Book Excerpts

TITLES

Music by C. M. Albrecht
Silenced Cry by Marta Stephens
Healey's Cave by Aaron Paul Lazar
Small Town Secrets by Billie Williams
Grave Web (#10 - Hawkman Series) by Betty Sullivan LaPierre
A Nail Through The Heart by Timothy Hallinan
Dead Connection by Alafair Burke
Who Framed Boris Karloff by Dwight Kemper
A Corpse in the Soup by Morgan St. James & Phyllice Bradner
The Screaming Room by Thomas O'Callaghan
BLURB for W. C. Keesey
Death on Delivery by Anne K. Edwards
Music
Author: C.W. Albrecht
Publisher: Ebooksonthe.net
ISBN 978-1-59431-6 21-0
Genre: Mystery/Suspense
Ebook $5.50

  Detective Steve Music is a disillusioned cop with problems. Shelly Lambert is a woman who lost her son to a predator eight years ago. Continuing to suffer from grief and feelings of guilt, Shelly works with a coalition that helps locate missing children. When eleven-year old Jerry Beakey goes missing, Shelly and Steve join forces in their search for Jerry. That is, until Steve begins to unravel lies about Shelly's past, lies that rip them apart. Now, each separately continues to search for Jerry, but Shelly and Steve have to overcome their own demons if they hope to find Jerry—and catch a murderer.
07/21/08

***********

Silenced Cry
by Marta Stephens
(C) 2007 all rights reserved
Publisher: BeWrite Books (UK)
ISBN: 978-1-905202-72-0
Crime mystery/suspense

Chapter 1

  The hour-long sessions started at nine in the morning, twice a week, whether narcotics detective, Sam Harper liked it or not. The only good thing about this damp and cold Massachusetts morning was that it marked the midpoint of Harper's commitment. Internal Affairs had drilled him for three days in a row. Now the police shrink wanted a piece of him. He was sick of her dogged questions. That was his job, to wear the other guy down. Three sessions left, three hours of digging into his past, into the events of that night--that goddamned night.
  Neither the mild vanilla scent floating up from a flickering candle on the doctor's desk nor the subtle gurgle bubbling from a tabletop fountain were doing their job to relax him. Harper rubbed the arms of the leather chair with his thumb as he calculated his next move. He stared at her and finally broke the silence.
  "You ever kill a man, Doc?" A subtle twitch of her brow told him he had her attention. "A split second. That's all it takes, pull the trigger, and whoosh! He's gone."
  Dr. Brannon lowered her gaze and resumed her scribbling. The navy overstuffed chair seemed to swallow her small frame.
  "Why did you go there?"
  "Mellow was our only link in the case. At least that's what Gillies thought. He told me every damned thing hinged on getting to Mellow before homicide got their hands on him."
  "And you had reservations?"
  Harper looked away as the Chandler Police Department psychiatrist took notes of his crumbling life.
  "Does it matter?" His glance swept up to the dark paneled wall behind her desk. Framed certificates hung in an orderly row like crows on a wire. They mapped out her qualification and gave credence to her ego.
  He didn't need her to question his motives or to dig into his past and drag the memories of that night to the surface. They were there, frozen in Harper's mind--the second he got off his round. He'd never forget the blast or the hammering rain beating against his face. The look of Frank Gillies' lifeless eyes had scorched itself into his memory. Harper leaned forward and dropped his head. Fists jammed against his eyes as if to rub out the intruding images. He had spun the moment any number of ways, but the outcome never changed.
  Brannon crossed her legs. She folded her hands and tapped her fingertips. She watched in silence, waiting to analyze his next thoughts.
  "You do realize you don't go back to work without these sessions." She picked up the notepad again. The sound of her pen striking twice against its surface made dull impatient clicks. "Look, Detective. No one said this was going to be easy, but you have to open up. You are the only one who can do it."
  Harper didn't buy her attempt to bring him back into the conversation. He didn't know if he could, as she said, open up. He pursed his lips and glanced out the window.
  "Damned wind's picking up again, Doc." He buried his mouth in the L of his thumb and index finger touching the outer corner of his eye. He rose and turned his back to hide the familiar burning that blurred his vision. Apprehension had become his unwelcome companion, a reminder of the failings he refused to accept. Anger crept in. It bubbled and seared holes into his sense of reason.
  "Should've been me." He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and cleared his throat. "I was right in Mellow's line of fire. The damned piece was inches from me." The thrust of his fist made a hollow sound against his chest. "You don't get it, do you?"
  "Yes, I do. Let's start there."
  "What's the point? You know what happened. We've been over it a million times. Don't you get tired of listening to this crap?"
  "It's the only way."
  "We can talk all you want. Won't change a damned thing. Won't bring him back." He dropped back into his chair and swept a hand across the stubble he hadn't shaved in three days. "What're you going to do? Tell me to think happy thoughts? Will that do it? IS that going to stop the dreams?"
  "Tell me about them."
  "Not today." He wrestled between his grief and growing suspicions of Gillies. What really went down five days ago in front of the Roving Dog Saloon? He jabbed a white knuckled fist onto the arm of the chair and looked away. Every sordid detail came rushing back without prodding. "It was past eleven that night when Gillies got the tip that Mellow had violated parole."
***
  "Come on. Gotta go." Detective Frank Gillies rushed to Harper's desk and slammed an opened hand against it on his way to the elevator. "The big guy just answered our prayers."
  Harper caught his partner's grin and his thumbs up gesture. The gray had gone beyond Gillies' temples to the mass of short locks that covered his head. Harper's glance dropped to the new spot that had landed on his partner's tie six hours before from a greasy burger. One of many meals that had settled around Gillies' middle.
  "Let me guess. Stewart Martin's leaving." Harper turned to the next page in the file. He prayed every day that Detective Martin would transfer.
  "Yeah, right. Soon buddy, real soon, but not tonight. Word is Mellow blew a guy's brains out." Gillies struggled to slip his arms through the narrow sleeves of his overcoat.
  "Wasn't he just released a couple of days ago?" Harper was unmoved by the news. Mellow was nothing to their case against Jimmy Owens. They were after the supplier, not the low-end dealer. "When was this?"
  "Few minutes ago. Over on Calvert near the Trenton overpass. Homicide's on their way. Come on." Gillies shook his head. "Will ya put that crap down already?"
  Harper turned his head in time to see a bolt of lightning crackle and spark across the eastern sky followed by a quick clap of thunder. He adjusted his sight on the windowpane and the ribbons of rain flowing down the glass. "We don't need him."
  "He knows where to find Owens."
  "Di Napoli is on it."
  "Di Napoli can't find his ass with both hands. Move it, Harper!" Gillies rushed toward the fourth floor elevator and jabbed the down button.
  Harper glanced at his watch. It was exactly eleven twenty-five p.m. He grabbed his coat off the back of a chair and motioned to Gillies he would meet him downstairs. His partner was a master at spewing out insults. Harper wondered how he had managed to measure up to the man's expectations when Di Napoli, the eight-year veteran undercover assigned to work with them, couldn't. He took the steps two at a time and reached the lobby as the elevator doors opened.
  "He's out, what, four days and breaks parole?" Harper pressed Gillies. "It's a waste of time. The guys in Homicide aren't going to let us anywhere near him. Hell, you know what they're like. Bunch of assholes."
  "No shit. That's why we're going someplace else."
  "Where?"
  "A dive over on Howard and Third. Just got a tip the fucker's sitting in a booth right now."
  Harper pulled his coat collar up and looked out the glass doors. The March rains were pounding down for the fourth consecutive day. The odds on staying dry weren't adding up in his favor. He swept a glance over to Gillies and caught a similar sense of hesitation before the two of them made a run for the car.
  Another bolt of lightning lit the sky followed closely by a clap of loud thunder.
***
  "Harper?" Dr. Brannon leaned her head to one side. "Where did you go?" The light of a small Tiffany lamp on the corner of her credenza illuminated the right side of her face. "Want to let me in on your thoughts? It's just you and me here," she said, tapping her pencil on her notepad again.
  He threw back his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. His left foot dangled over his knee while the restless right tapped on the floor.
  "Right. You, me, and that thing." He motioned toward the tape recorder on the coffee table.
  She glanced at her watch. "Cut the crap, Harper. This is your third session and you have been defiant from the very beginning. Let's get one thing straight. I'm not out to get you, understand? The bad guys are out there." She pointed toward the door. "You want to fight them, fine. Go ahead. but walk out that door and I'll make sure you don't come back." She stared at him in icy silence. "You don't have a choice, Detective."
  "The hell I don't. I risk my life every goddamn day. That's my choice just as much as it was my duty to follow my partner to the dive that night. I didn't do anything wrong. And there's not a damned thing you can do to change it." Heat rushed to his face. "Who do you think you are, anyway? All you do is sit in your office and analyze the hell out of us. Where do you get off ordering me around?"
  "You have a problem with authority?"
  "Just you."
  "Interesting. Let's get back to what you were thinking a minute ago."
  He hated her self-assurance. He frowned--wished he could run. He glanced at the door then turned to focus his sight on the wet bark of the maple tree in front of the window.
  "It's spitting snow."
  "Damn it, Harper. I'm sworn to secrecy. Nothing you say leaves this room." She paused for a moment. "I am not going to risk your confidence unless you give me reason to think you are capable of hurting yourself or others." Again, she waited for a response. "Did you hear me?"
  "Guess its only rain." Guilt continued to eat at him. If only he'd shot sooner. If only he had known. If only. The questions outweighed the number of plausible answers. He rose to his feet again and paced.
  "No one was supposed to get killed. Not Mellow, sure as hell not Frank." His fingers sliced through his hair and spiked the blond strands with the random pass of his hand. The knot in the pit of his gut tightened like a vise. The sessions, the job, he had to get through one to have the other. "I just wanted the truth. What the hell was Gillies thinking?"
  "He knew the risks," she said, without taking her eyes from him. "Let's talk a minute about you. What have you been doing with yourself?"
  "What difference does it make?" He knew the drill. Sure, the shrink time was mandated, but he didn't want to talk about himself and the baggage he had swung over his shoulder. She remained straight-faced and waiting. There was no way around it that he could see. The doc seemed as determined to make him talk, as he was to remain evasive.
  "I finished a fifth of Scotch, and when I was good and drunk, I watched soap operas. Only damned thing I know more depressing than me these days."
  "You do that often?"
  "I'm fine. All right? I can handle the booze."
  "How do you know I was asking about the booze?"
  She caught him off guard with that remark. How damned stupid was he anyway?
  "Do you think you have a problem with it?"
  Harper sized her up with a seasoned glance. Her dark green sweater set off the red tones in her hair that curved slightly beneath her chin and framed the curvature of her face. She was easy on the eyes, but too damned clinical for his taste. Nothing worse than a scrutinizing shrink to kill the moment. He assumed she was in her thirties, like him, but obviously twice as smart and a lot more obnoxious. Part of him wanted to tell her about Frank Gillies, how he died, and the thoughts that had haunted him since that night. He could still hear Gillies' voice as they ran out to the car. He fingered the change in his pocket, leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane, and tuned her out.
***
  Harper rushed into the car and slammed the door. He wiped his face and secured the straps of his bulletproof vest.
  "What's Mellow doing in a bar?" he asked Gillies. "Is it near the scene?"
  "Nah. It's down in Avondale." Gillies switched on the siren and cut through traffic. "Hole in the wall place smack in the middle of slum lord row."
  "That's clear across town. How long ago was the shooting?"
  "What do I look like, some fucking information sign?" Gillies growled. "How the hell should I know? Idiots in homicide can figure that one out."
  "You sure your informant has it right this time?"
  "What the hell's with ya and the million fucking questions? All we need to do is talk to the guy about Owens before homicide gets to him."
  "Doesn't make sense," said Harper. "Most shooters would run like hell, not stop for a drink. Besides, what makes you think he's going to talk now when he wouldn't before?"
  "No one accused him of having brains, ya know what I'm saying, college boy? You and me, we'd be out of jobs if little shits like him had any brains."
  "Who called in the shooting?"
  "Shit, Harper. Here, let me get my crystal ball out." Gillies sneered. "That's Homicide's problem, I could give a rat's ass about it." He shook his head. "All right, look, someone in dispatch called up about the shooting. Thought we'd want to know. That's all. Just following a lead, all right?"
   Harper knew about Gillies' connections. Not who they were or how he managed them, but that they existed. They didn't always pan out, but the grin that split Gillies' face and the urgency in his voice implied this one was a sure thing.
   "Seems stupid of Mellow to screw up right after making parole."
  "Yeah, well, like I said, if little shits like him had brains we wouldn't be here."
  Harper had seen anger take over people's minds. It shoved them over the edge without saying how far or how hard they would fall. Maybe Mellow hadn't figured the distance yet.
  Gillies turned off the headlights and nosed the unmarked patrol car into position across the street from the Roving Dog Saloon. The deserted street and the rain thumping against the car roof gave a false sense of tranquility.
  Harper glanced across the way at the tavern door and the red neon lights shaped like a dog just above it. The dog's legs and tail appeared to move back and forth making him seem to rove for a good mug of beer. The sign's light cast an eerie red glow and shimmered off the wet objects beneath it. Harper pulled up his collar, cupped his hands around his mouth, and blew warmth into them.
  "What now? You're sure he's in there?"
  Gillies winced as he watched the windshield wipers slap the water from side to side. "Only one way to find out. It's your turn, rookie."
  "The hell it is. I ran after the scum in the Capelli case, remember? Chased the guy five blocks through a foot of snow before you cut him off with the car. You can be so damned smug sometimes. You and that stupid grin of yours. This wasn't even my call."
  "Ah, come on. Rookies aren't allowed to say no. Besides, you're younger. What are ya, thirty-one, thirty-two now?"
  "Cut the jabs."
  "What? What'd I say?"
  "Cut the rookie and college boy bit."
  "I'm just joshing with ya. Don't go getting sensitive on me, all right?"
  "It gets old." It was almost midnight. Harper was tired and in no mood for Gillies' mindless humor. "Haven't been a rookie in years."
  "Is that so?" Gillies chuckled and threw him a playful punch. "All right. Listen. Ya don't even have to talk to the asshole. Just see if he's in there. Don't want him running out the back or nothing and have to chase the little creep in this shit."
  "That's it, huh?" Harper leaned his head against the window and watched the rain. "It's not letting up."
  "Go on. It'll take ya two minutes. We'll wait him out. Ask him a few questions and go home."
***
  "Was that a typical surveillance?" asked Brannon.
  Expressionless eyes studied him from behind a set of silver framed reading glasses.
  "No. We always worked together before. That night." Harper shook his head. "Nothing made sense. One minute we're just going to talk to the guy. Next thing I know I've got two fatalities to answer for and I don't know what in the hell happened."
  "What do you mean, you don't know?"
  "We didn't need Mellow to get Owens. Gillies knew it as well as I did. He acted as if we were the only ones on the case. There was a whole team of us including some undercover. But Gillies, he was so bent on going after Mellow that night. It was almost as if..."
  "What?"
  "He wouldn't take no for an answer. What the hell was I supposed to do? he was the senior partner. Had to trust his judgment."
  "Did you?"
  "That's what we're supposed to do, trust each other." Harper lowered his glance. "That night, after it was over, I checked with dispatch." He swallowed hard. "There was no shooting reported anywhere on or near the Trenton overpass."

