#Midweek Mystery Hems and Homicide, First in Series Apron Shop Mystery by Elizabeth Penney

Welcome to the first in the Apron Shop mystery series by Elizabeth Penney, set in the quaint village of Blueberry Cove, Maine where an expert seamstress turned amateur sleuth is getting measured for murder. . .

Iris Buckley is sew ready for a change. After the death of her beloved grandfather, Iris decides to stay in her Maine hometown to help out her widowed grandmother, Anne—and bring her online hand-made apron designs to real-time retail life. Her and Anne’s shop, Ruffles & Bows, is set to include all the latest and vintage linen fashions, a studio for sewing groups and classes, and a friendly orange cat. The only thing that they were not planning to have on the property? A skeleton in the basement.

Anne recognizes the remains of an old friend, and when a second body shows up in the apron shop—this time their corrupt landlord, whom Anne had been feuding with for decades—she becomes a prime suspect. Now, it’s up to Iris to help clear her name. Enlisting the help of her old high-school crush Ian Stewart who, like certain fabrics, has only gotten better-looking with age and her plucky BFF Madison Morris, Iris must piece together an investigation to find out who the real killer is. . .and find a way to keep her brand-new business from being scrapped in the process.

Elizabeth Penney

Apron Shop Series

Elizabeth Penney is an author, entrepreneur, and local food advocate living in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. In addition to writing full-time, she operates a small farm. Elements that often appear in her novels include vintage summer cottages, past/present mysteries, and the arts. She is represented by the fabulous Elizabeth Bewley at Sterling Lord Literistic.

Elizabeth’s writing credits include over twenty mysteries, short stories, and hundreds of business articles. A former consultant and nonprofit executive, she holds a BS and an MBA. She’s also written screenplays with her musician husband.

She loves walking in the woods, kayaking on quiet ponds, trying new recipes, and feeding family and friends.

Website | Twitter | Goodreads

 
AmazonBarnes & Noble  | IndieBound

#SampleSunday The Two-Body Problem, a Miss Fortune World Novella

Nothing is as it seems in this case. And an unseen killer might have the last laugh.

Later that night, the women gathered in Fortune’s spacious living room. They were going to open the beat-up burgundy suitcase that had belonged to the late Michael Mosca.

Mary-Alice was secretly relieved that Gwendolyn would be staying with Fortune, rather than with her. As proud as Mary-Alice was of her bright new kitchen with its white appliances and its Italian sunflower wall tiles, she wasn’t eager to let the world see her yet-to-be-remodeled dining room. The windowless space was inadequately lit by a wrought-iron chandelier that hung from a low cottage-cheese ceiling. The ambiance was made even glummer by putty-colored walls and a depressing gold shag carpet.

Gertie handed Gwendolyn a pair of gloves from the box in her purse, put on a pair herself, then handed the box around.

Gwendolyn unzipped the suitcase and flopped it open. Tears filled her eyes as she gazed at the jumbled contents.
“It smells like him,” she whispered.
“He wasn’t exactly a neat freak, was he?” Ida Belle observed.

Shirts and boxer shorts were tangled up with shiny plastic beads, oversize sunglasses, and green, purple and gold knockoff Rubik’s Cubes sealed in plastic wrap printed with Chinese script.

“What’s this?” Fortune reached in and picked out a small, dark gray cylinder. “it looks kind of like a pepper shaker.”
Gwendolyn peered at it and shook her head. “It doesn’t look familiar to me, but Mike was always getting these weird new toys in.”

Mary-Alice, overwhelmed with curiosity, plucked the object out of Fortune’s hand.
“It does look like a pepper shaker. Only I can’t see where the pepper comes out– Ow! Goodness gracious, it bit me!”
Mary-Alice dropped the object and clutched her wrist.

“Nobody else touch it.” Fortune produced a plastic bag and gingerly dropped the offending object into it. “Mary-Alice, go wash your hands with soap and water. Make sure to irrigate the wound thoroughly.”

By the time Mary-Alice returned, someone had lifted the open suitcase onto the coffee table for easier access.
“Do you recognize this?” Fortune was asking Gwendolyn, holding up a receipt.

Gwendolyn took it from Fortune and smiled. “This is that hosiery shop out in Beaumont. He always buys me the mocha fishnets when he has a chance. They’re so impractical, but they really do make your legs look fabulous. I know it might be hard to imagine, but I do like to get dressed up now and then.”

From behind her big glasses, a tear rolled down Gwendolyn’s cheek.
“I’m sorry. Thank you for being here with me. I don’t think I could do this by myself.”

Gwendolyn started to dig through the suitcase.

“Careful,” Ida Belle said. “We already had that thing attack Mary-Alice.”

“Buying those stockings was the last thing Mike did for me before he passed,” Gwendolyn’s voice cracked. “They must be in here somewhere. I know he’d want me to have them. Where are they?”

Then Gwendolyn reached down and, in slow motion, pulled out a blue box. It was not a hosiery package.

The room became quiet.

“Maybe those were for the store,” Gertie suggested, sounding unconvinced.

“No,” Gwendolyn said, a hard edge to her voice. “This isn’t for Jape & Jest. The box is already open. And there’s nothing funny about it.”


The Two-Body Problem

The Two-Body Problem

Professor Gwendolyn Jackson's husband sends her a voice mail from the road, telling her he'll be home soon. Just one problem...by the time the message was sent, he was already dead.

When the police dismiss her concerns, Professor Jackson turns to her former student, Fortune Morrow, for help.

Naturally, Fortune, Mary-Alice, and the rest of the Sinful gang are eager to solve the mystery surrounding the death of Professor Jackson's husband, who owned the French Quarter's premier joke and novelty shop, Jape & Jest. But the ladies soon find that nothing is as it seems in this case, and an unseen killer might have the last laugh.

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#SampleSunday Aloha, Y’all, a Miss Fortune World Novella

THE SOUTHERNMOST STATE HAS A FEW SURPRISES IN STORE.

