So, let's talk about THINGS!
1. I apologize for posting the SA guidelines late. Labor Day threw me off a bit.
2. Just making sure that you all realize that this month's SA is for ADULT ONLY. I know it doesn't happen often, but there you have it.
3. So far, we've got 11 agents on our Baker's Dozen line-up. Final number--and names!-- will come later.
4. Thanks again to all of you who helped spread the word for the BD Agent's Auction during our BLITZ. Keep talking it up! Each year, I'm surprised by how many people (particularly on Twitter) start saying, "Oh my gosh, what are you all talking about??" And by then, they've missed the opportunity to submit.
5. The CP dating entries have been taken down (for security purposes). Please be sure to LET ME KNOW if you make a perfect match via MSFV! I'm always delighted to hear about things working out like that.
6. The wait time for my Authoress Edits queue is down to 2 1/2 months (from 3 or more). If you're considering hiring me and would like to secure your place in line, here's the info you need.
7. I'm wondering just how many new readers have joined our ranks in recent months! If you'd like to say HI, today's your day! Pop into the comment box and introduce yourself. (Or, for that matter, say hi anyway--even if you're a REAL OLDTIMER.)
8. Have a magnificent weekend!
Miss Snark's First Victim
Showing posts with label Mysteries for Danielle Svetcov. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mysteries for Danielle Svetcov. Show all posts
Friday, September 6, 2013
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #27
TITLE: SOME WARS END
GENRE: Traditional Mystery
Identity theft, computer hacking, and murder—and it’s only Monday.
Cooter Ferry’s top news jockey, Quindley Dempsy is a transplanted Yankee with a penchant for interfering in police investigations and a knack for solving murders. The former embedded war reporter has raised a mountain of cash to build a high-tech rehab clinic for injured combat veterans. When a body drops from the rafters during the clinic’s dedication, Quindley sets out to nail the bastard who killed her best friend—the chief finance officer of her mega-bucks foundation.
The first time I fired a gun, I killed six people—and all I got was a lousy t-shirt. Actually, a shirt and a three-inch titanium screw that holds my right ankle together.
I’m Quindley Dempsy, Eagle 7 News feature reporter, and I’ve learned there are only two rules in deep-pocket fundraising. Rule 1—reel in as much loot as possible at each event, and Rule 2—repeat Rule 1, as needed. I’m a Rule 2 Goddess. Good thing, too. Because my Global Warrior Foundation needs more scratch. That’s why I decided to dangle another money-raising shindig alongside the dedication of our new veteran’s rehabilitation center.
I funneled a Diet Mountain Dew, held back a belch, and strutted to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen.” The gala’s velvety hum subsided. “Your generous contributions made Five Angels a reality.” I swept my arms around the atrium connecting the new rehab clinic with the vets’ medical center. “Tonight, we’re dedicating this miraculous facility. But our work is unfinished.”
It was one of those blithe, sultry Lowcountry evenings. Bow-tied waiters, proffering trays of champagne and canapés, slalomed through the crush of moneyed-elite, noted philanthropists, and local celebrities eager to donate to my cause.
“The war has created a painful and expensive legacy—brain-injured and limbless young bodies—who will challenge our ability to care for them for decades to come. And Government resources for prosthetics and specialized medical attention are at a breaking point. One high-tech leg starts at sixty-thousand dollars. Cheers to each of your two good ones. Now, how many limbs will you buy tonight?”
GENRE: Traditional Mystery
Identity theft, computer hacking, and murder—and it’s only Monday.
Cooter Ferry’s top news jockey, Quindley Dempsy is a transplanted Yankee with a penchant for interfering in police investigations and a knack for solving murders. The former embedded war reporter has raised a mountain of cash to build a high-tech rehab clinic for injured combat veterans. When a body drops from the rafters during the clinic’s dedication, Quindley sets out to nail the bastard who killed her best friend—the chief finance officer of her mega-bucks foundation.
The first time I fired a gun, I killed six people—and all I got was a lousy t-shirt. Actually, a shirt and a three-inch titanium screw that holds my right ankle together.
I’m Quindley Dempsy, Eagle 7 News feature reporter, and I’ve learned there are only two rules in deep-pocket fundraising. Rule 1—reel in as much loot as possible at each event, and Rule 2—repeat Rule 1, as needed. I’m a Rule 2 Goddess. Good thing, too. Because my Global Warrior Foundation needs more scratch. That’s why I decided to dangle another money-raising shindig alongside the dedication of our new veteran’s rehabilitation center.
I funneled a Diet Mountain Dew, held back a belch, and strutted to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen.” The gala’s velvety hum subsided. “Your generous contributions made Five Angels a reality.” I swept my arms around the atrium connecting the new rehab clinic with the vets’ medical center. “Tonight, we’re dedicating this miraculous facility. But our work is unfinished.”