**********

Healey's Cave
by Aaron Paul Lazar
Genre: Paranormal Mystery
ISBN:
Publisher: Twilight Times Books
http://www.twilighttimesbooks.com
Release date: August 2008
URL: http://www.mooremysteries.com

Chapter One

  Sam Moore was free. Free from the tether of the alarm clock, pushy pharmaceutical reps, runny noses, and waiting rooms packed with patients. On the first day of retirement, at the age of sixty-two, he was ready for a change.
  He stood behind the barn and looked toward the garden. It lured him with a peculiar intensity he’d never been able to explain to Rachel. The pull was visceral, infused with a strong lust for the land. Cirrus clouds skated across the sky, racing eastward and the cool May breeze ruffled his hair, caressing him.
  He should be happy. But a familiar sense of melancholy washed through him. It was always there, ever present. It retreated occasionally, when he was busy caring for patients. But as soon as he stopped-to take a breath, to look out the window, or to eat his lunch-that undercurrent of sadness, born of loss, returned.
  It had been this way for fifty years. Fifty years of longing for the truth, of missing his baby brother.
  Where are you, buddy?
  A flurry of starlings swooped past him. Their trickling waterfall calls resonated, frightening the goldfinches feasting at the thistle feeder. He watched the birds settle on the branches of the black walnut tree. Their blue-black plumage glistened in the sunlight.
  The breeze rose, stirring the leaves in the cottonwoods.
  Is it a sign?
  Sam shot a glance toward the house, embarrassed to have such thoughts. He was glad Rachel couldn’t hear the crazy ideas that populated his mind.
  Was Billy dead or alive? Snuffed out on his eleventh birthday, or whisked away by a kidnapper? Was he living somewhere? In Alaska? Canada? Forced to change his name as a child, brainwashed to forget his life as a Moore? Did he have grandchildren, like Sam? Or…
  Sam’s heart blackened. He hated this part.
  If Billy were kidnapped, he would’ve tried to come home once he gained access to a car. He had been old enough when he disappeared to remember what town he grew up in. So…if he hadn’t returned, he must be gone. Gone for good.
  Sam sighed again and pushed back his thick gray hair. Two starlings lit on the bird feeder and pecked at the seeds. The wooden feeder was flanked on both ends with suet holders, and Sam’s hands were greasy from the peanut-flavored cakes he’d slid into the receptacles earlier. A woodpecker hung upside down, poking at the treat.
  As he watched the birds, he realized it would be harder now to ignore the questions plaguing him about Billy’s fate. He’d have time on his hands. Lots of time. Aside from tending to Rachel’s needs and babysitting the boys, he’d have hours to imagine the best and the worst.
  He sighed and put one hand in his pocket, jingling his keys and watching the birds.
  He’d just have to keep busy.
  Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the barn and yanked on the starter cord of the rototiller. It coughed, belched black smoke, and stalled. He nudged the choke back and tried again. The engine roared to life. Sliding the choke all the way down, he shifted the tiller into reverse and backed out of the barn.
  Sam guided the tiller toward the garden. The wet grass needed mowing, though it had been cut four days ago. May had been festooned with rainstorms, a real record breaker. The knobby tires dug into the ground as he passed the bearded iris bed behind the wooden fence bordering the cutting garden. Saffron, cranberry, pristine white, and pale lavender-blue petals clamored for attention beside the Japanese Kerria, whose tiny orange flowers glowed on the branches.
  His mind drifted to patients and the young doctor who’d taken over the practice.
  I wonder how Garcia’s doing?
  He'd dreamed about retirement for the past forty years. And here he was, on his first day of freedom, about to embark on a full day of gardening until he dropped into the lovely sleep born of physical exhaustion-and his first thought was about Garcia.
  Doctor Andrea Garcia had worked by his side since she graduated from the University of Rochester Medical School. She was good. She’d take excellent care of his patients.
  But would she remember to test Jenny Boyd for strep?The annoying voice hissed inside his head.
  Forget about it. It’s not your job. Not anymore.It was hard to sever himself from a practice that flourished for forty years. Forty years of growing this “limb” that became such a part of him, and everyone expected him to simply chop it off. Just like that! It wasn’t going to be easy.
  He stopped and looked at the cloudless sky. The strong sun shone through pure azure, although it was just eight in the morning. Leaves rustled in the whispery willow and sugar maples that dotted the grounds. He smiled, drank in the scent of honeysuckle perfuming the air, and propelled the tiller forward.The jungle grew to his left. He’d hacked away at the bamboo-like shoots for weeks. The official name of the rapacious weed was Japanese Knotweed, a rapid-spreading invader that killed everything in its shadow. Last year's stalks were dry and crisp. They stood twelve feet high, crackling in the breeze. He imagined them taunting him, calling to him.
  You can’t stop us. We’re taking over.
  In the past few weeks, he'd removed half of the patch that stretched over five thousand square feet, but there was a lot left to clear. Yesterday's bonfire had been impressive. Fueled with dried knotweed, dead apple tree limbs, and bundles of crispy weeds, it roared into an inferno, inciting stares from passersby. The coals were still warm when Sam added more branches to the pile that morning.
  He reached the vegetable garden near the above ground pool and set the tiller in motion between the wide rows of sugar snap peas and asparagus. Rachel and he had feasted on purple-tipped asparagus for the past few weeks.
  Asparagus on buttered toast. Mmmm.
  His stomach growled. He’d skipped breakfast and bolted outdoors before the sun had crested over the hill. Sam muscled the machine around the row of peas and started on the other side. The soil churned like butter. Baby beets grew thick within the long row. He smiled again, pleased with the result. He’d defied Upstate New York conventions and had boldly planted the beets at the same time as the peas. It was on March 27th, a rare, eighty-degree day, perfect for the first till.
  Normally, the beets went in during the first week in May. This year, he pushed it ahead and hit pay dirt when they flourished in the cold, wet weather of April. The thick greens were five inches tall now. He and Rachel would enjoy sweet buttered beets by the fourth of July.
  Sam reached the end of the row and followed the expanse of the Swiss chard, lettuce, and dill. A few volunteer potato plants from last season pushed through the dirt. They towered over the others, ungainly and unexpected. He considered yanking them in the interest of neatness, but couldn’t do it. They’d survived the winter. They’d earned the right to grow.Lila trotted out of the woods. Her sleek, white body moved with feline fluidity. She meowed twice, raising her tail in greeting. Sam switched off the tiller and leaned down to pat her. She pushed her head against his hand and turned in small circles as he made a fuss over her.
  “Whatsa matter, Lila? Are you hungry? Where’d you go last night, girl?”
  She purred and placed her delicate paws on his knees as he crouched beside her. He stroked the smooth fur on her neck and scrubbed his fingers behind her ears.
  “That's a good girl. Good kitty.”
  When Lila was satisfied, she abruptly terminated the liaison and trotted toward the house. Sam restarted the tiller, finished working the soil between the corn and potatoes, and headed over to the knotweed patch.
  He was ready to dig today. Although the job of clearing wasn’t yet complete, he ached to set tine to soil and stir it up. It would allow him to smooth out the area, rake it, and eventually mow the knotweed to death.
  He maneuvered the tiller over the lawn to the knotweed jungle and slowly worked the soil. The weed colony was founded when he and Rachel owned horses, years ago. When her multiple sclerosis worsened and she needed the wheelchair, the animals were sold, and the knotweed multiplied, infesting the edge of the woods. By the time Sam retired, it had grown expansively, creating “the jungle.” Sam was obsessed with ridding the landscape of the infectious weeds. Listed first on his retirement list, he planned to turn the area into a lush lawn, opening it to the line of heirloom apple trees edging the woods.
  Something sparkled from the earth. Sam leaned down and poked at the soil, uncovering a clear glass bottle. He lifted it to his eyes, brushed off the dirt, and read, “Bayer Aspirin” in raised letters running down the side of the tiny vessel. He pocketed it. Rachel would want to clean it and add it to her collection. Such treasures frequently popped out of the earth around the house and barn. Long ago, it was common practice to bury trash before the introduction of garbage trucks. Since the house was built in 1815, Sam anticipated an abundance of finds.
  He continued tilling until he connected with the woody root of a knotweed plant. The tiller bounced as it tried to unearth the root. Eventually, after coming at it from several directions, it popped out of the ground. The offender was ten inches long, knobby, and misshapen. It resembled a piece of wood. Pink shoots of baby knotweed sprouted from the chunk. He threw it into the wheelbarrow. After letting it dry in the sun for a few days, he'd burn it. Another object flashed from the dirt. Sam backed up the tiller and dug with his fingers until they closed around a small marble. He picked it up, rubbed it on his jeans, and held it to the light. The sphere was small and partially opaque. A cat’s eye. He turned it in his fingers. Light sparkled through glass the color of lichen; muted, pale green overlayed swirls of deeper green within. He smiled, put it in his pocket, and continued until hunger drove him in for lunch with Rachel.