The woman known as Sandy-Sue “Fortune” Morrow pressed her phone to her ear and paced. Now and then she cast an anxious glance over the bayou that ran across the back of her lawn.
“So Ahmad’s men are back in New Orleans?” she asked.
“And that’s not all. We’re picking up on some chatter indicating one or possibly two of them might be headed to Sinful.”
“I can handle two. When can I expect them?”
“Don’t even think about it. We need to get you out of there.”
“But Harrison—”
“Don’t worry, it’s not a permanent relocation. We’ll just send you on vacation for a few days until we get a better handle on this.”
“Great. What forsaken backwater are you going to drop me into to this time?”
“Morrow wants to send you to Hawaii.”
“Hawaii? I’m listening.”
“We have a safe house, and someone there who can help you get settled in. You’re flying out of Lake Charles Regional Airport tomorrow morning.”
“Geez, Harrison, thanks for the advance notice. Tomorrow? What am I going to tell everyone?”
“Who do you have to tell? You’re not answerable to anyone.”
“Look, I’m doing my best to blend in. But that means I’ve become part of the community and I can’t just disappear.”

In fact, Fortune had done better than just blend in. After several weeks in Sinful, Louisiana, she was starting to feel she fit in. It was getting harder to maintain her emotional detachment. Maybe a few days away would be just what she needed to regain it.
“How about this?” Harrison suggested. “Tell whoever needs to know that your family wants you to take a look at some property out west for them. Don’t give any more details than that, and do not tell anyone you’re going to Hawaii. Keep it vague. Oh, and there’s something else. Ahmad’s guys will be looking for a young woman traveling alone, so you need to find someone to go with you.”
“Oh, that won’t be a problem—”
“Uh-uh. The Director will have an aneurism if you even think about getting those two geriatric loose cannons involved.”
“Are you saying I can’t bring Gertie and Ida Belle? They’re the only ones I don’t have to maintain cover with.”
“You should be keeping cover anyway. You have a ten-million-dollar bounty on your head, remember? Look, don’t you know any sweet, non-trigger-happy old ladies with nice manners?”

Includes Recipes


Aloha, Y’All

Aloha, Y’All

CIA operative Fortune Redding crossed a ruthless arms dealer. Now she's hiding out in remote Sinful, Louisiana, with a fake identity, fake hair, and a real price on her head. But just as she thinks she's safe, her handler warns that Ahmad's men are getting close. She has less than 24 hours to clear out and make it to the safe house in Hawaii. What's more, they'll be looking for a woman traveling alone, so Fortune needs a companion. A respectable, low-profile, non-trigger-happy companion. Which rules out Gertie and Ida Belle.

Mary-Alice Arceneaux just got a big surprise for her 70th birthday--a trip to Hawaii, courtesy of young Fortune Morrow. But with bounty hunters on their trail, and family secrets lurking in the unlikeliest of places, the southernmost state has a few more surprises in store.

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St. Charles Hotel Chicken Gumbo (original 1920 recipe)

For five gallons of Creole Gumbo use: Three gallons of chicken broth; two pounds of chicken giblets; two pounds knuckle of ham. Cut both in one inch pieces and fry them brown in some good lard. Add to them four or six large crabs, cut up; two dozen of lake shrimps, two dozen of Bayou Cook oysters. Cut ten dozen of fresh okra pods, half-dozen of Spanish onions, two dozen of green peppers, cut up in dices. Add one gallon of peeled tomatoes, one tablespoonful Creole file, salt and pepper to taste. Let simmer on slow fire for about one and one-half hours. Serve with Louisiana steamed rice.

#SampleSunday: The Vanishing Victim

Mary-Alice felt her heart pounding as she guided her beloved Oldsmobile 88 along the narrow dirt-and-crushed-shell road. She was nervous about the prospect of walking into one of the roughest bars in the bayous. But Mary-Alice’s main worry was her car. Gertie’s Cadillac wasn’t reliable enough to make a quick getaway, so Mary-Alice had volunteered to drive. But as the road narrowed, the bristling blackberry thickets on either side menaced her metallic paint.

To make matters worse, Mary-Alice felt she could barely breathe, thanks to the black vinyl corset that Gertie had laced her into before they left.

“You can’t walk into the Swamp Bar looking like you just came from a ladies’ prayer breakfast,” Gertie had explained. “You have to blend in.”

In addition to the corset, Mary-Alice sported fingerless lace gloves, leopard-print leggings, and a spiky platinum wig complete with black roots. At least Mary-Alice’s feet were too small for Gertie’s shoes. She was able to wear her own comfortable tennis shoes, thank goodness.

Gertie had gone in for Harajuku style. Beneath a frilly pink-and-white mini-dress, white lace thigh-highs gripped Gertie’s bony legs. Tarantula eyelashes and thick liner ringed her eyes. A huge white satin bow teetered atop Gertie’s candy-pink wig.

Mary-Alice, who was unfamiliar with Japanese fashion, assumed Gertie was dressed as Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

Just as Mary-Alice was wondering whether she had gotten them hopelessly lost in the black woods, Gertie cried, “There it is!” Mary-Alice glimpsed light through the trees. The narrow road opened up to a crushed-shell parking lot.  Gertie climbed out and led the way into the building, crunching across the cracked white oyster shells in her pink high-heeled boots.

“Gertie,” Mary-Alice asked, “are you okay? Those heels seem awfully high.”

Gertie was taking tiny, mincing steps, her knees bent and her arms held out for balance.

There’s no beauty without pain,” Gertie said.

“Wherever did you hear that, Gertie?”

“At a toddler pageant. One of the mothers said it.”

At least Mary-Alice’s feet were comfortable in her sequined tennis shoes. The rest of her, not so much. The platinum wig made her scalp itch, and the hooks of her mobile-sized earrings tugged on her earlobes like a cheese-cutter.

