Evelyn Cullet

This week, I’m pleased to host author, Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli.

Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli moved to the shores of a little lake in northwest northern Michigan and never looked back. She lives, sometimes uncomfortably, with the crows and bears and turtles and finds her material in the villages and forests that surround her. With degrees from Macomb County Community College, Oakland University, and the University of Michigan, she now teaches creative writing at Northwestern Michigan College and at writers’ conferences around the country.

Her novels include: Gift of Evil (Bantam), Dead Dancing Women, Dead Floating Lovers, Dead Sleeping Shaman, and Dead Dogs and Englishmen (Midnight Ink), Dead Little Dolly, and A Tough Nut to Kill (writing as Elizabeth Lee), Berkley Publishers.

Elizabeth is also fascinated with the craft of the short story and hers have appeared in The Creative Woman, The Driftwood Review, Passages North, The MacGuffin, Quality Women’s Fiction (Great Britain), and elsewhere. With a grant from the State of Michigan she also created short stories that have been produced onstage as well as being read on NPR.
For many years she taught in the International Women’s Guild summer program at Skidmore College and appeared as a moderator and panelist at writing conferences. Her fascination with all things murderous began with a love for puzzles of all sorts, which was handed down to her by a mother who devoured mysteries. Sometimes playful, sometimes deadly serious, her books reflect a wide interest in women’s lives and futures.

Mystery writer and journalist with 7 published novels including her latest, the first in a series: A Tough Nut to Kill from Berkley Publishers/Penguin Group.

She teaches fiction writing at Northern Michigan College, was a reporter for the ROMEO OBSERVER, and has written for the DETROIT NEWS, Traverse Magazine, the British Literary Journal: Women’s Quality Fiction, and many others.

Her fourth novel in the Emily Kincaid series, DEAD DOGS AND ENGLISHMEN, was chosen one of the best mysteries of 2010 by Kirkus Reviews and the Christian Science Monitor.  Writing as Elizabeth Lee, the first in her Texas series: A TOUGH NUT TO KILL, is in stores and online now.  The second and third in the series will be out in 2015.

 Dead Little Dolly

Even the beauty of Northern Michigan can’t put a smile on the face of Emily Kincaid’s perpetually cranky friend, Deputy Dolly Wakowski, and when someone tries to destroy the only family Dolly has ever had, her crankiness turns lethal, even as the crime threatens to overwhelm her.

Still struggling in her career as a mystery writer, Emily takes a deep breath before stepping in to help. As they launch their search for Dolly’s assailant and the investigation deepens, two strange clues emerge, the attacker’s trademark black jellybeans and a note to Dolly reading “Thou Shalt Not Steal.”

Here is an excerpt:

 Prologue

The sun was thick and warm on Deputy Dolly Wakowski’s back, and on her neck, and on the top of her head.  She pulled off her blue uniform hat and set it on the damp cemetery earth beside where she knelt.

A quiet May Sunday afternoon.  Quieter, because there was no one else in the old Leetsville, Michigan, cemetery.  No one there, among the tombstones, but Deputy Dolly, of the two-man Leetsville Police Department, who bowed her head over the bearded lady’s grave then laid a bouquet of wilting white daisies atop the mossy headstone:

GRACE HUMBERT

1873  — 1926

“Another year, Grace,” Dolly bent to whisper as she patted Grace Humbert’s grave, fingers brushing over the prickly sprouts of new weeds and grasses.

“Happy Mother’s Day.  It’s me, Dolly.”

The day was all washed-fresh light and the shine of new spring green spreading over the sunken graves of Civil War soldiers and around old headstones standing crookedly, slump-shouldered, names of the poor wiped away by harsh Michigan winters.

Tiny, yellow dandelions—bright little toys—speckled the clustered graves of babies dead in a long-ago epidemic.  Toward the back of the cemetery, proud family plots, surrounded by rusted and crooked iron railings, bloomed with new weeds.

Dolly’s uniform pants were damp at both knees, but that was as it should be.  It was proper that once a year she came here and knelt to talk to Grace Humbert, the famous bearded lady of a long ago Barnum and Bailey Circus.