**********

*************

Small Town Secrets
by Billie Williams
ISBN 978-1-59705-283-2 (electronic)
978-1-59705-766-0 (print)
Available at http://www.wings-press.com/Bookstore/Small_Town_Secrets.htm
Or contact the author for an autographed copy at billie@billiewilliams.com
http://b6.mail.yahoo.com/ym/billiewilliams.com/Compose?To=billie@billiewilliams.com

Short Blurb:
Fires rage across the tiny town of Nettlesville. Someone is bent on burning it down one building at a time. Can Chaneeta and Olga bury their rivalry long enough to use their powers to stop the arsonist before the town is destroyed, or will the skeleton in the Town Chairperson’s closet be her undoing at the hands of Editor in chief of the Daily Nettle Newspaper, Olga Corn?

CHAPTER ONE

  Chaneeta Morgan heaved the big cardboard box from the storage area. A sigh squeezed from her because she compressed her ample size into a squashed, squatted position. The silence in the Golden Kettle Café was almost eerie it was so absolute. Some days she felt like the Café owned her rather than the other way around. No coffee pot perking, no stoneware dishes clanking against fork, knife or spoon, no muffled chatter, only silence. She pulled the first of the St. Patrick’s Day garlands from the box. Green saran fringe sparkled like spring growth as she tacked it around the front window, removing the valentine red heart garland as she went. She loved the shamrocks hanging between the fringe and the pot of gold interspersed, centered in the design. The yearnings these decorations inspired. Her biggest wish this season was that the rash of fires that had begun in December would be over. It was as though the arsonist was invisible. Perhaps spring would bring a closure to whatever it was that had sparked his or her evil mission.
  As though on cue, distant sirens shrieked into the quiet of the café interrupting her pondering and catching her attention before the police scanner sitting near the register crackled as a preannouncement that someone would be sending a message. She strained to hear the message, “Fire at 432 Iverson,” the voice breaking over the scanners crackle said. Her heart seemed to get caught in her throat that was Bill Barker’s residence. Chaneeta dropped the decorations, grabbed her keys and coat and headed for the fire station for her gear. It was hardly worth backing the car out of the garage since the fire station was only three blocks away, but she could save time by driving. It was times like these that being sixty some pounds over weight and fifty-three years old posed a problem. One without the other might not matter, but the extra baggage definitely slowed her down. Being a volunteer on the fire department was not something she took lightly nor was she ready to give up anytime soon. Town Chairperson or not, she felt the need to serve, to protect in whatever manner she could.
  The third fire in as many weeks. She dreaded to think what they would find. Would this one be arson also? Why hadn’t they been able to stop this guy-or-woman? Crime didn’t seem to know gender or bounds any more. Everyone was fair game. Town’s people were frightened and she felt powerless. Nettlesville population two hundred fifty, give or take a few was supposed to be the rural Wisconsin version of The Little House on the Prairie-not West Side Story wild and unruly.
  She slipped into her gear and followed Jimmy and Howard Johnson to the medi-van as the pumper truck exited the building. The van followed and waited for Bob Clemone to close the doors and hop in the van.
  “You have to do something about these fires Chaneeta,” Howard said anger creasing his face and drawing his bushy black eye brows together in a line meeting above his nose.Chaneeta fiddled with the Velcro closure on her slicker. “Howie, you think I don’t want this perp as bad as the rest of you? I’ve been hounding the Marinette County cops to intensify their investigation. They keep saying they’re understaffed, over worked and doing the best that they can.” Sweat was starting to bead at the nap of her neck and trickle down her spine in the claustrophobic quarters of the van. Heat radiated across and down her back like someone had turned on a heater in her spine. Not a hot flash, not now, she grumbled inwardly. Actually, who would know with the rubberized slickers making everyone miserable, they all were soaked with sweat beneath them by the time the fire was over.
  The scene at the Barker place lit up the night sky as brilliant orange and yellow flames reached skyward. Sparks danced like the Fourth of July as pieces of wood fell, or windows shattered with the heat of the blaze. The building was totally engulfed. Chaneeta’s heart felt choked, as though the acrid smoke that filled her nostrils had tendrils that reached down to her heart and squeezed. “The children, the Barker’s?” she questioned without wanting to ask the real question that tugged at her knotted stomach. “Did everyone get out safely?” she said scanning the area, looking for Bill, his wife Chen Lei or the four children. She knew there would be no hope of rescuing anyone from that building now if they weren’t already out. The men targeted the hose on the roof and the building collapsed in on itself as they did. Sparks flew in all directions sending the onlookers clamoring to remove themselves from danger as they scuttled back farther.
  “Too, late to save anything,” Stewart Lewis, Fire Chief for Nettlesville’s all volunteer fire department said as she approached his side. “All we can do now is keep her contained.
  “The Barkers?” Chaneeta questioned hoping they hadn’t been inside. She scoured the surroundings again searching hopefully for the faces of the four Barker children, Bill or Chen Lei.
  “Neighbors said they’re gone up north to visit relatives in Wausau. They’re the ones who called it in. Seems Emma got up to go to the bathroom and saw the blaze from her kitchen window.”
  “Thank God,” the words squeezed out of her like a prayer of thanksgiving.”
  The Tewsday twins, Twice and Taaktu, hurried across the street waving at Chaneeta from where they had parked their car.
  “Dusty won’t believe another fire,” Taaktu’s said. Taaktu being the younger of the twins by half an hour she was actually born a day later than Twice. She was the impetuous one, always on the go with nervous energy as though trying to make up for lost time. Dusty Rhodes, the current Constable for Nettlesville, had appointed Taaktu his deputy before he left on a month long vacation. She took her job dead serious and Chaneeta was glad to have her in that position.
  They stood watching the house collapse in on itself. No one spoke for a long time.
  “How could it have gotten this bad before someone saw it?” Twice said and then raised her hands surrender style as she wrapped her bathrobe tighter against the chill of the early spring night air. She looked at Chaneeta fully dressed, “Were you still up?”
  “I was working on the St. Patrick’s Day decorations at the café.”
  “Why didn’t you wait for morning? We’d gladly do that for you,” Taaktu said.
  “Yeah! You shouldn’t be doing that. Your hired help should be,” Twice chimed in.
  “I enjoy doing it. Besides, I couldn’t sleep. These fires are driving me to distraction.”
  Chief Lewis nodded. “You aren’t the only one. You would think the guy would slip up somewhere. Maybe we need a more sophisticated investigator to try to figure this out before some one gets killed.”
  Chaneeta didn’t get a chance to answer before shouts from the approaching Olga Corn, editor in chief of The Daily Nettle let her vehemence be heard. No wonder the town’s people dubbed The Daily Nettle the Stinging Nettle, Chaneeta thought. Her usual diatribe was to cut people to ribbons, and spit them out like chewing tobacco. She was marching across the boulevard like a mean mama in combat boots dragging her poor little reporter, photographer Bobbie Bjork with her.
  “What do you have to say for yourself now, Chaneeta Morgan, Town Chair Woman? How long do you expect the town to put up with your incompetence?”
  For two cents Chaneeta thought she would deck the woman and worry about the consequences later, against her better judgment of course. Chief Lewis stepped between them. “Wait just a minute Ms Corn, it sure ain’t Miss Morgan’s fault that the Barker place caught fire. We don’t know what caused it yet. So you hold your accusations for a bit until the Fire Marshal gets here and investigates it.”
  “Don’t need no Fire Marshal to tell me this is like the other three - Don’t need no Fire Marshal to tell me that Chaneeta Morgan is no more a town chairwoman than I am the Princess Diana.”
  Chaneeta stood her ground and glared at the fire and brimstone broiling from the angry Olga Corn. “I’m doing what I can Olga. The Marinette County Police Department, the State Fire Marshall they are all investigating. They have not found one single clue to use to pin this on anyone.”
  “And you let that useless Town Constable, Dusty Rhodes, take a month long vacation in the middle of this,” she said pointing an accusing finger in Chaneeta’s face.
  “He had a vacation coming. He had made plans and I saw no reason to detain him. He had done his preliminary investigation.”
  Taaktu stepped in, “I’m in charge now. If you have a gripe talk to the hand,” she said raising her hand between Chaneeta and Olga.
  “Humph! We’ll see about this.” Olga turned on her heel and stomped over to direct her anger at her photographer to snap the pictures she wanted.
  Chaneeta knew she had to do something to try to calm Olga down. There had to be some way to reach her and get her to work with her instead of against her, but what?
  Chief Lewis shook his head and made a sign that he suspected Olga was crazy. The Tewsday twins caught it and laughed uproariously, Chaneeta didn’t join in she was too busy trying to figure out why, who, what was the purpose of these fires and why did Olga blame her? She needed to have a serious talk with Olga Corn, but that would have to wait until another day. She walked to the perimeter of the fire and noticed words in spray paint on the small lawn and garden shed that sat towards the back of the property where Bobbie Bjork was working feverishly, snapping pictures. She motioned to Taaktu and Chief Lewis, and pointed where Bobbie Bjork was grabbing shots of the words with her camera.
  “Don’t print that,” Taaktu said grabbing the camera away from Bobbie. “That will do exactly what the sick mind that set this fire wants it to do.” Bobbie stepped back afraid to try to fight for the camera.
  Olga didn’t have that demeanor. She reached to grab the camera back from Taaktu. “You hand that over! It’s my property,” she growled glaring at Taaktu.
  “Sure,” Taaktu opened the camera and pulled out the roll of film, glad it wasn’t a digital camera yet. She pulled the film in a long dark string from its case - the blazing inferno beside them flickered bright candle-like teardrops of light dancing across the surface of the exposed red-brown film as it unraveled exposing the entire roll.
  Olga turned to Chaneeta. “You will pay for this. You will. Mark my words.”
  Chaneeta threw her hands up in the air. “Officer Tewsday calls the shots in this investigation. I have no control over that. It seems to me she did the right thing if this could spark trouble in the community. Neighbor against Neighbor. We don’t need that. We have enough trouble. I think it’s time we work together don’t you?” she turned the challenge back around to Olga. Olga went quiet. She took the camera and handed it back to Bobbie. “We’ll do this one without pictures,” she said. “The whole town is here anyway. There is nothing we need to add to this.” She waved her arm across the inferno the burning house had become and the graffiti spray painted on the side of the tiny building.
  “Chief, have one of your men get a picture of that and then cover it, please,” Taaktu cupped the film she had torn from Bobbie’s camera and then stuffed it in her jacket pocket.
  The racial slur on the garden shed dug deep into Chaneeta’s insides. The slur stung deeper than she dared let anyone know. It was years since she let herself feel the anguish and the guilt of those kind of thoughts; thoughts that could cut a heart to shreds in seconds screamed out of anger. Her father’s voice, her mother’s tears hovered over her like a storm cloud. Twenty years of burying those thoughts to be exact. She reached down and picked up the small doll. Half of it was black, charred from the fire, the other half stark white -it seemed metaphorical.
  Chaneeta’s heart beat irregular, stilted. She wondered if anyone could tell her daughter was a racial mix. What did she look like twenty years later? Where was she? A tear slid down Chaneeta’s cheek. She turned away from the small group, dashing a tissue from her pocket to her eye to catch the tattle tale tear. She caught Twice looking at her out of the corner of her eye.
02/05/08

