Att: Ms. Jodi Meadows
Dear Ms. Meadows:
A woman’s past unfolds as she faces her stalker in my 100,000 word novel for the woman’s commercial fiction market. Told with comic relief NO GARDEN OF EDEN IN PARADISE is a saucy tale of murder, mystery and romance among the rich and infamous, the likes of an Agatha Christie’s multi-character whodunit.
World famous artist Dorian Oberon avoids photographers and refuses to give interviews even to Barbara Walters. Guilt over an ill-begotten affair and a closely guarded secret is buried is buried beneath prized canvases and tattered brushes. After twenty years abroad she returns to America where circumstances take her to a posh suburban community, not the Garden of Eden one would imagine. With a cast of irreverent characters with secrets to die for…or kill for…Paradise Park’s lush terrain veils a black hole of chicanery, wanton sex, and uncommon romance.
When a dim-witted peeping tom gardener digs up some dirt the killing he hopes to make is his own. Unwittingly at the scene of his murder Dorian spies a fleeting figure in the shadows. Lest her past be dredged up like the body found at the bottom of the pool she foolishly refuses to admit anything. Hounded by a horny cop, courted by a duplicitous suitor, and stalked by a vengeful predator her carefully fabricated life starts to unravel.
I live in a densely populated suburban community and am a member of ORT, an international retraining organization that sponsors a multitude of book and author seminars. A previous novel was represented by the late Bertha Klausner; a breakout piece was published in Marriage Magazine.
I would appreciate submitting for your consideration NO GARDEN OF EDEN IN PARADISE and thank you for your time and consideration.
If she had never left Paris. If she had not lied to the detective. If she had heeded her own warning…if she had never fallen in love…she would not now be staring down the barrel of a gun and a face leering with undisguised loathing.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me; thought you would be,” the voice jeered.
“I was expecting you, though not quite this way,” she said.
A grin. “What did you expect? A singing telegram?”
“Next time I’ll remember to lock the door.”
The reply chilled. “Doubt there’ll be a next time.”
“What will you gain by killing me?” she said. “It won’t change anything.”
“On the contrary, I’ll sleep better seeing your name on a tombstone.” A laugh. “Dorothy Oberlander or the very famous Dorian Oberon…whatever name they’ll put on it.”
“You won’t get very far. After you poisoned my cat I called the police.”
“That dick-head sergeant and pussy-chasing cop? I’ll be far and away before they can zip up their pants.”
The gun was cocked, a steady finger curled about the trigger. “Anyway, who’d ever suspect me? You never told anyone.”
“You know damn well why.
“I counted on that.” A wave of the gun. “You know, I tried real hard to be friends with you.”
“We could never be friends,” she seethed. “You’re insane.”
“Still so high and mighty. Even now with a gun ready to splatter your brains.”
Keep talking, stall for time, the police will be here soon.