She’d heard about Grace when she first came to Leetsville from southern Michigan, thirteen years before.   Grace Humbert, memorialized in the museum down the road, in Kalkaska, but forgotten by everyone else except as an oddity a local newspaper or magazine would revisit every ten years of so: a woman who didn’t fit anywhere, not with her flowing beard and mustache, not with eyes direct and slightly amused, never part of the world around her, but never cowed by that world, her look steady and challenging, her back straight in satiny gowns draped across an ample bosom.

“Forty-seven Famous Freaks,” a 1903 photo hanging on the crowded old depot wall had screamed at Dolly and there was Grace, a dark image in the third row, smiling, happy to be among her kinfolk of sword swallowers and tiny people and tall people and leopard skinned people, and pin-headed people.  Different.  An outsider.

Like Dolly Wakowski.

Dolly turned to frown a squinting frown at robins in the leafing maples. Too loud, all that mating stuff, for a cemetery.  Birds chirping playfully in a graveyard didn’t obey Dolly’s ‘seemly’ rule.  There should be quiet and reverence when a pretend-daughter knelt beside a pretend-mother’s grave, honoring her because there was nobody else for Dolly Wakowski to honor.  And nobody else came to honor Grace. That was a fact—nobody, and that meant Grace Humbert needed Dolly as much as she needed Grace.

Dolly moved from her damp right knee to her left.  She looked around before bending to whisper, “Found my grandmother this last year.  Cate Thomas, she’s called.  Livin’ with me now.  And guess what . . .” She waited, as if somehow she’d get an answer. Her small, homely face puckered into a smile.  “I got a baby.”  She nodded a few times. “Name’s Baby Jane. I call her that so she can pick her own name when the time comes.  You know, get the name she wants.  Not like me.  Stuck all my life with a name like ‘Delores’ foisted on me when I couldn’t sit up and say “NO” to that woman who never wanted me anyway.”

She turned to look over her shoulder toward the scout car she’d pulled up under the high, cast iron, cemetery gate where four-month-old, Baby Jane, slept in her car seat.  The windows were down so Dolly could hear if she woke up.  Nothing to fear.

Nothing at all.

Dead Little Dolly is available at Amazon.com,  Amazon Kindle, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, and iBook.

The first in her new series, writing as Elizabeth Lee, A TOUGH NUT TO KILL, is out from Berkley and available in bookstores everywhere, or Online.  The next two in this series will be out in 2015.   Others in her Emily Kincaid series are available at Brilliant Books of Traverse City:  231-946-book or online.

My website, at which I’m now asking for help with a woman’s novel I’m writing, is www.elizabethbuzzelli.com

On Facebook:

Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli’s Books

Elizabeth Buzzelli

Elizabeth and I would love to hear from you so please feel free to leave a comment.

This week my guest is mystery author, Marja McGraw.

Marja McGraw was born and raised in Southern California. She worked in both civil and criminal law for fifteen years, state transportation for another seventeen years, and most recently for a city building department.  She has lived and worked in California, Nevada, Oregon, Alaska and Arizona.

Marja wrote a weekly column for a small town newspaper in Northern Nevada, and conducted a Writers’ Support Group in Northern Arizona. A past member of Sisters in Crime (SinC), she was also the Editor for the SinC-Internet Newsletter for a year and a half.

She has appeared on KOLO-TV in Reno, Nevada, and KLBC in Laughlin, Nevada, and various radio talk shows.

Marja says that each of her mysteries contains a little humor, a little romance and A Little Murder! Books include both the Sandi Webster Mysteries and The Bogey Man Mysteries.

She and her husband now live in Arizona, where life is good.

What Are The Odds?

What are the odds of buying a house with a history to turn into a bed and breakfast, and discovering it’s the house that just keeps giving – and giving, and giving?

Sandi Webster and her partner, Peter Goldberg, forego a honeymoon to help her parents renovate just such a house only to discover there’s more to the home’s history than meets the eye. Stanley Hawks and his new wife, Felicity, are along for the ride and he has to face some of his worst fears.

This is an adventure these friends will long remember.

Here is an excerpt:

My mother and Felicity helped me put out food and a small wedding cake. Pete had already passed out drinks, and a bottle or two of champagne chilled in the refrigerator.

I finally sat down and took a deep breath.