The Swamp Bar was a one-story building on the edge of the bayou. It had a rust-splotched tin roof, tiny windows, and a general air of hopelessness. Mary-Alice had parked close enough that her car was in the light, but not so close that drunks would bump into her car or be tempted to relieve themselves on her tires on their way out.

It was so dark inside the Swamp Bar that Mary-Alice felt like she was stepping into a cave. A cave that reeked of stale booze, drugstore cologne, and a hint of vomit. For a moment, the only light she could see was from Gertie’s glow-in-the-dark heart-shaped earrings.

Mary-Alice gripped Gertie’s shoulder and followed her in.

“I can’t see a thing,” Mary-Alice whispered. “Is the power out?”

“No, it’s like this on purpose. So you can’t get a good look at the cockroaches. Or the customers.”


The Vanishing Victim

The Vanishing Victim

Sinful's newest resident, Mary-Alice Arceneaux, is starting to catch on to the fact that the Sinful Ladies' Society does more than brew 100-proof cough syrup to sell at the church bazaar. So when Ida Belle gets into serious trouble, Mary-Alice wants to help the SLS in their quest for justice. But this means that the sweet-natured Mary-Alice will have to endure a visit to the Swamp Bar (where decent ladies don't go) and go up against her vindictive cousin, Mayor Celia Arceneaux. Will Mary-Alice's sweet nature and unshakable faith in humanity endure?
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Mary-Alice’s eyes adjusted as she followed Gertie over to the bar. Sunday was a relatively slow night at the Swamp Bar, so Gertie was able to get the bartender’s attention. He wore a too-big green t-shirt with “Swamp Bar” printed across the chest in crooked iron-on letters. He wore his sandy hair in a mullet, cut short in front, and long down his back. Tattoos covered his skinny arms, and his nails were crusted with dirt.

“What’ll it be, ladies?”

“Bourbon, straight,” Gertie cooed coquettishly. “Make it a double. Mary-Alice, what’ll you have?”

“I’ll just have a Coke, please,” Mary-Alice said. “I’m driving.”

“Yes, ma’am. Diet or regular?”

“Whatever you have in a can. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t act too prissy about germs,” Gertie whispered when the bartender had moved on to the next customer. “We have to act like normal Swamp Bar customers.”

“I know, but did you see his fingernails? He looks like he’s been digging up graves with his bare hands.”

“You’ve been reading those vampire mysteries again, haven’t you? Oh, there, I believe that’s Leonie.”

It wasn’t hard to spot Leonie Blanchard. She wore a halter top that showed off the lioness tattoo covering her bare back. She coquetted with the men at her table, tossing her auburn hair so it brushed her bare shoulders. When Leonie turned her head to the side, Mary-Alice caught a glimpse of a hardened but still-pretty face, caked with pale makeup that didn’t quite match the skin on her neck.

“I’m going in,” Gertie said. “Cover me.”

Mary-Alice perched on a bar stool and watched Gertie totter over on her ridiculously high heels, pausing now and then to straighten her pink wig as it listed to one side or the other. Leonie seemed to recognize her former third-grade teacher despite the latter’s exotic disguise. She half-stood to give Gertie a hug, one of the men pulled out a chair, and soon Gertie was part of the festive group.

When it was clear Gertie would be a while, Mary-Alice strolled around the perimeter of the bar. Occasionally a man would pop out of the darkness to accost her with a boozy “Evening, darlin’,” or “Hey, now, Blondie.” She responded each time with a polite “How do you do?” and continued on her way.

Once Mary-Alice had completed her circuit, she decided to check on her car. She pulled the front door open a crack and peered out to the parking lot.

“Go! Go! Go!” Gertie slammed into Mary-Alice’s back, and they tumbled out onto the wooden porch.

Gertie was only wearing one high-heeled boot. She yanked it off and flung it tomahawk-style back into the darkness of the Swamp Bar.

“Ow!” cried a woman’s voice, followed by a stream of curse words. Gertie pulled Mary-Alice up by the elbow, and the two women sprinted across the lot. Mary-Alice heard a loud crack of splintering wood, followed by the babble of an excited and intoxicated crowd.

“Nice job,” Gertie panted. “She slipped on your Coke can and busted the railing.”

They jumped into the Oldsmobile, Mary-Alice floored the accelerator, and they peeled out in a spray of oyster shells and dirt.

Neither woman spoke until they were well out of range of the Swamp Bar.

“How are your feet?” Mary-Alice asked, surprised to hear her voice crack. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Are your feet okay, Gertie? Those broken shells are sharp.”

“I wore thick socks.” Gertie propped one fuzzy, dirty foot on Mary-Alice’s dashboard. “I thought I just might have to make a run for it. So I came prepared.”

Mary-Alice glanced at the rear-view mirror, but saw only the red glow of her taillights illuminating the blackberry bushes and kudzu that crowded the road. She gripped the steering wheel tighter to keep her hands from shaking.

“Don’t worry, no one’s behind us,” Gertie said. “She just had to make a big production back there. I suppose she did make her point.”

“It seemed to me that you were getting on well with Miss Leonie,” Mary-Alice said. “Why did she chase you out of the bar?”

“Oh, that wasn’t Leonie after me.”

“Well, who on earth was it, then?”

“I ran into an old friend, is all,” Gertie said primly. “He was happy to see me, and was just giving me an innocent little old hug when his girlfriend walked in. She didn’t think it was such an innocent hug, I suppose.”

“My goodness, Gertie. You’re quite a femme fatale.”

“You too, Mary-Alice. You look smoking-hot as a platinum blonde.”

Mary-Alice didn’t much feel like a femme fatale. Her scalp was itching like crazy, and her corset felt like a particularly vindictive boa constrictor. Most unglamorous of all, she really had to pee.