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Title: GRAVE WEB (cold case) (#10 of the renowned ‘Hawkman Series’)
Author: Betty Sullivan La Pierre
Publisher: SynergEbooks
Genre: Mystery/Suspense
Release date: Nov.-2007
ISBN: 1419681966
Pages: 301 Price: $14.00 (ppd)
Purchase at: http://www.bettysullivanlapierre.com
Downloads: $5.98
Purchase at: http://www.synergebooks.com/ebook_graveweb.html

CHAPTER ONE

  Becky Simpson stood at the edge of the open grave. Long strands of soggy hair clung to her face as tears slid down her cheeks. Her lightweight jacket dripped water as the rain pelted against her slim body. Thunder rumbled in the distance while the coffin slowly descended into the gapping hole. Cory sidled up next to her and placed an arm around her waist.
  “Come on, Sis. You’re getting soaked. It’s time to go.”
  He gently led her toward the big black limousine, helped her into the seat, then scooted in beside her.
  "What am I going to do without him?” She said, her voice quivering as she took the handkerchief he offered, and dabbed the water from her face.
  “You’ll be fine. Now you can do the things you always wanted to do.”
  “Do you realize without Dad, I’m all alone. You’ve at least got a wife and a child on the way. I’ve got no one.”
  He gave her a squeeze. “Hey, you’re still young. You have plenty of time to find the right man.”
  She glanced at her brother. “You know what I’d really like to do?”
  He shook his head. “No, what?”
  “Find out what happened to our mother.”
  Cory straightened and removed his arm from around her shoulders. “Why do you want to go digging into the past trying to find the whereabouts of Mom? She left years ago and never made contact with either of us.”
  A slight smile curled the corners of Becky’s lips. “I’ve dreamed of her many times. I can still see her cleaning the house and humming a cheerful tune. She always seemed so happy.” Clasping her hands in her lap, Becky stared longingly out the rain streaked window. “There’s bound to be a reason she left. I know she loved us. Why would she just disappear without a word?”
  Cory bowed his head and dusted off his wet pants. “Have you ever thought she might be dead?”
  Becky jerked her head around and glared at him. But before she could answer, the big car came to a stop in front of the church. Cory hopped out and ran around to open her door. He took her arm, and they hurried up the steps just as a bolt of lightening streaked across the sky, followed by another rumble of thunder. Dashing into the building, Susan, Cory’s wife, met them inside the vestibule. She gave her husband a hug and took Becky’s hand.
  “I think you two need to get into dry clothes.”
  Becky nodded. “You’re right. I’m getting chilled.”
  “We’ll go by and pick up something to eat,” Cory said. “See you in about thirty minutes.”
  “Okay. Meet you at the house.”
  As Becky drove home, many thoughts crowded her mind. She wondered why there were so few people at her father’s service. Surely he had more friends. Of course, the weather may have played a role and kept many away. Not good for older people to drive in cold and stormy conditions. Maybe she should have offered to have a wake with food and drink. “Sorry, Dad,” she muttered aloud. “I was just too upset.”
  When she reached the house, she ran upstairs and changed clothes, then brought in a big log from the covered back porch. Placing it on the paper she’d stacked on the grill, she set it afire. By the time Cory and Susan arrived with the food, the house felt cozy and warm.
  After they finished the meal, eight months pregnant Susan groaned as she rose from the table. “It’s been a tiring day and we have a long drive tomorrow. I think I’ll go to bed.” She turned to her husband. “Honey, could you help your sis clean up?”
  Becky waved a hand. “You two go ahead, it won’t take me a minute to get everything put away.”
  “Are you sure?” Cory said, picking up a couple of the plates.
  “Yes.” She gestured for him to leave the dirty dishes. “You go take care of Susan.”

***

  The next morning, Becky walked her brother and wife to their car. “Susan, are you okay?”
  “Yes.” She laughed. “Just big and fat. Believe you me, I’m ready to have this baby.”
  “Be sure and let me know as soon as the big event happens.”
  “Don’t worry. You’ll probably be the first we call.”
  Becky bent down and gave her a hug. “I pray everything goes well.” She stepped back as her brother closed the car door.
  He put his arms around Becky and gave her a squeeze. “Sis, stay in touch.” Glancing up at the sky, he dashed around the front of the car. “We’d better get on the road. Hopefully, we can beat this next storm.”
  “Call me when you get home. Drive carefully.” They waved as she watched the car turn the corner and disappear. Climbing the steps to the front porch, she rubbed the sides of her arms as the goose bumps rose from the chilly breeze.
  The minute she moved inside, silence engulfed her. She leaned against the door and stared into quiet room space. Normally, Dad would have the news blaring on the television, regardless of the hour. She already missed his voice, calling for her to come and watch the latest storm alert or to tell her about an incident at the grocery store.
  She wiped a hand across her face. It surprised her when she discovered her cheeks wet and warm with tears. Suddenly, a clap of thunder jolted her out of the intense thoughts. Running fingers through her long brown hair, she pushed the loose strands behind her ears and moved toward the hallway.
  Becky hesitated outside the closed door of her father’s office, bit her lower lip, then turned the handle. She moved cautiously across the room to the large oak desk in front of the window. Tracing her fingers across the worn smooth wood, she felt a guilty sensation flow through her, as though she’d intruded into an area where she didn’t belong. She took a deep breath and slid into his desk chair. So many questions left unanswered. Her eyes welled with tears again as she thought about all the wonderful times she’d had with her dad. Now, all the kin she had left in the world was her younger brother.
  Only two years separated their ages, but Cory had married soon after he finished college, moved to another town, and now had a baby on the way. Five years ago, due to the woeful pleading of her father, Becky had returned home. He said the big house seemed so empty and lonely after his children had gone off for school. Maybe all the chatter of a growing family might not be present, but if she’d come back he knew it would lift his spirits. He promised not to put a damper on her life, and she could stay as long as she wished. No love had entered Becky’s life, so the decision hadn’t been hard to make. Once she’d settled in, she had no desire to find a place of her own.
  She’d found a good paying job in town at a mall, where she became the buyer of women’s clothing at one of the well known department stores. This kept her wardrobe in the latest style and occasional travel kept her from boredom. Many people told her she had exquisite taste, and wearing the fashions she’d purchased, lured many people into the women’s area.
  She remembered how her dad teased her about one of the slinky outfits she wore home. He told her a beautiful woman prancing around in that outfit would cause nothing but trouble to the married men in her office. His laughter rang through the house when he told her she’d leave them panting and the wives ready to kill.
  Becky wiped the tears from her eyes, and blew her nose. Having the full responsibility of being executrix of her father’s will, she’d taken off a couple of weeks to get things in order. Cory would return to sign the final papers in the next few days. He had no problem with her keeping the house, as he had no interest in it. The estate would be divided so that he’d be covered for his half.
  She pondered again how she’d approach him on the idea of finding their mother. Cory was only eight when she took off. No trace of her had ever been found. But Becky remembered her twinkling blue eyes, big smiles and wonderful hugs.
  Dropping her pen on the desk top, she strolled to the window and peered out through the sheer curtains. The rain had quit and she smiled at the squirrel guarding his nest in the crook of the oak tree. He kept chattering and scolding a blue jay perched on a limb a few feet away. The bird flew at the sound of the gate as it rattled open and Henry Harris, the gardener, entered. He’d taken care of their yard for as long as she remembered. Becky had never liked him as a little girl. When she told her dad the man scared her, he just laughed, telling her Henry wouldn’t hurt a fly and he needed the job. Strange, she didn’t recall seeing him at the funeral, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t there. In her state of mind, she probably didn’t see anyone who wasn’t right in her face. He tended to be very shy and could very well have been in the background. Becky crossed the room and went down the stairs to the main floor.
  Slipping on a jacket hanging on the hook near the back door, she went outside. “Good morning, Henry.”
  “Mornin’,” he said, ducking his head as he reached down to pick up the rake. “Sorry about your pappy. Very sad to have him gone. I thought I’d run over and see what I could do between the storms.”
  Before Becky could respond, he’d turned abruptly and headed around the corner of the house. She decided not to pursue him this morning. Her questions could wait until a less strained time.