Jessica sat next to me. “So tell me about this bed and breakfast your mother and her husband are opening. Rick said there were murders in the house? Does she think people will stay there regardless of the place’s history?”

Before I could open my mouth, my mother the drama queen, who sat on my other side spoke loudly. “Let me tell the story. It’s a tale of murder and jealousy. Or so I’ve been told. Frank and I sold our house in Bullhead City. That’s in Arizona, you know. Escrow closes in about thirty days, and I think we’ll move to the llama ranch now instead of waiting.”

The room fell into silence and all eyes were fixed on Livvie Brewster, my loves-a-good-story mother.

“This happened, oh, probably twenty years or so ago. It’s a thirty-acre ranch and it used to be a llama ranch. An elderly man and his daughter ran the place, along with one ranch hand. It’s said – ”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Mom? ‘It’s said’?”

“Hush and let me tell the story. Actually, this would be better told over a campfire on a dark night.”

 She laughed at her own little joke.

“A neighbor gave me the scoop, so this should be pretty accurate, although he didn’t give me any of their names. He said the ranch hand had a thing for the daughter. So did a man from a neighboring property. The men were constantly trying to outdo one another. The daughter wasn’t a young woman and she’d never been married, so she was thrilled by all the attention.

“Her father told her to be careful because it was all going to backfire on her. He said she needed to make a choice between the men and put an end to their competition. But she wouldn’t listen.”

My mother actually leaned forward as though it was Halloween night and she was stirring a pot of scary information.

“Well, the father was right. It backfired. She finally chose the neighbor, and the ranch hand went nuts. One stormy afternoon he stealthily entered the house and found the daughter in the living room, kissing the neighbor. The ranch hand had a gun in his hand and he shot the daughter where she stood, in the head. The neighbor ran out the front door. The ranch hand ran after him and killed him, too, before returning to the house. You can still see a bullet hole in the screen door.

“The father, hearing the shots, came running in with a shotgun. Before he could shoot, the ranch hand shot him. He didn’t die, and he raised the gun and killed the ranch hand.”

“What neighbor told you about this?” With four deaths, I couldn’t help but wonder if the neighbor had all the details straight. Time and memory often change things from fact to exciting fiction.

“An old man who lives down the street in a mobile home. I’m sure he’s reliable.”

One of the models sat in a chair across from us and leaned forward, studying my mother’s face. “What happened to the father?”

I could see my mother mentally rubbing her hands together. She had everyone’s interest. “He died before the police got there.” She sat back and looked very pleased with herself. “And that’s the short version of the story.”

Felicity smiled at my mother. “And a neighbor says the house is haunted by these people?”

“Only the ranch hand. Well, he told me someone said they saw the daughter once, too.”

“Interesting story,” Rick said. “Are you sure people will want to stay in a house where murders were committed?”

Frank decided it was his turn to speak. “Their curiosity will get the best of them, and they’ll want to see the house. Some of them will hope to see the ghost while they’re there. And others simply won’t care. We’re turning it into kind of a dude ranch with horses. There are plenty of places to ride and we’re at the base of a small mountain. It’s unusual because it’s flat desert surrounded by mountains, and then there’s this small mountain right in the middle of the valley. We’re going to have chickens, too.”

Website:    http://www.marjamcgraw.com/

Blog:           http://marjamcgraw.blogspot.com/

FB Page:   https://www.facebook.com/pages/Marja-McGraw-Mysteries/166844466697374

Buy link:      http://tinyurl.com/m8s6uux

Marja and I would love to hear from you, so please leave a comment and be entered to win a free copy of, What Are The Odds?

Congratulations to Anna Celeste Burke for winning a copy of What Are The Odds.

This week, I’m pleased to host mystery author, P J. Nunn

As with most things, PJ Nunn’s career started out as something else entirely. She started out in retail then moved to property management. That led to teaching high school, then serving as a counselor and liaison to the local police youth services division. She also spent five years as chairperson of the Coryell County Child Welfare Board and spent years counseling abuse victims and serving law enforcement as a trauma counselor and consultant (something she still does today). When she moved to Dallas, a family illness caused her to leave a job teaching psychology at Dallas County Community College District to become a freelance writer, but found that a few favors she was doing for friends—writing press releases and setting up book signings—was better suited to her talents and her drives.