#SampleSunday: Bayou Busybody

Mary-Alice was good at spotting unhappy marriages, having lived through one herself. Ten years earlier, a hungry bull gator had climbed up out of the Bayou Teche to find Joe Arceneaux sleeping off a hangover in his favorite lawn chair. Within moments, Mary-Alice was a widow.
She’d had to act sad, of course. But even now, all she felt was relieved.
Gertie asked Almira about her latest book, which cheered her up. Soon the conversation was moving from one writerly topic to the next. Gertie wrote romances in a genre she called “seniorotica,” featuring mature protagonists. Almira’s genre was “literary romance,” which sounded very elegant. Almira started to tell a juicy story about a self-help author they both knew and disliked, who set out to take revenge on a reviewer. Just as she was getting to the confrontation in the craft beer aisle, she stopped.
“Here’s my lunch date.” Almira aimed a strained smile at the middle-aged man approaching their table.
Dr. Whitbread was fair-skinned to the point of translucency. His eyes were pale blue and his hair colorless. He was what Mary-Alice’s mother would call a “boiled blonde.”
Almira glanced at her watch. “Geoff, honey, I lost track of the time. Gertie, Ida Bell, Fortune, er…I’m sorry, Mary-Ann?”
“Mary-Alice,” Mary-Alice said.
“Mary-Alice. This is my husband, Dr. Geoffrey Whitbread.”
“Your last name is actually White-bread?” Ida Belle snickered.
“Ida Belle!” Gertie scolded.
“What? His name is White bread, didn’t she just say? And look at him! Come on, it’s kinda funny. Right, Geoff?”
Ida Belle dealt Dr. Whitbread a friendly punch in the arm.
“The name is actually Whitbread.” The man gave Ida Belle a patient smile and rubbed his bruised bicep. “A good old Anglo-Saxon name. Although some of my students seem to prefer the alternate pronunciation. Almira, honey, you’re making us late. Rochelle’s waiting in the car.”
“I’ll be right out, sweetheart.” Almira’s small store of joy had evaporated. Her expression as she watched her husband leave the restaurant was pure resentment.
“Rochelle is your son’s wife?” Gertie asked.
“Yeah. She’s been staying with us while Tristan’s deployed. I didn’t think she’d want to move down to Sinful with us, but here she is.”
“You don’t get along with your daughter-in-law?” Ida Belle asked. Almira shrugged.
“She’s not exactly my biggest fan. She has no problem with Geoff, though. Those two get along great. Anyway, duty calls. Gotta go.”
Almira edged between the crowded tables of the diner. On her way out, she pushed the door so hard Francine’s customers looked up from their breakfasts to see what the angry jingling was about.
“Almira married her writing professor,” Gertie explained. “And then her writing career took off.”
Ida Belle nodded. “Bet he didn’t like that much.”
“It’s like the plot of A Star is Born,” Mary-Alice said.
“Isn’t it funny, Mary-Alice?” Gertie grinned. “You thought you’d escape drama by moving to Sinful.”
Fortune smiled knowingly, and Ida Belle snorted.
“Oh, I wouldn’t trade it for anything,” Mary-Alice declared. “I love it here. And I’m living right downtown in one of Sinful’s historic homes. It’s so much fun.”
“Not as much fun as watching Celia Arceneaux turn five shades of green when you moved into one of Sinful’s most distinctive homes.”
“Oh, I know now that Celia was upset about the old Cooper place, but I certainly didn’t mean to show anyone up.”
“That’s what makes it even better,” Ida Belle said. “All you did was buy a nice old fixer-upper, and you got Celia spitting nails. Sorry, Mary-Alice, I know Celia’s your cousin, but she is a mean, petty woman and you’re far too nice to her.”
Mary-Alice preferred to think the best of people, especially when they were family. But even she had to admit the evidence was not in Celia’s favor. So powerful was Celia’s hatred of Ida Belle, Gertie, and the rest of the Sinful Ladies’ Society that Celia had founded a rival group. They called themselves the “God’s Wives,” which Mary-Alice thought was irreverent. Mary-Alice liked hanging out with the Sinful Ladies’ Society anyway. But tact demanded she keep this a secret from Celia for the time being. Best not to poke the bear. Especially when the bear was the acting mayor.
Mary-Alice thought it would be lovely if one day they could all get along. But Celia had been feuding with Gertie and Ida Belle for decades, and longstanding traditions don’t change overnight.
“All of this literary talk’s made me hungry,” Ida Belle declared. “I think it’s time for dessert.”
“So soon after breakfast?” Mary-Alice had indulged rather liberally in strawberry waffles, fluffy biscuits drenched in gravy, and creamy grits. She found the prospect of dessert daunting.
“We’re grown-ups,” Ida Belle countered. “Who’s gonna tell us no?”
“My jeans,” Fortune muttered.
“That’s what elastic waistbands are for.” Gertie picked up the hand-drawn table tent listing the desserts on offer.
Mary-Alice bought a box of brownies on the way out of Francine’s. The sweet treats weren’t for her own consumption. After the breakfast she’d just had, she was sure she wouldn’t be able to eat for a week.
The old Cooper place wasn’t visible from the main road. Someone who took the trouble to turn down the long, gravel driveway would not be impressed with what lay at the end. The house had fallen into disrepair over the past century or so. Celia had come right out and declared it looked like a dump.
The interior wasn’t much better. The kitchen was stripped to the studs and filled with noise, dust, and sweaty men who wore their pants too low. But coming through the front door always perked Mary-Alice up. She saw the possibilities. The house had good bones and in the real estate agent’s words, needed only a few nips and tucks.
Mary-Alice could already see her new kitchen taking shape. The dreary green walls had been repainted the color of butter. The wall tiles were going up now, a dazzling arrangement of aqua, red, and sunshine yellow.
“It looks like a parrot,” Celia had sniffed. “Mark my words, Mary-Alice, you’re going to get tired of those garish colors. You should have brought in a professional decorator. I could have helped you if I didn’t have so many more important things going on.”
Celia’s own interior featured avocado appliances, a carpeted kitchen, and macramé owl wall ornaments. It was either hopelessly dated or on the cutting edge of fashion (Mary-Alice suspected the former). In any event, Mary-Alice was certain she would not have liked Celia’s ideas, and was glad Celia had been too busy to help her.
Mary-Alice knocked softly on her kitchen door frame. The foreman stood, rubbed his hands on the sides of his pants, and came out to the dining room
“Good morning, Mister St. Clair.”
“Call me Boon. Please. There’s not a problem, is there?”
“Oh, no. The tile is looking wonderful. I just wanted to let you know I got you and your men some of Ally’s peanut butter brownies, to keep your energy up. Please help yourself. Whenever you like.”
“Miz Mary-Alice, you are spoiling us. After this job, I don’t think I’ll be happy working anywhere else.”
Mary-Alice beamed.
“Well, I do plan to keep you all busy for a while. Don’t forget, there’s cold sweet tea for you out here in the mini-fridge.”
Mary-Alice would never engage in any sort of improper behavior, and most certainly not with a hired man. But she did enjoy her little chats with Boon St. Clair. It was always best to be kind, and to stay on good terms with people. Where was the harm?