Betty Sullivan La Pierre, Mystery/SuspenseWebsite: http://www.bettysullivanlapierre.com
MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/bettysullivanlapierre12/12/07

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A Nail Through the Heart
by Timothy Hallinan
Published by William Morrow; July 2007;$24.95US/$31.50CAN;
978-0-06-125580-9
Copyright © 2007 Timothy Hallinan

  The Story: Poke Rafferty is an American expatriate living in Bangkok and the author of a number of “rough travel” books aimed at young, hip travelers who want to go off -- way off -- the usual tourist paths. He came to Bangkok to write the third book in the series, Looking for Trouble in Thailand, and falls in love with the city and the Thai people, two of them in particular: a former Patpong go-go dancer named Rose, with whom he now lives off and on, and whom he wants to marry; and a wary eight-year-old former street child named Miaow, whom he is trying formally to adopt.
  The adoption process for Miaow is complicated and expensive, and to offset the expenses not too long ago, Poke wrote a piece for a magazine in which he demonstrated that virtually all the “missing” Western men in Thailand had gone missing voluntarily and were living very happily somewhere in the Kingdom. The article brought him a young Australian woman whose uncle has disappeared. This quest in turn leads him to a rundown mansion on the banks of the Chao Phraya River and a mysterious older woman -- much feared, if others' reactions to her are to be trusted -- named Madame Wing. Poke is now in the house and about to meet Madame Wing for the first time.
***
  The silence is pierced by a thin, insistent squealing from somewhere in the house. Rafferty backs away from the fragment of temple wall and seats himself in the armchair. The sound grows louder, and a woman comes around the corner and into view. She is tiny and angular, her sharp joints folded batlike into a wheelchair that is too big for her. The chair stops in the doorway, without entering the room, and the squealing stops with it.
  She regards him without expression. For a moment he actually wonders if she is blind, simply directing her eyes where she knows the armchair will be.
  “Madame Wing,” he says, just to break the silence.
  Her chin comes up a quarter of an inch, and all the planes of her face shift. Her eyes actually register him for the first time. She is thin to the point of being gaunt, the bones of her face as sharp as a Cubist painting, the skull slowly surfacing beneath the flesh. The hands grasping the rubber wheels are all knuckles. The skin stretched over them has turned a peculiar bruised-looking purple.
  “You came,” she says with a hint of satisfaction. The voice, low and rough, scrapes Rafferty’s ears. Despite the grandeur of her home, there is nothing refined about the way she sounds. She rolls herself a foot or so into the room. The wheelchair squeals again.
  “You should get Jeeves to oil that thing.”
  She stops the chair’s motion and regards him coldly. He has been regarded coldly before -- he thinks of himself as an expert at being regarded coldly -- but this is something entirely new. She looks at him as he might look at a snake coiled on his pillow. “His name is Pak, and you do not tell me what to do.”  “Just a suggestion.”
  “Not ever,” she says. Now that he can see her eyes more clearly, he wishes he could not. They are extraordinarily luminous eyes, but the light in them seems all to be reflected. They have the shine of an animal that can see in the dark. He can see the white all the way around the circles of her irises. “You have questions to ask me before I come to my business. Ask them.”
  Her business? Rafferty does want any part of this woman’s business, whatever it is. “You had a maid here,” he says. “She may know something about a man I’m trying to find.”
  She draws herself up in the chair. It makes her seem both larger and heavier, despite her apparent frailty. “What man?”
  “An Australian named--”
  “No,” she says, closing the subject. She sits back. “I know nothing of Australians.”
  “Actually,” he says, “it’s the maid you can probably help me with.” He holds up the note from Bangkok Domestics. “You wrote a letter about her.”
  She extends a skeletal hand, a knot of knuckles and rings. It is absolutely still. Whatever health problems she may have, none of them causes her hands to tremble.
  Rafferty begins to unfold the letter, but she gives the hand a peremptory shake and he finds himself getting up to give it to her. “Sit,” she says, the moment she has it. She does not look up to see if he does as he is told.
  As she unfolds the letter, he gets a chance to look at her without having to face those unsettling eyes. Her hair, still mostly black, is pulled back into a bun so tight it looks like it hurts. The emaciated face is dark but not heavily lined, and Rafferty revises his estimate of her age. At first sight he thought seventy. Now he thinks she could be anywhere from fifty to sixty.
  “This girl,” she says at last, precisely refolding the letter. “She is of no account.”
  “She may have information I need.”
  She drops the letter into her lap. “Why should I care?”
  “Not a reason in the world. You said you’d see me, so I thought--”
  “I do not care what you thought. The girl was dismissed because she could not accept discipline. I have no idea where she went.”
  l“How long did she work here before you fired her?”
  The gaze she gives him says the question is an impertinence. “Seven weeks, eight weeks.”
  “If you fired her, why did you write her a letter of reference?”
  “Why does that matter?”
  “It’s a natural question. The letter got her hired by someone else, and now that person is missing, and so is she.”
  Something very unpleasant happens to her mouth. “Are you suggesting that this might involve me?”
  “It involves you to the extent that it brought me here.”
  “I brought you here,” she says imperiously. “Not this stupid girl.”
  “And if I came, so will others. Who knows who’ll they’ll be?”
  The hands drop to the chair’s wheels as though she intends to leave the room. Instead, she moves it forward several inches, squealing her way closer to Rafferty. When she is close enough to make him wish he could move the chair backward, the squealing stops and the silence of the house once again presses against his ears, like water.
  “And who do you think they might be?” she asks.
  The intensity of the question unnerves him. “Could be anyone. The police, the Australian embassy.”
  She nods a tenth of an inch. Her lids drop slightly, hooding the eyes for a merciful moment, and then she turns to the carved stone on the wall. Her gaze travels left to right, like those of someone reading a newspaper. When she has finished, she says, without looking at him, “That’s hardly anyone.” Then she lifts her hands and claps once. The sound is still ringing in Rafferty’s ears when Jeeves steps into the doorway.
  “This horrible girl,” she says, handing him the letter. “Bring the file.”
  Pak doesn’t bow, but it’s close. “Yes, Madame Wing.” He is gone, and she shifts her eyes to Rafferty. The whites are a nicotine yellow. “The man is probably dead,” she says, with no change in tone. “Everybody dies. It is the only thing we have in common.”
  Not many replies spring to mind. “Why did you write the letter?”
  “She was making a lot of noise.”
  “But you knew she wasn’t good at her job.”
  She looks puzzled. “What does that matter to me? At any rate, other people’s households are not as disciplined as this one.”
  “Mine certainly isn’t,” Rafferty says. He is wondering who she thought might come knocking on her door, who it was who was not included in his “anyone.”
  She does not respond to his remark. She simply looks at him while she waits for Pak to return. The shining eyes do not shift or waver. Rafferty takes it as long as he can and then studies the bas-reliefs on the opposite wall. Life, action, argument, laughter, war, love. All in silent stone, as silent as this house. He can hear himself swallow.
  Rafferty is on the verge of saying something, anything, to break the stillness when Pak appears with a file in his hands. He presents it to Madame Wing two-handed, as though it were on a cushion.
  “You have a pencil,” she says, opening it. Pak melts away into the hall.
  “Tippawan Dangphai,” she reads. “Twenty years old. Nickname . . .” She peers at the page as though the type has begun to square dance.
  “Doughnut,” Rafferty supplies, pulling out his pad.
  She shakes her head at the name. “From Isaan. The town is called--” She lets loose an avalanche of Thai syllables, which Rafferty does not even try to follow. He is not going to Isaan, no matter what. “This was her first position in Bangkok.” She turns the page. “She still had mud between her toes,” she says.
  Rafferty is unsure how to react, but it might have been a joke. “What address did she give you?” Hoping it’s not the Bangkok Bank.
  “She was staying with a sister in Banglamphoo.” She reads an address. “Have you got that?” The question is severe, as though she is daring him to say no.
  “And you have no idea where she is now?”
  “No.” She closes the folder. “Now to my business.” She rolls her chair backward and reaches behind her to close the door. The room seems much smaller. “Something has been stolen from me,” she says. Her face is suddenly white and pinched, her voice strangled. Rafferty is looking at pure, distilled rage. “You will find it.”
  “Afraid not,” Rafferty says, getting up. “I’m pretty much booked up.”
  “When you find it you will return it to me. You will not look at it.”
  “I’m not even going to find it.”
  She says: “Ten thousand dollars.”
  Rafferty sits. Miaow’s adoption, he thinks.
  “I had a safe buried outside. It had something in it that I need. You will find it, and you will find the man who took it.”
  “I don’t know,” Rafferty says, but he does. Ten thousand dollars would feed Rose’s hopefuls until they find work. It would pay for Miaow’s schooling for two years.
  It would fund Hank Morrison.
  “You will bring them both to me, the man and the thing he stole.”
  He takes another look at Madame Wing. The eyes settle it.
  “The police--”
 &nbssp;”I cannot go to the police. The thing that was stolen--” She hesitates for the first time since they began to talk. “It is private. I cannot trust the police with it.”
  “Then how do you know you can trust me with it?”
  “You are one man,” she says.
  “And that means?”
  She smiles at him. “You have one neck.”
  “Well, that’s that,” Rafferty says. He pushes his chair back.
  “Twenty thousand.”
  “Madame Wing,” he says, “you just threatened me.”
  “You can only threaten yourself,” she says. “If you bring it to me unopened, you will have no problem.”
  “And how will you know if I’ve opened it?”
  She puts the gnarled hands in her lap. “Your face will tell me.” Then she says, “Twenty-five thousand.” She settles back in the chair, completely relaxed.
  “I don’t work for people who threaten me.”
  “I did not intend to threaten you.” She lowers her head. “Please forgive an old woman who has lost something very precious to her.”
  “Excuse an American expression,” he says, “but you have impressive juju.”
  The chin comes up. “What is ‘juju’?”
  “Power. Like a kind of magic.”
  Madame Wing looks pleased. It is not a change for the better. “I had juju once,” she says. “But that was a long time ago. Now I am old and helpless. Someone has taken something from me. He came here at night and stole it. Do you think this should be allowed? Do you think men should be able to steal things from old women who have nothing left but memories?”
  Well, put that way. “Of course not.”
  “Thirty thousand dollars,” she says. “That’s as high as I will go. In cash. Half now and half when you bring me the thing that was stolen and the man who took it.”
  Fifteen thousand dollars. In advance. “I don’t deliver people,” Rafferty says.
  “You will tell us where he is, then.”
  “What happens if I can’t find it?” He is thinking in terms of being drawn and quartered.
  She looks at him with those nocturnal eyes. “Then you do not receive the second payment. But I am certain you will find it.”
  “I have conditions.”
  She settles in. They’ve moved to negotiation. “They are?”
  “If I find it, whatever it is, I’ll return it to you or to whomever you choose, in a public place at a time I designate. You’ll pay me then and there. I won’t deliver the man to you unless I know you’re not going to harm him. And finally, I’ll give it a week.”
  “Two.”
  Now it is his turn to wait her out. He forces himself to hold her gaze.
  “One, then,” she says. “I have conditions in return. I will require a daily report, on the telephone, since you are not comfortable coming here.” Something about a light year away from amusement flickers in her eyes. “The report will be detailed. You will tell me where you have gone, what you have done, whom you have spoken with. You will tell no one else at all, no one in the world, what you are doing for me. Is this acceptable?”
  “I guess,” Rafferty says. “Sure. It’s acceptable.”
  “Good.” she claps her hands again, three times, and the door to the room opens. Pak floats in, carrying a fat envelope, which he presents to Rafferty.
  “Fifteen thousand dollars,” Madame Wing says. “All hundreds, no counterfeits. You may examine them.”
  “Is there a price written on my forehead?” Rafferty asks. “What if I had stopped at twenty?”
  She smiles, a new vista of awfulness. Her teeth are long and crooked, the color of mustard. “I would have clapped twice.”
  “What am I looking for?”
  “An envelope. Not like the one I just gave you -- bigger. Heavy brown paper, tied with twine. There is nothing written on it, but three old stamps have been pasted in the upper right corner. You are not to open it.”
  “You’ve made that point quite eloquently.”
  “The man you are looking for is a Cambodian. He will be between forty and fifty-five. He may be physically damaged in some way. He will be in Bangkok.”
  “How do you know all that?”
  The eyes come up, hooded. “It is my life. Who would know better?”
  “The safe was in that hole out there?”
  She nods.
  “How did he get in? You have guards--”
  “He came on the river, at night. The guard at the dock was caught unawares and struck with a stone. The fool. He is no longer here, of course.”
  “I’ll need to talk to him.”
  “He can tell you nothing. We talked to him for several hours. He did not see the man.”
  “I still want to talk to him.”
  She seems to be considering alternatives, but then she nods. “Pak will give you the address when you leave.”
  “How long ago did this happen?"
  “Two nights.”
  “Were you here?”
  “If I had been here,” she says venomously, leaning toward him, “he would be dead.”
  Well, okay. “Two nights ago. Cambodian. How do you know he’ll stay in Bangkok?”
  She folds the gnarled hands, calm again, and looks at the carved stone. “He has to stay here,” she says. “The robbery is only the beginning. He means to destroy me.”
***
Copyright © 2007 Timothy Hallinan