 In 1998, she founded Break Through Promotions, now a national public relations firm helping authors, mostly of mystery novels, publicize themselves and their work. The business is thriving and PJ is excited about the release of her first novel, Angel Killer. PJ lives with her husband some of their five children near Dallas, TX. Learn more at http://pjnunn.com.

Private Spies

When Jesse Morgan’s boss and best friend died, she inherited Private Spies, a private investigation firm that specializes in missing persons. Unfortunately, she knew little about the business aside from her intensive work on the computer. But if Joey thought she could handle it, she felt obligated to at least give it a try. How hard could it be, right?

 So Jesse took on her first case. Very straightforward. This guy is missing, find him. Oh but wait, he also kidnapped his own daughter. Find her too. Still not that hard. Except when she ran his report, the picture she found on his drivers license is of another guy. And when she found a guy who matched the first picture, he had another name. And when she found a girl that looked like the daughter, she didn’t match anything. Not good.

 Enter a retired police officer named Byron (really?) who says before Joey died, he hired him to work for them. Ok. This might be helpful. But then came a stalker, and a dead guy, a dead duck and an increasing list of incidents that all seem confusing to Jesse. Up to her eyeballs in threats and questions, Jesse’s outraged when the woman who hired her decides to fire her. Unbelievable! Unable to stop at that point, Jesse is determined to find the guy and solve the case. If only it was as easy as it sounded.

Here is an excerpt from Private Spies:

I hate mornings. Unfortunately, if I sleep through them like I like to do, I miss half the day. Time is money, or so I’ve heard. After a quick shower, I tugged on a sweater and a pair of jeans, promised Elvis I wouldn’t come home without food, and headed out. An unlocked door and the smell of fresh brewed coffee greeted me at the office.

“Bernice!” I smiled for the first time in awhile. “I didn’t expect you back until next week.”

“I knew you’d need me,” she smiled up at me from her desk, looking more like a weirded out fairy godmother than any receptionist I’ve seen.

At fifty something, her hair was more white than brown and she wore it in a variation of a beehive that I thought went out in the sixties. Bright blue eye shadow covered her eyelids like finger paint no matter what color of garish flowered muumuu she wore on her ample frame. I never did hear where Joey found her, but she was a whiz around the office.

“You’re right about that,” I said, retrieving the stacks I’d sorted from my desk. “Bills to pay, invoices to send, and stuff to file,” I said, setting each one down on her desk in turn.

“Oh, girl, looks like you’ve been busy!” she clucked.

“Not busy enough,” I groaned, sinking into my chair and glancing over at the piles still covering Joey’s desk. He might have known right where everything was, but to me, it just looked like a mess. “I’ve got a new case, though, so I guess those will have to wait another day or two.”

“No worries,” Bernice said cheerfully. “I’ll have it sorted out in no time. I know his system.”

She’d get no arguments from me. I have enough trouble with my own mess. The sound of Bernice rustling around and muttering to herself was oddly comforting and I got right to work on the Gafford case.

“Look at this,” I told Bernice, less than an hour later.

The picture Beverly Gafford faxed of her ex husband was grainy at best, but it still didn’t look anything like the driver’s license photo I picked off the Internet. Joey had us set up to get into all kinds of databases. Some of them, I was pretty sure we weren’t supposed to get into, but sometimes it’s better not to ask too many questions.

“Does that look like the same guy to you?” I handed the printout to her.

Bernice held the two photos in chubby hands an arm’s length away from her bifocals.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not at all. You sure this is the right guy?”

I shrugged. “Same social, same name.”

“Guess it’s a really bad picture,” she said, putting them back on my desk. “You know those DPS pictures are a plot from hell.”

She nodded her head with her lips clenched in a tight line. Bernice thought everything was a plot from hell.

“Maybe,” I said.

But I didn’t think it was just a bad picture. Something seemed hokey about the whole thing.

“I’m going to see if I can find this guy in person,” I told her, pulling my purse out of the bottom drawer.

Ordinarily, that was a luxury I didn’t have, working on the Internet, but since he was supposedly here in Dallas I could do some actual investigating. That was a perk that didn’t come up often. Most of the time, I just did all my searching online and Joey had done the rest. I missed him.