Bayou Busybody

Bayou Busybody

Sinful's newest resident, Mary-Alice Arceneaux, is thrilled when Gertie introduces her to famous romance author Almira Galvez-Whitbread. But then Gertie and her friends have to leave town, and the very next day, Almira's husband disappears. With Gertie, Fortune, and Ida Belle gone, Mary-Alice finds that she's Almira's only friend...and that Almira's storybook marriage had been far less perfect than advertised. By the time Mary-Alice realizes she may be in danger, she's already in too deep. Now she has to find out what really happened to the faithless Geoffrey Whitbread--and prove she has what it takes to be a real Sinful Lady.

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#SampleSunday: Mary-Alice Moves In

Mary-Alice Arceneaux parked her Oldsmobile 88 in front of Harriet’s Books, shut off the engine, and peered into the rearview mirror. She checked her teeth, reapplied her coral lipstick, and reached to open the glove box for her travel brush.

Mary-Alice wanted to look her best for the official start of her new life in Sinful, Louisiana. She had made up her mind that she would not rebuild in Mudbug. Mary-Alice wanted to forget about the fire and all of the other unpleasantness, and it was hard to do that with her neighbors whispering behind her back. Fortunately, her house had been fully insured. And the Sinful real estate market was such that Mary-Alice could afford to buy anywhere she liked.

As the glove compartment popped open something slid out and landed with a thunk on the floor mat. Mary-Alice undid her seat belt and reached over to pick it up.

It looked like a black pane of glass with rounded edges. About the size of a book, but much thinner, and surprisingly heavy. Mary-Alice was pretty sure she knew what it was. Beulah Monroe in her crafting group had something like it.

She turned the key in the ignition to restart the air conditioner, pulled out her phone, and called Mudbug Auto Body. 

“I just picked up my car this morning,” Mary-Alice explained to the receptionist. She had to shout over the sound of the air blasting from the vents. “1999 Oldsmobile 88, Dark Caribe Metallic. You fixed the front end and replaced the bumper. Such a lovely job, and you left the car so clean. Thank you. Oh dear, I’m rambling. I called to tell you that someone in your shop left a computer tablet in the glove box. You know what I’m talking about? The kind you can read books and watch movies on.”

The receptionist put Mary-Alice on hold, and after a long time came back on the line to tell her that nothing was missing from the shop. The tablet must have been in the glove box when the car was towed in.

It had to be Caden’s, then. The thought cast a shadow over Mary-Alice’s bright mood. She took a deep breath and punched in the number for her grandson’s lawyer. 

The man didn’t even let her finish her first sentence.

“Mary-Alice, the item you describe is not Caden’s.”

“But Audy, he’s the only other person who drove my car. I’ve already called the body shop, and they told me it doesn’t belong to anyone there.”

Mary-Alice heard the man take a deep breath. She imagined Audy puffing himself like an old bullfrog, something Mary-Alice noticed he did when he wanted to seem large and important.

“Now see here, Mary-Alice. Your grandson, that is to say, my client, has no knowledge of any device that may have been found in your glove box.”

Mary-Alice hadn’t mentioned the glove box.

“I see. You’re telling me it’s not Caden’s. May I keep it, then?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t mine. Shall I bring it to the police?”

Mary-Alice pulled the phone away from her ear as the lawyer had what sounded like a choking fit.

“No. No, no, no. There’s no need to do that, Mary-Alice,” the man sputtered when he had recovered. “I can’t tell you what to do, of course, and this is not to be construed as legal advice. But if I were in your place, I would take it to an electronics recycling drop-off where it can be disposed of properly,”

“But Audy, you haven’t even asked Caden. What if he needs…I see. Well, thank you for your time.”

As she pressed the disconnect button, she realized what was going on. The tablet most likely did belong to her grandson. But his lawyer didn’t want to risk unearthing any more incriminating evidence. 

Maybe if she hadn’t sent Caden to computer camp when he was a boy…no, he would have simply found some other way to get himself in trouble. Caden had Joe Arceneaux’s blood in his veins. There was no getting around it. 

Heartsick as she was over her grandson, Mary-Alice knew there was no point in dwelling on unpleasant things.  She locked the tablet back in the glove box, switched off the engine a second time, and went into Harriet’s.

The bookstore’s interior smelled of scented candles and old paper. The early afternoon sun slanted through the large front windows and lit up the sun-faded hardcovers on display. Mary-Alice took her time browsing and eventually picked out a mystery, two steampunk novels, and one romance, Passion’s Promise. Something about the author photo appealed to her. Perhaps buying all of these books wasn’t the most frugal thing to do, but now that Mary-Alice had decided to move to Sinful for good, she wanted to be a good neighbor. She had seen her favorite bookstore in Mudbug close, a year to the day after the big chain store moved in. Then, not five years after that, the chain store itself had shut down. 