It was one of those blithe, sultry Lowcountry evenings. Bow-tied waiters, proffering trays of champagne and canapés, slalomed through the crush of moneyed-elite, noted philanthropists, and local celebrities eager to donate to my cause.
“The war has created a painful and expensive legacy—brain-injured and limbless young bodies—who will challenge our ability to care for them for decades to come. And Government resources for prosthetics and specialized medical attention are at a breaking point. One high-tech leg starts at sixty-thousand dollars. Cheers to each of your two good ones. Now, how many limbs will you buy tonight?”
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #26
TITLE: Uncertain Justice
GENRE: Mystery
After Austin, Texas, Assistant D.A. Elyse Grove resorts to prosecutor office cutthroat tactics to get her first high-profile homicide, the more she looks into her prize case, the less she is convinced of the guilt of the defendant, a Junior Leaguer of a certain age who has much to gain by her husband’s death. Another young, up-and-coming assistant D.A. talks her way into becoming Elyse’s second chair for the trial, and they become embroiled in a competition for the attentions of the same police investigator, until the second chair’s secret addiction promises to blow the case wide open.
I parked down the street from the flashing-light entourage on Barton Skyway Drive, wondering what justified this many emergency vehicles. A blast of heat, like the 425-degree oven that heated up my frozen pizza earlier, hit me once I stepped out of the car. I wanted to cast off the linen jacket, but my outfit needed dressing up with authority.
As my heels tapped across the reflections of blue and red on the road, I scanned the body types of the police milling outside the mansion. No Sergeant Jackson Barnes, although he’d told me he’d meet me outside to explain. All the men were, in comparison to him, “shambly,” a word my high school friends and I had made up to describe baggy outfits around shapeless bodies. I sighed inwardly, disappointed, then mentally kicked myself. I was no longer in high school, although the dating life did reduce me to that. Just when I thought I’d finally escaped it, I was starting all over again.
And I was at a crime scene. Time to pay attention. An officer was winding police tape around the perimeter of the neo-classical columns of what could only be called a mansion. He did his best to ignore my approach. This was not the kind of neighborhood where people gathered around a crime scene, although I had seen a couple of bobbled heads in windows.
Marching past prompted his response. “Ma’am, you’re going to need to step back.” He wiped the sweat from his brow.
GENRE: Mystery
After Austin, Texas, Assistant D.A. Elyse Grove resorts to prosecutor office cutthroat tactics to get her first high-profile homicide, the more she looks into her prize case, the less she is convinced of the guilt of the defendant, a Junior Leaguer of a certain age who has much to gain by her husband’s death. Another young, up-and-coming assistant D.A. talks her way into becoming Elyse’s second chair for the trial, and they become embroiled in a competition for the attentions of the same police investigator, until the second chair’s secret addiction promises to blow the case wide open.
I parked down the street from the flashing-light entourage on Barton Skyway Drive, wondering what justified this many emergency vehicles. A blast of heat, like the 425-degree oven that heated up my frozen pizza earlier, hit me once I stepped out of the car. I wanted to cast off the linen jacket, but my outfit needed dressing up with authority.
As my heels tapped across the reflections of blue and red on the road, I scanned the body types of the police milling outside the mansion. No Sergeant Jackson Barnes, although he’d told me he’d meet me outside to explain. All the men were, in comparison to him, “shambly,” a word my high school friends and I had made up to describe baggy outfits around shapeless bodies. I sighed inwardly, disappointed, then mentally kicked myself. I was no longer in high school, although the dating life did reduce me to that. Just when I thought I’d finally escaped it, I was starting all over again.
And I was at a crime scene. Time to pay attention. An officer was winding police tape around the perimeter of the neo-classical columns of what could only be called a mansion. He did his best to ignore my approach. This was not the kind of neighborhood where people gathered around a crime scene, although I had seen a couple of bobbled heads in windows.
Marching past prompted his response. “Ma’am, you’re going to need to step back.” He wiped the sweat from his brow.
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #24
TITLE: Lygos
GENRE: Supernatural/Paranormal Adult
Adella Dowling has seen a lot in her 200 years. She knows she’s different, even from her own kind, the Lygos. When love finally finds her in the form of Ian Walsh, she must find out all the answers to her past. She races against time and secrets from her past as she struggles to save not only her kind but that of her enemy, the Misolygos. It’s the only way she can save Ian, a Misolygos himself.
Adella – 1887
I drifted in and out of consciousness.
Nathaniel held me, kissing my cheeks, my hair, my lips, my body shivering with pleasure.
“Love you always.”
“Do not say that.” I smiled coyly.
“I will. Nothing could prevent my feelings for you. No matter what my father says.”
Warning bells going off in my head. Unable to move.
The magistrate with an evil grin. What was happening? Arms like lead. Legs too.
“I have been waiting for you.” His laugh I had always hated bounced off the walls.