Expecting to find a little house similar to my own, I was surprised when the address led me to the Frost Farms section of DeSoto. Where the really rich who don’t want to live in north Dallas live. Ranches and mansions with circular driveways and pools and stables and maids and limos. I heard one house actually has its own bowling alley. Not that I’d ever been inside one, but I could tell immediately that my whole house and yard would have fit easily in the garage.

My poor little Taurus probably felt like an unwanted stepchild. Hard to be inconspicuous in a Ford around there. Hard to see anything parked on the street, too. The house number was on the mailbox but the driveway was so long I had to rescue a surveillance bag out of the trunk and use binoculars. Joey liked to have all the right equipment, even if we hardly ever used it. Man, I missed him!

I didn’t have to wait long to see someone; people came and went like it was moving day only they weren’t carrying anything. Unfortunately, none of them even remotely resembled either of the men I was looking for, or the little girl, either. I was about ready to give up when a man came out of the stables and caught my attention. Even with the binoculars, it was hard to tell, so I took a chance and got out of the car. I needed to stretch my legs anyway. PIs do way too much sitting.

I had to hurry to cross the grass in time to catch him before he reached his truck, so I didn’t really have time to think of anything clever to say.

“Excuse me!” I called when I got close enough for him to hear me.

When he stopped and turned, I knew it was the same face that Beverly Gafford had faxed to me. He wasn’t very big, maybe five foot ten, a hundred and sixty pounds, but he had the wavy brown hair and the deep creases in his face that come from hours in the sun. Lawrence Gafford number one. The one that matched the picture that didn’t match the name. Maybe I wasn’t ready to be the boss yet. None of this made sense.

“Are you Lawrence Gafford?” I asked, trying not to breathe as hard as an obscene phone caller.

A scowl replaced the smile he’d been wearing. “Who wants to know?”

I pulled a card out of my pocket and handed it to him. “Jesse Morgan, Private Spies.”

“I got nothing to say to you,” he snarled and pitched my card on the ground, then turned and continued to his truck.

“Look,” I chased after him, “I don’t want to cause a problem, I just need to know…”

He couldn’t hear me because he was driving away. Great.

Review:

“Hilarious! Jesse Morgan is a girl-next-door turned detective who if she runs short of skill will make up for it with sheer determination or maybe luck. She won’t rest until her case is closed.” – Bookbrowsing

Links:

Facebook/PJ – https://www.facebook.com/authorpjnunn

Facebook/BreakThrough – https://www.facebook.com/breakthroughpromo

Twitter – www.twitter.com/PJNunn

GoodReads – http://www.goodreads.com/author/dashboard

Blog – http://pjnunn.wordpress.com

P J. is giving away either a trade paperback or a Kindle copy of Private Spies. Leave a comment and be automatically be entered to win!

This week, I’m hosting mystery author, Deborah Garner.

Deborah is an accomplished travel writer with a passion for back roads and secret hideaways. Born and raised in California, she studied in France before returning to the U.S. to attend UCLA. After stints in graduate school and teaching, she attempted to clone herself for decades by founding and running a dance and performing arts center, designing and manufacturing clothing and accessories, and tackling both spreadsheets and display racks for corporate retail management. Her passions include photography, hiking and animal rescue. She speaks five languages, some substantially better than others. She now divides her time between California and Wyoming, dragging one human and two canines along whenever possible.

The Moonglow Cafe

 New York reporter Paige MacKenzie has a hidden motive when she heads to the small town of Timberton, Montana. Assigned to research the area’s unique Yogo sapphires for the Manhattan Post, she hopes to reconnect romantically with handsome cowboy Jake Norris. The local gem gallery offers the material needed for the article, but the discovery of an old diary, hidden inside the wall of a historic hotel, soon sends her on a detour into the underworld of art and deception.

 Each of the town’s residents holds a key to untangling more than one long-buried secret, from the hippie chick owner of a new age café to the mute homeless man in the town park. As the worlds of western art and sapphire mining collide, Paige finds herself juggling research, romance and danger. With stolen sapphires and shady characters thrown into the mix, will Paige escape the consequences of her own curiosity?