Mary-Alice paused, scooped up a few more books, and finally tottered over to the counter carrying as many books as she could hold. As the woman at the counter was ringing her up, Mary-Alice got a good look at the author photo on the back of Passion’s Promise. Gertie Hebert. Was it the same Gertie she knew? The one who had stopped by with her two friends that terrible night, and saved her and Celia from the fire? The picture looked vaguely like the same woman she had met, only a couple of decades younger, and wearing a scandalously low-cut blouse with sharply-padded shoulders.

“Excuse me,” Mary-Alice said, “but is this Gertie Hebert the same Gertie who lives here in Sinful?”

Mary-Alice Moves In

Mary-Alice Moves In

Mary-Alice Arceneaux has decided to make her home in Sinful! Mayor Celia's sweet-natured and curious cousin is eager to settle into small-town life after moving from the big city (Mudbug, Louisiana). But before Mary-Alice can even unpack her bags, a man of the cloth dies under mysterious circumstances, a device with strange powers turns up in the glove box of her Oldsmobile 88, and her new friends, Ida Belle, Gertie, and young Fortune, are behaving oddly…even for Baptists.

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#SampleSunday: Sinful Science

Next thing I knew, Justin Lao was a fixture in my house. At least when Ally was home. They spent most of their time cooking together, which I thought was sweet. Especially since I got to sample the results.
Justin taught Ally how to make lau laus, pork wrapped in taro leaves and encased in a ti leaf for long, slow cooking. Ally adapted the recipe to use locally available ingredients like collards and salt pork.
They seemed so chummy that I assumed they had a love connection. I was happy for Ally, who up until now had not had great luck with guys. Imagine my surprise, then, when one morning, as I was sitting in Francine’s Diner with Ida Belle and Gertie, I saw Justin Lao walk in with a woman who most definitely was not Ally.
Childlike facial morphology –full cheeks, high forehead, large eyes–makes age estimation difficult. Somewhere between mid-twenties and early forties. Dark blonde hair, apparently natural, and light eyes, consistent with Acadian, (Cajun) ancestry. Movement and muscularity indicate high levels of strength and flexibility, consistent with a dancer or gymnast. Threat level: moderate, if she ever takes her eyes off her prey.
Justin glanced over at our table and gave us a nod but made no move to join us. He and the blonde kept walking toward a distant back booth, where they sat side by side.
“Well how do you like that?” Ida Belle complained. “They don’t even want to sit with us.”
I was glad Ally’s shift hadn’t started yet. Poor Ally—yet another disappointment in the romance department.
“Well there are three of us, and two of them,” Gertie said, “and the booth only seats four. Unless you want them to drag a chair over and block the walkway.”
The blonde was looking at Justin like he was her next meal. He’d only been in Sinful a couple of days and already his love life was orders of magnitude more exciting than mine and Ally’s put together.
Grow up, I scolded myself. I wasn’t here to have fun. Unless it’s explicitly part of our assignment, undercover operatives are not supposed to become intimately involved with the locals. It’s emotionally and physically risky for us, and it can expose the agency to legal action.
I guess I should have thought of all that before I got involved with Carter LeBlanc. What was I thinking?
No need to answer that. Stupid hormones.
“One of the Roche girls,” Gertie whispered. “Has to be. She’s the very image.”
“You know who she is?”
“Not her personally,” Gertie said. “But her people are well known around here.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” I said.
“When Gertie says well known, she’s being nice,” Ida Belle said. “What she really means to say is notorious.”
I looked from one to the other.
“Let me guess. This notorious family has something to do with that thing you were talking about earlier.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Ida Belle said.
“Perd’ Espoir, was that it?”
Gertie and Ida Belle exchanged a look.
“If memory serves, that’s French for lost hope, isn’t it?”
“Gracious, aren’t you the smart one?” Gertie said sweetly.
“So what’s the story with this Roche family?” I studied Justin’s companion from across the crowded diner. Her teeth were white and even, and her round face radiated health. She didn’t look like a meth addict. “And how do you know this woman is one of them if you haven’t seen her before?”
Ida Belle swallowed a mouthful of biscuits and gravy. “We know her people. Not hard to spot ’em. Gene pool’s about as deep as a birdbath, if you get my drift.”
“Their family tree looks like a braid,” Gertie added helpfully.
“Good looking clan,” Ida Belle said, “but trouble, all of ’em, and no more morals than tomcats.”
“You don’t want Justin getting killed by a jealous boyfriend,” Gertie said. “Not before you’ve got the down payment for your car.”
I held my hands up. “Just leave me out of it. This is not any of my business. I’ll buy Ally ice cream and watch Lifetime movies with her, if she needs consoling. But other than that, I’m not getting involved.”
“Well, Fortune my dear,” Gertie patted my hand, “it’s nice that you’re so optimistic.”

Sinful Science
Sinful Science

Sinful Science

"Anubis, the ancient Egyptian god of the underworld, was a man with a wolf's head. The Navajo skin walkers could turn into any animal they pleased. And of course there's the Hồ tinh, Hanoi's nine-tailed fox. I was thinking I might write a story about the Hồ tinh."

"Gertie, that's a great idea," Ally said. "Are you going to write children's books?"

"Oh, my goodness, no. There's no money in children's books. I'm thinking erotica."

A graduate student from Hawaii visits the tiny bayou town of Sinful, Louisiana to investigate the effects of the oil spill on the local wildlife. Sinful resident Fortune Redding, who happens to be a CIA operative hiding out from a ruthless arms dealer, worries that the nosy newcomer might blow her cover. But when he makes a gruesome discovery, he unleashes forces that will go to any lengths to protect Sinful's darkest secret.

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Trust Fall #SampleSunday

Trust Fall

It looks like it’s going to be another boring faculty retreat at Mahina State University, “Where Your Future Begins Tomorrow.”

But then the Trust Fall exercise goes horribly wrong. Is it murder, or just the worst meeting of the semester?

Excerpt

Kyle Stockhausen, assistant professor of digital humanities, strode up to the Trust Fall Chair. The Trust Fall Chair wasn’t one of the red, gold, or green conference room chairs (the new school colors, as decided by student referendum). Those chairs all had wheels, and anyway, I’m sure the administration didn’t want us stepping all over the seat cushions with our dirty shoes. No, the Trust Fall Chair was plain, straight-backed, and made of wood. It had probably been ordered online and shipped from the mainland, just for this event.