Author
Timothy Hallinan divides his time between Los Angeles and Southeast Asia, primarily Thailand, where he has lived off and on for more than twenty years. As a principal in one of America's top television-based public-relations firms, he represented programs sponsored by many Fortune 500 companies and pioneered new methods of making television programming accessible to teachers. He also taught writing for many years.
For more information, please visit http://www.timothyhallinan.com 08/03/07

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Title: Dead Connection
by Alafair Burke
ublished by Henry Holt and Company, LLC;
July 2007;$19.95US/$24.95CAN; ISBN:978-0-8050-7785-8
Suspense

1

  The man’s first look at the newspaper item was a casual one, followed immediately by a more deliberate perusal. But it was the photograph accompanying the story that had him transfixed.
  Caroline Hunter had preoccupied his thoughts in recent weeks, but this was his first opportunity to reflect on her appearance. To his surprise, she reminded him of a girl he had worked hard not to think about for a very long time. So proud. So uppity. Caroline Hunter had the look of a woman convinced of her own intelligence, a woman who assumed she could do whatever she wanted -- get whatever she wanted -- without any repercussions.
  The man wondered if Caroline Hunter had any regrets as those two bullets tore through her body. Maybe for some women it took dying in the street like a dog to reflect upon one’s decisions and the effects they have on others. He felt his muscles tense, crumpling the pages of newsprint in his hands.
  Then he placed the paper neatly onto the breakfast table, took another sip of tea, and looked down at the muted traffic in the street below the window. He smiled. Fate was presenting him an even more promising opportunity than he had understood when he first spotted the article. Details remained to be worked out, but he was certain of one thing: Caroline Hunter was only the beginning. There would be more stories, just like this one, about women just like her.
  Three hundred and sixty-four days later, Amy Davis finished a second glass of red wine, pondering which excuse she should exploit to call it a night. She should have known better than to agree to a first date that started at eleven o’clock. Even by New York City standards, such a late invitation was an unequivocal sign that the guy wanted to avoid the cost of dinner but leave open the possibility of a spontaneous one-nighter.
  But then the guy -- he claimed his name was Brad -- had suggested meeting at Angel’s Share, not one of the usual meat markets. Amy still thought of the cozy lounge as her secret oasis, tucked so discreetly inside a second-floor dive Japanese restaurant on Stuyvesant Street. She decided to take Brad’s awareness of the place as a sign. Then she looked out her apartment window and saw the snow, the first of the season. To Amy, the first flakes of winter were magical, almost spiritual. Watching them fall to the quiet square of grass beneath the oversized bay windows at Angel’s Share would be fantastic, much more satisfying than observing them from the fire escape of her fifth-floor Avenue C walk-up.
  And so Amy had taken a risk. None of the previous risks had panned out, but that didn’t mean that Brad wouldn’t. Besides, all she had to lose was another night at home with Chowhound the persian cat, falling asleep to the muted glow of her television. Three weeks earlier, she had committed herself to this process, and nights like this were the price she would have to pay if she were ever going to find The One.
  She knew the date was a mistake precisely one second after she heard the voice behind her at the bar’s entrance. “Are you Amy?” It was a nice voice. Deep, but not brusque. Friendly, but calm. For exactly one second, she was optimistic. For that one second, she believed that Brad with the good voice, who was familiar with Angel’s Share, whose first date with her fell with the first snow, might just make a good companion for the evening, if not more.
  Then the second passed, and she turned to meet the man who went with the voice. The truth was, Amy did not care about looks. People said that all the time, but Amy actually meant it. Her ex-boyfriend -- perhaps he had never become a boyfriend, but the man she’d most recently dated -- had been handsome as hell, but by the time they were through, she found him repulsive. This time, she was putting looks aside to focus on the qualities that counted.
  Brad’s face was not unattractive, but neither was it familiar -- a surprise to Amy since they had exchanged multiple pictures over the last week. Internet daters posted photographs, so, even though Amy did not particularly care, she looked. It was nice, after all, to have a visual image to go with the instant messages and e-mails. This face in front of her, however, did not match the image she’d carried.
  As Brad squeezed through a small group of people to ask the host for a table, she mentally shuffled through the pictures he’d sent and realized that in most, his face had been obscured -- sunglasses on both the fishing boat and the ski slopes, a hat on the golf course, a darkened dinner table at some black tie event. One head shot had been pretty clear, but even a toad could eke out one good picture. In retrospect, she realized she had used that one good picture to fill in the blanks on the rest.
  Once they were seated, Amy tried to put her finger on precisely what was different. The face was puffier. Older, too. In fact, Brad looked much older than the thirty-eight years he claimed in his profile. Sure, she might have shaved off a couple of years herself, but she was talking much older in his case. She realized there was no point in getting bogged down in the differences. He looked completely different than she had envisioned, and that was that.
  By the end of the first glass of wine, she knew it wasn’t just Brad’s face that didn’t match up to his online counterpart. According to Brad’s profile, he was a gourmand and a red wine junkie. She allowed him to order first, afraid she might embarrass herself with a passé selection. After he requested a cheap Merlot mass-produced in California, she proceeded to ask for a Barbera d’Asti. If Brad was going to lie, then she was going to rack up Piedmont prices on his tab.
  He talked about work while he drank, pausing only to take big gulps from his glass. Commercial litigation. A motion for summary judgment. Something about jurisdiction and somebody who lacked it. An appeal. His monologue would have been boring at eleven thirty in the morning, but Amy found it sleep-inducing at this late hour.
  She tried shifting the conversation, resorting to all of the subjects he’d gone on about in his e-mails -- independent films, running, his photography hobby. Each topic was a bust, sparking nothing other than a brief expression of surprise on Brad’s unfamiliar face. Reaching for her coat, Amy did not see Brad order the second round until it was too late.
  Nearly an hour into the date, Brad finally took a break from his running legal commentary. “I’m sorry. I’ve been working so hard it’s tricky to turn it off sometimes. I should ask you about yourself.”
  The brief glimmer of hope Amy allowed herself was dashed when he proceeded to make good on his perceived obligation. “So which publishing house do you work for?” he asked.
  “Pardon me?”
  “You’re an editor, right? Which house?” Her confusion must have been apparent. “Oh, right. No, you’re a . . . a fund-raiser. For the Museum of Modern Art, right? So how’s that going for you?”
  It was going, she thought, much better than this date. The jerk had actually mixed her up with some other stupid woman he was duping online. The wine was good, and the view of the snow was wondrous, but nothing was worth this humiliation.
  She selected her excuse and went with it. “I know I said I was up for a late night, but I took a painkiller earlier for this problem I’m having with my rotator cuff.” She rubbed her right shoulder for effect. “With the wine on top of it, I’m feeling a little loopy.”
  “Let me walk you home,” Brad suggested brightly, clearly spotting an opportunity in her feigned high.
  “No, really, I’m fine. I’m just around the corner,” she lied. She might be an idiot for signing on to this endeavor, but she knew better than to tell any of them where she lived.
  Amy didn’t bother waiting once he signaled for the check. She yawned conspicuously and began to maneuver out of the booth as she pulled on her coat. Before Brad could rise for the awkward good-night peck, she shook his hand abruptly and thanked him for the wine he had yet to pay for.
  Then, after a quick scramble down the narrow staircase, through the exit of the Japanese restaurant, she was out of there. She was alone, free of that lame excuse for a date. It struck her then that two or three times a week, for the last three weeks, she had reached the end of the evening with this same feeling. She had made a ridiculous pact with herself to “get out there,” to finally meet a man she could see for more than a month, to finally meet a man she could trust and even love. But, at the end of a night like this, she was always happier once she was able to get out of there. After an hour with Brad, the idea of watching snow from her fire escape didn’t sound half bad.
  Amy walked through the East Village, smoking a Marlboro Light, with a new appreciation of her solitude. She was a thirty-one-year-old woman living in Manhattan. She had a painless enough job in a kick-ass museum. She got to see mind-blowing art every day. She had fifty-one different delivery menus in her kitchen drawer and really good hair. She had a big fat persian cat named Chowhound. Tomorrow she would treat herself to some street shopping, where only in this city could twenty bucks buy you a seemingly authentic designer handbag. There were worse things in life than being on her own.
  The snow was starting to stick by the time she reached the alphabet blocks on the Lower East Side. Amy’s father still didn’t approve of her choice of neighborhoods, but her parents had been overprotective ever since that problem back home. She kept telling him that times had changed since he formed his impressions of the city. Every location in Manhattan was safe now, and the Lower East Side was all she could afford.
  She had her key ring in her hand and was already unzipping her coat when she heard the noise from the alley. Mew.
  “Chowhound?” she called out, peering into the dark void between two buildings. She looked up at her fifth-floor window above, left open during the last cigarette before she walked out for the night.