Here is an excerpt from The Moonglow Cafe: 

The newspaper fell to the table and Paige caught her breath. Jake was even more handsome than Paige remembered, all blue eyes, chiseled chin, deep tan and windswept hair. She had missed him. Now here he was, his sly grin revealing she was the recipient of a well-planned surprise.

“Hi, Paige,” Jake said, looking pleased with himself.

“You tricky rascal! How?”

“First a toast. To Paige MacKenzie, intrepid reporter.”

Paige lifted her own glass and clinked it against Jake’s. “To Jake Norris, mysterious cowboy!” She took a sip of champagne before setting down her glass.

“So, how did you pull this off?”

“Your office,” Jake said. “I called there yesterday because I couldn’t reach you

on your cell phone.”

“I was in flight. My phone was off. And you hate leaving messages, don’t you?”

Paige crossed her arms and tried to look annoyed. But she couldn’t stop smiling.

“And you just go trouncing across the country, heading west, no less, without a word of warning.” Jake’s tone was 95 percent teasing and 5 percent scolding.

“I didn’t have much notice, to tell the truth,” Paige said. “Besides, I thought maybe I’d surprise you.”

“Well, I do believe I beat you to it.” Jake rocked back in his chair, looking like a schoolboy who’d just gotten away with an excellent prank.

“Yes, I believe you did.”

Enya had moved seamlessly into a haunting blend of pan flutes and soft drums.

Jake’s eyes reflected candlelight. As Jake leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper, Paige gave in to the urge to touch his hand with light fingertips just to be sure she wasn’t imagining his presence.

“Will we be getting menus soon?” Jake looked around the café for Mist. “I worked up an appetite driving today.”

Paige slid her hand back to her champagne flute, leaned forward, too, and matched his secretive tone.

“Moonglow doesn’t have menus,” Paige whispered. “Menus complicate life.” She felt a wave of satisfaction at Jake’s puzzled look. He may have surprised her first, but at least she had a head start on knowing Timberton’s quirks.

Two plates of food glided silently onto the table; the aromas of caramelized onions and port sauce rose up. Slender stalks of fresh asparagus fanned out to the left side of two tender, beef medallions. A diminutive, almond-encrusted puff pastry of baked Brie accompanied the meal. Jake looked at the plate and back up at Paige.

“Trust me,” Paige said. “Just eat anything she serves. The breakfast I had this morning was heavenly. If I could, I’d eat every meal here for the rest of my life.”

Jake dug into the gourmet meal, glancing around the café between bites. Paige watched him and knew he was as curious as she’d been since she arrived in Timberton. Hunger trumped conversation temporarily, but as he finished a last bite of Brie, he spoke.

“What kind of town is this, anyway? It didn’t look like much when I drove in.

But then the only café in town serves up a meal like this? I don’t get it.”

Paige could only agree.

“I wish I could tell you. It’s an odd place, that’s for sure.” Paige paused as

Mist switched out the empty dinner plates for two coffees, one miniature chocolate soufflé and two spoons.

“What does Susan have you working on this time?” Jake sipped his coffee

“I’m writing a sapphire article to coincide with a gemology convention coming up in New York in a few weeks,” Paige said. “There’s a gem gallery in town, and the owner knows a lot about Montana sapphire mining and the town’s history. Once I get a good focus, I hope it won’t take long to pull it together. But there’s something else.”

Jake took a sip of coffee as Paige lowered her voice again.

“I came across an old diary last night while I was trying to figure out how to turn on the heat in my room.”

“One of those display pieces that hotels put out for guests to see?” Jake said, holding his coffee cup close to his face to breathe in the aroma. “Wow, this coffee is excellent.”

“No,” Paige said. “I mean, yes, the coffee is amazing, but no, the diary isn’t a display piece. It was hidden inside the wall. I’m sure it belonged to a local artist. This town is filled with unusual characters and secrets,” Paige said, dipping a spoon into the soufflé. “It seems surreal.”

“Yes, I agree, surreal,” Jake said. “What are the entries in this diary like? Do they have anything to do with sapphires?”

Paige looked a little guilty. “Nothing to do with sapphires. From what I’ve read so far, the diarist was a painting student who was frustrated with his teacher and his own work. He was an angry person, but his story intrigues me.”