“Thank you for volunteering, Professor Stockhausen,” Jake nodded at him.

“Please. Call me Kaila.”

I heard Emma snort. Emma, who grew up just a few miles down the road from Mahina State University, had definite opinions about “white people who move here from Nebraska and give themselves Hawaiian names.”

Mahalo nui loa, brother,” said Kyle/Kaila Stockhausen as Jake helped him up onto the wooden seat. He slowly stood, his spiky blonde hair almost brushing the ceiling.

“Come on, everyone move in closer.” Jake motioned us forward. “You’re all going to have to come together to catch him when he falls. Kyle, sorry, Kaila, turn around and put your arms out.”

He did, displaying the black courier lettering on the back of his pale yellow t-shirt: Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid. –Albert Einstein

“Einstein never said that,” Emma muttered.

“Now the rest of you, move in. Closer, you have to be right underneath so you can catch him.”

“I have to apologize for my colleagues,” Stockhausen said over his shoulder. “They don’t yet realize what a privilege this is. I appreciate the value of these high-touch team-building activities. In fact, I use many of these exercises in my own classes.”

This was the limit for Emma.

“Give it a rest, Stockholm-syndrome,” she shouted. “You teach all your classes online.”

Before anyone could react to Emma’s outburst, the exit door at the far end of the room flew open. Everyone turned toward the welcome distraction. A man wearing shorts and a t-shirt stood silhouetted in the doorway.

“Am I late?” the newcomer asked.

“Here’s our ag person,” Jake said. “Come in, come in. You’re just in time for the—”

Jake’s sentence was cut short by the scrape of wood on marble, and an ugly thud. We all pushed forward to get a look.

Kyle Stockhausen lay face up on the polished marble floor, blood spreading behind his head like a crimson halo.


Trust Fall is free on all e-book platforms.

#SampleSunday Dreamed It: A New Dreamwalker Mystery from Maggie Toussaint

Justice for the dead and solace for the living is Baxley Powell’s creed, but she faces uncharted territory in this sixth book of the Dreamwalker Mystery Series. The Suitcase Killer has struck again, only this big city menace is now a problem for Baxley’s hometown. As that investigation heats up, a local woman is reported missing. The sheriff orders Baxley to work the missing person’s case.

Listening to the dead is familiar ground for Baxley but finding a missing young lady isn’t in her skill set. Besides, her dreams rarely follow a timeline. With the clock ticking, can this crime consultant discover a way to reach the living?

Her main source of help in the afterlife, a mentor named Rose, is unavailable. Instead, Baxley must rely on her wits and her Native American boyfriend, Deputy Sam Mayes, to find leads. Each shared dreamwalk and energy transfer binds them closer together, creating another issue. Mayes wants to marry Baxley but it isn’t that easy. They’re hampered by their community roles in opposite ends of the state.

Baxley juggles the pressure of two high-profile cases, a determined suitor, and expanding her limits. One thing is certain. Without her extrasensory sleuthing, the missing woman will die.

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Excerpt: Dreamed It by Maggie Toussaint

A sudden jolt propelled me to consciousness. I gazed upon a vast darkness and wheezed air into my lungs. Time passed as I steadied my breathing and slowed my racing heart. Flat on my back, I took stock of my situation. Numb limbs indicated an extended dreamwalk, but I had no memory of any such excursion.

I’d spent a quiet Sunday evening at home with my daughter and Sam Mayes, my Native American boyfriend, who was down from North Georgia for the weekend. I’d gone to sleep in my own bed and awakened here, wherever here was.

Was I alone?

I called upon my flagging energy to do a life signs scan. Using my extra senses, I virtually ranged out from my prone position. Mayes was to my immediate left, and from his low energy levels, as wiped out as I was. He was a dreamwalker, same as me. And from the cold energy pressing against my leg, my ghost dog watched over us. He’d bark on the spirit plane if someone or something approached, though my scan assured me we were alone.

The void in my memory worried me. My debilitated condition pointed to an extrasensory event, but danged if I remembered contacting a spirit on the Other Side. Strange, because I remembered every other dreamwalk I’d ever made. Why not this one?

So much for me being an expert on the paranormal.

Just when I thought I had the hang of my unusual profession of communicating with the dead, it socked me in the teeth. Crossing over to the spirit realm was something I did often, but the veil between the living and the dead nearly won this time.

This had been no ordinary dreamwalk. Instead of it being a spirit-only event, somehow our bodies had also undergone the shift. That defied the laws of physics, but here we were, body and spirit. Impossible and yet my reality.

Tears misted my eyes, and I blinked to sharpen my vision. A woodsy aroma filled my nose, so we were outdoors. The darkness suggested it was night. My thoughts drifted into a self-healing meditative trance focusing on the breath. Gradually, clarity returned.

As numbness yielded to tingling nerves, sensation seeped into my rigid body. Fatigue rolled in next, and with it, the riptide of bone-deep exhaustion. Despite my weariness, I took heart. This reaction was normal after an extended dreamwalk.

Oliver lapped happily at my face, his whip-thin tail wagging his entire ghostly form. Good dog, Oliver, I managed as I joined him on the spirit plane. While here in spirit only, I still maintained awareness of my physical surroundings.

My ghost dog materialized as a misty image of a jet black Great Dane, his body aquiver with happiness. Earlier this summer I rescued Oliver from virtual chains and too-tight collar at a haunted house. No amount of urging had prompted him to the afterlife, and his essence attached to mine. At this bereft moment, I was delighted by his presence.

Oliver showed us the way home through the drift, I realized. It wasn’t the first time he’d rescued me, and I owed him so much already.

Despite my dry-as-cotton mouth, I cooed over him while I tried to pinpoint my location. Stars twinkled overhead, framed by tall oaks and pines. Not my treetops, not my yard.