Author: A former deputy district attorney in Portland, Oregon, Alafair Burke now teaches criminal law at Hofstra Law School and lives in New York City. She is the daughter of the acclaimed crime writer James Lee Burke. Her three novels in the Samantha Kincaid series, Judgment Calls, Missing Justice, and Close Case, are available in paperback from St. Martin's Press. Dead Connection is her first thriller featuring Ellie Hatcher. For more information, please visit http://www.alafairburke.com07/20/07

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Title: Who Framed Boris Karloff?
Author: Dwight Kemper
Publisher: Midnight Marquee Press, Inc.
Where to purchase: http://www.midmar.com

Chapter One: 23 November 1938, 2:10 p.m.

  “‘Son of Frankenstein,’” assistant director Fred Frank shouted as he held up the clapperboard, “production 931, Wolf von Frankenstein meets Monster, take one.”
  The clapperboard clacked.
  “Action,” said producer/director Rowland V. Lee.
  Basil Rathbone as Baron Wolf von Frankenstein stood in the foreground of the laboratory set built on Universal Studios Stage 7, his body deliberately placed in front of the worktable before him to keep a surprise hidden from his co-star. In the background, a curtain of backlit steam representing boiling sulfur rose up from a 30-foot well sunk into the floor of the soundstage. Hiding just inside the well was the unsuspecting Boris Karloff in full Frankenstein Monster makeup.
  “Okay, Basil,” instructed the director, “grab the knife from the table there and slip it in your pocket.”
  Rathbone did as he was told, slipping a long surgical knife into the inner pocket of his two-tone tweed hunting jacket.Lee shouted, “Okay, Boris. Come out of the pit and lurch toward Basil.”
  There was a heavy clump, clump, clump as Karloff lumbered ever nearer, making Basil wonder why his character didn’t hear the Monster “sneaking” up behind him. Karloff’s huge green hand gripped Rathbone’s shoulder. The heavy gray-green greasepaint gave the Monster a corpse-like pallor when photographed through special filters on monochromatic film. It also tended to get on everything Karloff touched. In contrast, Rathbone’s aquiline features were painted red so the special filters didn’t wash out his features.
  Instead of flinching in terror, Basil smiled up at the Monster. A pencil thin mustache pasted to his upper lip emphasized Rathbone’s dashing good looks. He stood aside so Boris could see his surprise. It was a huge cake with a spray of icing flowers framing the inscription, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BORIS.” The horrific features of Frankenstein’s Monster broke into a wide grin as Basil led the cast and crew in song. A Universal Studios photographer popped off a series of flashbulbs to capture the moment as Rowland V. Lee and Bela Lugosi, in full Ygor makeup, joined Karloff and Rathbone around the worktable to sing the hulking giant “Happy Birthday.”
  Rathbone picked up a specimen jar from the worktable and handed it to Boris. “We all thought you might want this so you could enjoy your cake.” Floating in the specimen jar was Boris’s dental bridge that he removed to create an indentation in the Monster’s right cheek.
  “Yeah, that,” added Lee, “and because without it we can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
  The actor smiled gratefully, turned around and discreetly slipped the bridge in place. Turning back, he said, “Thank you.”
  “I like Karloff better without the bridge,” joked Lugosi in his trademark Hungarian accent. “Then it is not just Bela no one can understand.” Behind the fake yak hair beard, rubber crooked neck and shaggy wig Bela Lugosi flashed Ygor’s snaggletoothed grin.
  "Well, what are you waiting for, Boris?” asked Rathbone. “Make a wish and blow out the candles.”
  There were 51 brightly burning candles on the cake. Karloff surveyed the mini inferno and chuckled. “It’s a good thing I don’t have the Monster’s fear of fire.”
  After pausing to make a wish, Frankenstein’s Monster blew out the candles with one great exhalation that was met by cheers and applause.
  “What did you wish for?” asked Bela, passing Karloff a knife to cut the cake.
  Boris tugged at the neckline of the Monster’s brown fur jersey and quipped, “A cooler costume.” He took the knife and began divvying up pieces to the cast and crew.
  “Boris,” Lee said, holding a small package, “not only is this your birthday, but you’re also a first time father,” referring to the birth of Boris’s daughter earlier that morning. “That being the case,” Lee continued, “the special effects department made these for you. Actually, they’re for little Sara Jane Karloff.”
  The Monster graciously took the package and tore away the wrapping. Inside was a special pair of bronzed baby shoes. They were miniature versions of Boris’s Frankenstein boots.Karloff smiled. “The perfect thing for my little monster.”
  “Ah, there he is!” effused an unexpected visitor who sauntered onto the set swinging a bamboo cane and walking a bit unsteadily. He was tall, wispy and wore a fetching Panama hat and a white suit. A folded paper with “Western Union” quite visible on it was tucked carelessly in the breast pocket. Director James Whale smiled as he made a sweeping gesture that nearly knocked him off balance. “There’s my Monster, who appears to have not only become civilized,” he noted the bronzed Monster shoes, “but has procreated. Whatever would dear Henry Frankenstein have said about that?” He put his hand to his lips like a little boy who had just said a naughty word. “Oops. Now it’s Heinrich von Frankenstein, isn’t it? I see the studio is still catering to the whims of the German market.”
  Boris smiled broadly and took Whale’s hand. “James! What brings you to Universal Studios!”
  "Thought I’d see how my Monster was faring in the hands of a new director.” As Boris released his grip, Whale became aware of the green makeup now smeared on his hand. He held it gingerly away from his white suit with a look of drunken annoyance.
  “Oh, I am sorry, James,” Boris said, noting Whale’s distress. Gesturing at his costume he said with a helpless shrug, “You’re welcome to wipe your hand off on the back of my shirt. It won’t show on camera.”
  “Nonsense,” Whale smiled weakly as he tucked his cane under his arm to free up his clean hand. He reached for the handkerchief in his breast pocket and unfurled it with a practiced snap of the wrist. “A gentleman always comes prepared.”“I was so terribly sorry to hear about poor Colin passing away last year,” Karloff said, referring to his “Frankenstein” co-star Colin Clive.
  “Ah, yes, dear Colin.” Whale sighed as he looked in the direction of Stage 28, otherwise known as the Phantom Stage, on which the Castle Frankenstein interiors had been erected. “Very decent of you to honor Colin’s memory with that lovely painting, Rowland,” he said, referring to the portrait hanging over the fireplace mantel on the Castle Library set. “Might I trouble you for it when shooting wraps?”
  “I’ll see what I can do,” Rowland said, avoiding Whale’s gaze by picking at his cake with his fork.
  “So kind of you. The artist captured dear Colin’s angelic features perfectly.” He smiled wryly as he wiped his palm clean. “Ah, Colin. Much like Dante’s Mephistopheles, he was a beautiful angel, but ultimately condemned by the fates and his own shortcomings.”
  “What were you doing on the Phantom Stage?” Rowland asked, eyeing Whale suspiciously.
  “Just poking about a bit,” was Whale’s impish reply. He stuck the green stained hanky in the breast pocket of Rowland’s double-breasted gray suit as he turned his attention to Basil. “But where once we had the father, I see we now have the titular son.” He gazed at Rathbone with mock sympathy. “How are you bearing up under this ‘Frankenstein curse’ I’ve heard tell about?”
  “So sorry about that, Jimmy,” Rathbone said. “The publicity mill at Universal came up with that ridiculous notion.” “As I recall, the ballyhoo went on to crassly give the deaths of Colin and dear ‘Old Baron Frankenstein’ Frederick Kerr as proof of the curse’s existence. It also maintained that you said--”“‘There’s nothing in it,’” Rathbone quoted with a shake of his head as he gazed down at the floor. “Publicity made up my alleged quote. The whole thing is in very poor taste.”
  “Think nothing of it. I’m sure wherever Colin is, he’s laughing about it.” Whale staggered closer to Basil and leaned in on his cane. “I’ve heard good things about your performance as Sherlock Holmes. ‘Hound of the Baskervilles,’ wasn’t it?”
  “Indeed,” Rathbone said, noting the alcohol on Whale’s breath. “For 20th Century Fox. It won’t be released until next year but preview audiences have been most kind.”
  Whale stepped back a bit and displayed himself as if he were a runway model. “So, dear detective, what might you deduce about me?”
  “If I were to use the methods of the Great Detective,” Rathbone said, as he straightened up and eyed Whale with a Sherlockian demeanor, “you’ve been drinking in the early afternoon. Obviously, you’ve been trying to forget some unpleasantness. I would assume having something or other to do with Colin Clive and bitter, yet fond, memories of him that some recent incident has stirred up.”
  Whale smiled with genuine admiration. “Bravo,” he said. “Indeed, I have been raising a glass or two to the dear boy.”
  “You are very finely dressed,” Rathbone said with clipped Holmesian speech, “so before you toasted Clive’s memory, you obviously had important business on the lot. I would say you have a late afternoon appointment with Martin F. Murphy, the Studio Production Manager.”
  Whale was visibly taken aback, exactly like any visitor to 221-B Baker Street who suffered the intense scrutiny of the Consulting Detective.
  “How on earth did you know that?” Whale asked.
  “Elementary, my dear Whale. From the telegram, there on the floor.” Rathbone noted the paper with a wry gesture. “It fell from your breast pocket when you reached for the handkerchief. See there? Murphy’s name and the time of your appointment, both plainly visible.”
  Whale gave Rathbone a Puckish grin as Rathbone picked up the telegram and handed it back. Sticking the telegram back in his pocket, Whale said, “My God, you’re good. I imagine all that fencing you do has sharpened your wits. Very good, my dear Mr. Rathbone. I doff my cap to you, sir.”
  Rathbone smiled. “My time in British Intelligence still serves me well.”
  Whale stood at attention and saluted. “Ah, yes. The Great War. Doughboys in the trenches, and all that.”
  “I was Patrol Officer for the Second Battalion, Liverpool Scottish,” Rathbone said, proudly. “I remember one mission in No Man’s Land. I was camouflaged as a tree to spy on the enemy’s position when-”
  Lugosi sighed heavily and grumbled, “Again with the war stories! All the time, the war stories! I have war stories, too. Do you see Bela boring people with his war stories?”
  Rathbone smiled and gave Bela a genial pat on his humped back. “So sorry, old man.” To Whale he said, “I hear you distinguished yourself admirably in the Great War, as well.”Whale made a deliberately camp gesture. “He also serves who only stands and minces.” In a more somber tone, he added, “But, yes, I did indeed see to my duty to the best of my ability.”
  “Why does Murphy want to see you?” Rowland interrupted, no doubt recalling a memo leaked to the “Son of Frankenstein” set eleven days earlier:

UNIVERSAL PICTURES CORPORATION
Inter-Office Communications
FROM: M. F. Murphy, Studio Production Manager
TO: Cliff Work, Vice President of Universal Studios Production
SUBJECT: Son of Frankenstein