“Yes, I remember how you can’t resist the possibility of a good story.” Jake’s voice had softened. He reached across the table and laced his fingers with Paige’s. That simple contact unnerved but warmed her. It was good to feel his touch.

“How does a cool, Montana evening walk sound after we pay the tab?”  Jake nodded to the café’s front door.

“I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for a check,” Paige laughed. “Payment for meals here is just as bizarre as everything else in this town.”

“If we don’t get a bill, how do we know what we owe?”  Jake said. Paige guessed that nothing in Timberton made sense to Jake.

“To quote what Mist told me this morning, ‘leave what your heart tells you.’”

“Well,” Jake sighed, “My heart tells me I’d better appreciate an extraordinary meal when I have a chance.” He stood and pulled out a worn, leather wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, taking several bills and dropping them on the table.

Just seeing Jake stand moved Paige to a familiar breathlessness. The scuffed boots were the same ones he’d been wearing when she’d first met him in Jackson Hole. The sound of his first step onto Moonglow’s wooden floor brought back memories of a day in another café, one state away. Had it really been only a month? She admired the snug, relaxed fit of his jeans. They looked like the same jeans as before, though the belt buckle was different. It was similar to the silver buckles she’d seen him wear, but with a trace of gold edging. The design featured majestic mountains and pine trees that surrounded a rustic bridge.

“Like it?”

Paige blushed. She knew she’d stared at that belt buckle a bit too long. Of course she liked it. All of it. What was not to like about this Wyoming cowboy?

“Recent addition to your wardrobe?”

Jake grinned. “Even guys shop sometimes, you know.” He helped her up from her chair, picked up the long-stemmed, red rose and presented it to her with a slight bow.

“Dramatic,” she teased.

“Well, drama could be your middle name, if I recall your last visit correctly.”

Jake released her hand and slid his arm around her shoulders.

“Not this time.” Paige sighed. They stepped out into the cold night and paused on the sidewalk. “The people are interesting, and the diary adds an intriguing twist, but there’s not a drop of drama to be found in this town from what I can tell.”

“That’s fine,” Jake said. “You’re here to do an article on sapphires. Maybe the town’s old-time residents will find the diary interesting. Anyway, the most important thing is that you’re here.” He turned Paige toward him and drew her close.

“I think maybe you should show me this diary,” Jake whispered, his lips brushing Paige’s ear. “You know…the one in your room?”

“Yes.” Paige said with a soft smile. “I think that’s a good idea.”

Book Purchase Links for The Moonglow Cafe

Kindle: http://amzn.to/1iiokZn

Nook: http://bit.ly/1jHitbg

Kobo: http://bit.ly/1mYmIDz

✰✰✰✰✰

 You can find Deborah Garner at:

 Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/deborahgarnerauthor

Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/paigeandjake

Website: http://www.deborahgarner.com

Amazon: http://amzn.to/1i2c6hE

Goodreads: http://bit.ly/1migsJQ

Deborah and I would love to hear from you, so please feel free to leave a comment. When you do you’ll be entered to win a free copy of The Moonglow Cafe in any ebook format.

This week, love is in the air ♥♥♥ with my guest author, Skye Taylor

Skye Taylor lives in Florida where she divides her time between writing novels, walking the beach, occasionally dressing up as a 17^th century Spanish colonial and participating in historical re-enactments in old St Augustine, and trying to keep her to-be-read pile from taking over the house. She considers life an adventure and in a world of people who ask why, she has decided to ask “why not?” She spent two years in the South Pacific with the Peace Corps (2002-2004). She’s jumped out of perfectly good airplanes and earned a basic sky diving license. She loves to travel and has visited twenty-six states and fourteen countries on four continents and the South Pacific. Her bucket list includes at least that many more places to see. Having been born and lived most of her life in New England where her children grew up, she is now a transplanted Yankee soaking up the sun, warmth and history of St. Augustine. She’s a member of RWA, Florida Writer’s Association and Ancient City Romance Authors.

Falling for Zoe

Zoe Callahan, pregnant with the child her ex-boyfriend doesn’t want, adores her ramshackle new home in the seaside town of Tide’s Way, North Carolina. When she meets her handsome next-door neighbor, Jake Cameron, who offers some fixer-upper help, her heart goes out to him. He’s a doting dad to three daughters and the kind caretaker to a mom-in-law with Alzheimer’s. He’s a gentle, caring man, the kind she always dreamed about.