I heard a moan to my left. Felt the urgency as Mayes whispered my name. “Baxley.” With a final rub of the ears for Oliver, I integrated fully into the physical plane.

Mayes whispered again, his tone deeper and freighted with authority. “Bax. You okay?”

“Yeah.” I managed. “What happened to us?”

“Got no clue.”

Sam Mayes had become a fixture in my life, though I’d only known him for three months. I wished I was in his protective arms right this very second.

“I feel like I got run over by a truck,” I said. “Last thing I remember is getting ready for bed.”

“That’s right.” His voice roughened. “I shared your toothpaste before we crawled under the covers.”

My face heated as memories surfaced. “I remember the before-sleep part fine, but between there and here is a big, fat zero. Except for Oliver. He guided us home through the drift.” I tried to sit, but my limbs weren’t fully responsive yet. I remained prone.

“I have the same mental gap. I believe we were taken, body and spirit, from your house.”

Hearing the words made it real. The impossible had happened. Nothing else explained our physical displacement, the prolonged recovery time, and the shared memory gaps.

My teeth ground together as I made another connection. “Unless some other entity kidnapped us, my money’s on Rose. Her abilities go beyond the possible. I’ve never met another spirit entity as powerful.”

Allegedly, my otherworld mentor, Rose, worked undercover in the spirit realm, but she claimed to be an angel. Seeing her dark, powerful wings had made a believer out of me. That physical manifestation, her ability to do impossible feats, and her total hold on me proved she was more than a powerful spirit. She’d banished demons, fetched folks from beyond the point of no return, wrestled with selkies, quelled spirit rebellions, and more.

Trouble was, Rose kept changing the rules of our association. By sheer willpower, I managed to draw one hand close enough to study in the starlight. From the faint glow of my watch, it was three a.m. The rose tattoo on my hand was still there. Rose put three tattoos on my body to indicate the hours of my indenture to her. Rats. If she’d gone to the trouble of kidnapping us and erasing our memories, her prominent brand indicated I still owed her the hours of my life I’d willingly exchanged during life-or-death situations of loved ones.

That’s right. Rose charged for her supernatural favors, and I’d begged for her help three times. Each time the terms had been the same. A favor in exchange for an hour of my life. I’d agreed due to the dire nature of the situations, but darn-it-all if I wanted Rose to collect. With her rule-bending nature, I could turn into a mass murderer or worse on either side of the veil.

“I keep reminding you, Rose is not your friend,” Mayes said.


Southern author Maggie Toussaint evolved into a mystery author after getting her feet damp in romantic suspense and dystopian fiction, with twenty fiction novels and two nonfiction novels to her credit. Her work won two Silver Falchions, the Readers’ Choice, and the EPIC Awards. She’s a past president of Southeast chapter of Mystery Writers of America and an officer of Lowcountry Sisters In Crime. She lives in coastal Georgia, where secrets, heritage, and ancient oaks cast long shadows. Visit her at https://maggietoussaint.com/

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#SampleSunday: The Case of the Defunct Adjunct

Kent Lovely was well into middle age, and dressed in defiance of the plain fact. His midnight-black hair was gelled to a crisp. His aloha shirt was unbuttoned low enough to show off his wiry physique and his cinnabar tan. A tiny zircon stud sparkled in one leathery earlobe.
“Ciao, Molly.” Kent caught Emma and me in a hug, one in each arm. “Emma, Ai watashi kon’nichiwa.”
His culturally-sensitive salutations out of the way, Kent released us from his cologne-drenched embrace and pushed ahead of us. He pulled two plates off the stack, and started loading them up. Emma and I took one plate apiece, and followed Kent as he mowed his way through the salads, to the hot dishes, and finally over to the dessert table. He was William Tecumseh Sherman, and the buffet table was Atlanta.
Kent paused his historical re-enactment to turn back and address us. “So, ladies.” (Here he paused to lick his fingers.) “Who do you think is gonna get the teaching award today?”
“Who else was nominated?” I asked. “Besides you?”
Kent helped himself to the last two slices of haupia cheesecake, balancing them atop the mounds of pastry, roast pork, rice, waffles, and fruit piled on his plates.
“Let’s see.” One of the slices of haupia cake started to slide off its summit. Kent pushed it back up into place and licked his finger again. “It was me, Bob Wilson from history, and that minority chick from the psychology department.”
Emma stared at him in disbelief.
“Sorry Emma-chan, minority lady. Wish me luck, girls. Oh look, brownies.”
The Case of the Defunct Adjunct

The Case of the Defunct Adjunct

The Case of the Defunct Adjunct

Author:
Series: The Professor Molly Mysteries, Book 1
Genre: Mystery
Tags: Adjuncts, Campus, Hawaii, Meetings
Publisher: Hawaiian Heritage Press
ASIN: B015U1NM4O
ISBN: 9781943476022

Professor Molly feels more relief than grief when Mahina State’s one-man hostile work environment keels over at a faculty retreat.  She has no desire to get involved with the case, so it's an unpleasant surprise to find she already is involved. Now Professor Molly has to fight to keep the wrong person out of prison—and herself off the unemployment line.

If you like Dorothy Parker, Sarah Caudwell, P.G. Wodehouse, or E.F. Benson’s Mapp and Lucia stories, you’ll enjoy this tale of passion, pilferage, and petty politics in the middle of the Pacific.

About the Book
Professor Molly Barda and her best friend Dr. Emma Nakamura brace themselves for yet another boring faculty retreat at Mahina State University (“Where Your Future Begins Tomorrow”). But when the lecherous Kent Lovely, Mahina State’s one-man hostile work environment, collapses face-first into his haupia cheesecake, the afternoon goes from dull to disastrous. Now Molly has to fight to keep an innocent out of prison—and herself off the unemployment line. If you like cozy mysteries with a touch of snark, you’ll enjoy this tale of passion, pilferage, and precarious labor in the middle of the Pacific.
Look Inside
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