“Due to necessity of meeting release date and in order to get value of cast already on salary, this picture started production Wednesday, November 9. Operating under conditions like we are, without a script, is extremely difficult for all departments concerned in physical production and, more importantly, most expensive. We have no way of determining just how long this picture will take in production and nothing concrete upon which to substantiate any detailed figures we might attempt to compile as an estimated budget…”

  The memo was dated Saturday, November 12, 1938. No doubt Murphy leaked the memo himself to give Rowland some incentive to stay on schedule.
  “What does Murphy want to see you about, Jimmy?” Rowland asked more pointedly.
  “Why, my boy, I am here because-”
  “Because I asked him here,” a gruff voice said. This and a slamming stage door announced the arrival of Stage 7’s second unexpected visitor, none other than Martin F. Murphy himself. The short, stocky executive took one look at Frankenstein’s Monster scooping up another bite of birthday cake and said, “What the hell is this? Why aren’t you shooting?” 07/07

****************

"A Corpse in the Soup," A Silver Sisters Mystery (cozy mystery)
by Morgan St. James and Phyllice Bradner
Publisher: Wings-ePress

Five

  Goldie jumped out of the cab and ran through the main entrance to Cedars-Sinai Hospital, her rolling suitcase bumping along behind her. As soon as the elevator opened at the fifth floor, she made a beeline for the nurse’s station, where a large woman in a pastel smock intercepted her.
  “Hold it right there, Lady Godiva. What do you think you’re doing wandering around here like that? This morning you looked like Great Gatsby’s Ghost. Just because you put on a little makeup doesn’t mean you get to go home.”
  She took Goldie by the shoulders and turned her around, “You’re going right back to bed, Missy. You may call yourself G.O.D., but according to this chart,” she tapped her clipboard, “G.O.D. stays in bed today! You had a close call, you know. Now give me that suitcase!”
  Goldie faced the harried nurse, and glanced at her nametag. “Sorry, Nurse Brady, you obviously think I’m Godiva.” She tightened her grip on the suitcase. “But you’re wrong. I happen to be her twin sister from Alaska! See, I came right from the airport.”
  Nurse Brady grasped Goldie’s elbow with a no-nonsense iron grip and steered her down the hall. “Good try, Miss High and Mighty, but you do have to stay in bed and that is final. Now let’s go back to your room, shall we? I’ll take the valise for you.” They pushed through the door of a private room, and the suitcase fell on its side with a plop. The plump nurse’s jaw dropped open, quadrupling her chins, as she took in the sight of Godiva in a saffron yellow silk bed jacket propped up against two pillows, a steaming mug of tea cradled in her hands.
  “Well, I’ll be darned.” Nurse Brady raised her eyebrows as she released Goldie’s arm. Staring from one twin to the other for a moment, she backed out of the room muttering an apology.
  Godiva grinned, “God! Am I happy to see you!”
  Goldie approached the bed and enveloped her sister in a fierce hug. “Hey, what about the other people on the show? Were they as sick as you?”
  “Well, I was making such a pig of myself I probably got the worst of it. There we were, tasting what should have been shrimp from heaven and instead we almost wound up at the Pearly Gates!”
  “Bummer! They might not have let you in...”
  Godiva made a face. “Seriously, we were all in pretty ad shape. The other lady was writhing around on the floor like a beached whale while this guy in an African shirt hopped up and down like a frog on fire. But worse than that, my beautiful new Armani dress is a total loss. That sauce will never come out.”
  “You and those other people almost died and all you can think about is your dress?”
  lGodiva gave an elegant shrug of her shoulders. “It was an Armani.”
  “Well, gee, I see you’ve got your priorities straight.”
  Godiva ignored her. “Anyway, the last thing I remember was Chef Romano shouting that corny line, ‘Is there a doctor in the house?’ over and over again. Then this horrible cold, clammy feeling washed over me and the next thing I knew I was here at Cedars, they were pumping my stomach and I was watching yellowish, greenish gunk come out of me.”
  “Yuck! How horrible! Was it the shrimp?”
  “No. Poisonous mushrooms. That’s what the toxicology reports showed. Imagine that. The great Caesar Romano serving deadly mushrooms. I could kill him in print if I was that sort of person, you know. I have the power of the press behind me. After all, I am syndicated!”
  “Godiva, you wouldn’t! The important thing is that you’re okay. Seeing you behave like a spoiled bitch is such a relief. I can see you’re almost back to normal.
  Where’s Chili?”
  “Down in the coffee shop. Poor kid’s a nervous wreck.” She managed a knowing wink. “My ordeal wasn’t even close to what Chili’s been going through trying to manage her grandmother. You know what Mom is like, doing my charts, reading the cards... She keeps telling Chili about the harbingers of doom while she deals the deck again. My God. Last night she was even planning a séance so she could communicate with me just in case I died.”
  Goldie nodded, understanding only too well. “I guess that’s what happens when astrology meets a hand-wringing Jewish mother. So, where’s Mom now?”
  “Bless Uncle Sterling. When he brought me these letters and things, he maneuvered her out of here and drove her home.”
  “I’d better find poor Chili and give the kid a hug. Have fun with your mail, G.O.D.”

~ * ~

  Goldie hurried toward the bank of elevators across from the nurses’ station. Amazing! Less than eighteen hours ago she dropped everything, left Rudy in charge of he shop, fought for a reservation on the next available Alaska Airlines flight, and here it was just past noon and she was two thousand miles from home.
  Lost in thought, Goldie almost bumped into the handsome man as he rounded the corner. He stopped short. A smile played around his lips, causing his neat salt and pepper mustache to wiggle. “My dear lady, I’m so glad to see you up and around. Thank goodness you recovered so quickly. I didn’t think they would release you yet.”
  Looking a bit embarrassed, he held out a dazzling bouquet of yellow roses and purple iris. “Here, these are for you. Of course Food Broadcasting will compensate you, but I wanted to personally offer my apology for this terrible thing and bring a little something to cheer you up.” His moustache bobbed around like a wooly caterpillar.
  Goldie cocked her head to the side. “What in the world are you talking about?” She started to push past him.
  “Wait, I can explain.” The man looked panicked.
  Goldie felt the light bulb click on. “Are you by any chance that chef, Caesar Romano?”
  His eyes widened with disbelief, “Surely you know I’m Romano!” With a grand flourish he touched his chest.
  Goldie could picture the imaginary headlines. Romano Almost Serves G.O.D. Her Last Supper. No question about it. Godiva could definitely ruin him.
  As the elevator doors parted, Chili hurried out, nearly colliding with her mother and her idol who were now standing in the middle of the hall staring at each other.
  She ran over to Goldie and hugged her. “Mom, I’m so glad you’re here. Have you seen Aunt Godiva yet?”
  “I just came from her room, darling. I was on my way down to find you.” Goldie turned to the confused chef and extended her hand. “By the way, Chef Romano, I’m Goldie Silver. It was my twin sister you almost killed.”
06/04/07

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The Screaming Room
by Thomas O'Callaghan
Published by Pinnacle; May 2007;$6.99US/$9.99CAN;
ISBN: 978-0-7860-1812-3

Prologue

  The rain had stopped. The afternoon sun had resumed its assault on rotting corn shocks, casting distorted shadows across the abandoned farm. A pair of cicadas sounded, silencing the chirping of the nearby sparrows, sending them into flight.
  In the middle of the field, a sturdy youth stood silently, eyes fixed on a mound of fresh clay.
  A rush of cool air stirred wisps of his ripened wheat-colored hair. Bending down, he used a finger to inscribe the name Gus in the collected soil.
  A second youth, a female, approached. "Can we go now?" she asked, wearily. "This is our tenth field and there's nothing left of him to bury."
  "In a minute."
  The girl looked around. "Someone could be watching, you know."
  "Just need a minute."
  "Well, you'd better make it a quick one."
  The youth's eyes lingered on the newly formed grave. With a nod of satisfaction, he uprighted himself. As a smile lit his face, he used the heel of his boot to eradicate their victim's name. "Lovee," he said, "may the bastard rest in peace."
  "You mean in pieces. Let's go."

Chapter 1

  Cassie turned her head on the pillow as a sudden flash of light woke her.
  "What the hell are ya doing?" she hollered. "It's two o'clock in the morning!"
  Her brother, Angus, who was sitting up in bed next to her, grinned, his attention riveted to the gleam coming off the three-quarter-inch ball bearing he was holding between his thumb and index finger. The narrow beam of a pencil-thin flashlight had reflected off the ball's chromelike finish and shone directly onto her eyelid.
  "I liked you better when you got off pulling wings off flies," she said, hiding her head under the pillow.
  Angus, flashlight still directed at the ball bearing, brought his face to within inches of the tiny sphere, watching the reflection of his pupil get bigger and bigger, the closer he got. Hopelessly bored, and somewhat blind, he turned off the flashlight, slid his hand under the covers, and fondled his sister's rump.
  "Not tonight, we ain't," she said through clenched teeth. "We got lots to do tomorrow. Get some sleep!"
  Angus slid out of bed, slipped into a pair of boxers, and ambled toward the door, opening it. A blast of warm air caressed his body. The sensation aroused him. He glanced over his shoulder. His sister was snoring. He pushed open the screen door, sat on the top step, and glanced upward. It was a cloudless night. The moon, just shy of full, cast shadows on the weeds and tall grass that surrounded home sweet home; a fitting salute, perhaps to what would begin at dawn. The thought of finally executing what they had planned brought on a surge of adrenaline. He wouldn't sleep. Unlike his sister, he'd stay up and wait out the darkness.
  A slug, slithering toward him on the surface of the step, caught his attention.
  "I can kill ya, little fella. But I won't."
  He had the urge to pet the small mollusk but decided instead to dabble his finger in the slime that trailed behind it. He brought it to his lips, applying it as a woman would lipstick.
  Women. They fascinated Angus. Every curve. Every smell. Every everything. In his next life, he planned on returning as one. He could feel what they feel. Think as they think. God! Even screw as they screw!
  He heard a rustling. It was not the willow tree, which was as limp as he was. No, something was pushing through the grass. A deer perhaps. He hoped so. He liked the sound they made just before dying, after he stalked them and twisted their neck, snapping their cervical vertebrae.
  There it was again!
  The rustling.
  Following the example of the snail, he slithered down the rickety steps and began his pursuit, certain his sister wouldn't start their big day without him.

From THE SCREAMING ROOM by Thomas O’Callaghan, Copyright © 2007 Thomas O’Callaghan. Published by arrangement with Pinnacle Books, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp. All rights reserved. http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

Author Thomas O'Callaghan is a native of New York City and a graduate of CUNY. He lives with his wife, Eileen, a stone's throw from the Atlantic Ocean in beautiful Belle Harbor, New York. The author of the acclaimed thriller Bone Thief, he is working on his next book featuring NYPD homicide lieutenant John Driscoll. Please visit his website, http://www.thomasocallaghan.com

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