Jake can’t deny his instant attraction to his new neighbor, but he’s already got a house full of females he feels he can’t live up to. Besides, he won’t risk turning his family upside down again after his ex-wife nearly destroyed it.

Despite Jake’s efforts to hide his feelings, he and Zoe quickly become the best of friends. Zoe discovers love hasn’t given up on her, even if the father of her unborn child did. Now she just needs to figure out why Jake is so determined not to let the heady attraction that sizzles between them turn into something more than just friendship.

Then disaster strikes, and Jake is Zoe’s reluctant rescuer. He already has her heart, but now, in spite of the rift that has come between them, she must trust him with her life and the life of her baby. Can Jake shake the demons in his own past and trust himself?

Here is an excerpt: 

The rumble of a diesel engine and the grinding of gears caught Jake Cameron’s attention. He looked up to see a red and white van with the familiar logo of a well-known Wilmington moving company. Thankful for any diversion from the unwelcome feelings stirred up by today’s unsettling mail, Jake tossed the stack of letters onto the bench inside the garage door and stepped back outside to watch the movers.

The big van negotiated the sharp turn between the crumbling old brick gateposts guarding their little cul-de-sac and eased around the grassy little island in the center. Jake whistled in mild astonishment as it pulled to a stop in front of the once elegant Jolee homestead that squatted firmly on the rise between the road and the tidal marsh beyond. The real estate market was still agonizingly sluggish, and the neglected building had been vacant ever since the former owner had passed away. The nineteenth-century homes with antiquated everything just seemed to sit forever waiting for buyers with an interest in the unique and historic, or for investors on the lookout for cheap properties they could fix and flip.

A battered Toyota pickup truck swung around the van and pulled onto the crushed shell drive. Jake started across his lawn, intending to be neighborly and welcome the new guy on the block, whatever his plan for the place.

The person who slid out of the driver’s seat took him by surprise. She had a wild mane of reddish-gold curls and a figure to grab any man’s instant attention. Jake hesitated, waiting for a husband to appear from the passenger seat, but none did. The woman turned, saw Jake and flashed him a friendly smile.

“Hi!” the woman called in an engagingly musical voice. “Are you my new neighbor?”

Jake yanked himself out of his momentary confusion and finished covering the distance to the drive. He held out his hand. “If you’re moving into this place, then that would be a yes. Name’s Jake Cameron.”

“Nice to meet you, Jake.” Her eyes traveled down over his paint-stained T-shirt and frayed, khaki shorts and came back to his face with a curious sparkle in their greenish-brown depths that made him wonder if he’d left his fly down. “I’m Zoe Callahan.”

“Sorry, I’m kind of a mess. Been painting.” He forced himself not to check the status of his zipper as he shook her hand briefly before jamming his hands into his pockets.

She wasn’t as young as he’d first thought. Late twenties maybe, or early thirties.  She was attractive in a fresh-faced, girl-next-door sort of way. What, he wondered, could have induced this engaging young woman to buy a house that was going to need an army to put it to rights?

“This time next week, I’ll be the one apologizing.” Zoe jerked her head in the direction of the house. “Everything will need painting inside and out, I’m afraid.”

“It’ll take a lot more than a coat of paint to get this place ready to put back on the market.” Jake studied the peeling paint and derelict railings more closely, reflecting on how really bad it had gotten over the months the house had been vacant.

“Oh, I don’t plan to sell it.” Zoe’s hazel eyes widened in exaggerated enthusiasm.  “I’m here to stay.”

“Is . . . is there a Mr. Callahan?”

“Nope! Just me and the menagerie.”

.•♥♥•.¸✽✽¸.•♥♥•.

My website: http://www..Skye-writer.com

My Blog: http://www.skye-writer.com/blogging_at_the_beach

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/skyewriter2

Purchase on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JGAHJDG/ref=rdr_kindle_ext_tmb

Purchase on B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/falling-for-zoe-skye-taylor/1119109341?ean=9781611944730

 We would both love to hear from you, so please feel free to leave a comment.