl with a broken heart and a
limitless supply of cheap vodka, got it?”
“Sure.”
.
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