Where was Nathaniel? I could hear him. He was saying…what was he saying?
“No. Not her. She is not like the others. You are wrong.” He shouted. He begged. He was silenced. Tears filled my eyes.
My knees drug against the cobblestone path as two guards held me under my arms. I tried to cry out but my tongue was a heavy as my legs. It felt as if my lips were sown shut. Please. Please help me! Nathaniel!
Cold.
I was weak but could move on my own. I had no energy to compel a guard, even if I had seen one. No one came near me. I knew why. The magistrate had ordered me left alone. The girl who had told him of my gifts rotted two cells over. I plotted her demise to take my mind off my own.
I sat on the cold damp floor. Snippets of the past fell away as I became aware of my surrounding for another miserable day. Rats scurried about waiting for tiny morsels of food to be left behind or a withering body to drop dead.
GENRE: Supernatural/Paranormal Adult
Adella Dowling has seen a lot in her 200 years. She knows she’s different, even from her own kind, the Lygos. When love finally finds her in the form of Ian Walsh, she must find out all the answers to her past. She races against time and secrets from her past as she struggles to save not only her kind but that of her enemy, the Misolygos. It’s the only way she can save Ian, a Misolygos himself.
Adella – 1887
I drifted in and out of consciousness.
Nathaniel held me, kissing my cheeks, my hair, my lips, my body shivering with pleasure.
“Love you always.”
“Do not say that.” I smiled coyly.
“I will. Nothing could prevent my feelings for you. No matter what my father says.”
Warning bells going off in my head. Unable to move.
The magistrate with an evil grin. What was happening? Arms like lead. Legs too.
“I have been waiting for you.” His laugh I had always hated bounced off the walls.
Where was Nathaniel? I could hear him. He was saying…what was he saying?
“No. Not her. She is not like the others. You are wrong.” He shouted. He begged. He was silenced. Tears filled my eyes.
My knees drug against the cobblestone path as two guards held me under my arms. I tried to cry out but my tongue was a heavy as my legs. It felt as if my lips were sown shut. Please. Please help me! Nathaniel!
Cold.
I was weak but could move on my own. I had no energy to compel a guard, even if I had seen one. No one came near me. I knew why. The magistrate had ordered me left alone. The girl who had told him of my gifts rotted two cells over. I plotted her demise to take my mind off my own.
I sat on the cold damp floor. Snippets of the past fell away as I became aware of my surrounding for another miserable day. Rats scurried about waiting for tiny morsels of food to be left behind or a withering body to drop dead.
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #23
TITLE: Hair Sprayed Hard and Put Away Forever
GENRE: Adult Mystery
A hairstylist turns detective to find out who killed a celebrity stylist at a Las Vegas hair show when her best friend is arrested for the murder.
It was like being drop kicked into a Lady Gaga video.
Although I’d never actually seen a Lady Gaga video, I was pretty sure the freak show I was currently witnessing would measure up.
Techno music pulsed from over-sized speakers, competing with the fevered, carnival barker voice hocking the latest, state-of-the-art revolution in hairstyling. A string of models, looking like refugees from the forest scene in the Wizard of Oz, shuffled past where we stood at the back of the room. Wearing form-fitting bark dresses, their hair had been wired and twisted to resemble bare tree branches. Lights flashed on the main stage, slicing across the gender neutral forms posed Martha Graham style, their hair geometric origami, symbolizing the effect of time and space on society or some such ridiculousness.
Gripping the hands of my two best friends, Vivian Moreno and Juan Carlos, I tried to suppress the excitement rising up the back of my throat. We were in Las Vegas! Far from our home in California where I, Azalea March, co-owned a salon with Vivian deep in heart of overly-highlighted, under-styled Orange County. And we had four whole days of nothing but free casino booze and sacrificing sleep for parties ahead of us.
The real reason we were in Sin City was to attend the North American Salon Trade Expo, or NAST-E as Juan Carlos called it. As hairstylists, this event was our Cannes Film Festival, if the festival were held at the overblown Las Vegas convention center and the movies were hairstyling presentations so ludicrous it was like New York fashion week threw up, then rolled around in the notions department of a craft store.
GENRE: Adult Mystery
A hairstylist turns detective to find out who killed a celebrity stylist at a Las Vegas hair show when her best friend is arrested for the murder.
It was like being drop kicked into a Lady Gaga video.
Although I’d never actually seen a Lady Gaga video, I was pretty sure the freak show I was currently witnessing would measure up.
Techno music pulsed from over-sized speakers, competing with the fevered, carnival barker voice hocking the latest, state-of-the-art revolution in hairstyling. A string of models, looking like refugees from the forest scene in the Wizard of Oz, shuffled past where we stood at the back of the room. Wearing form-fitting bark dresses, their hair had been wired and twisted to resemble bare tree branches. Lights flashed on the main stage, slicing across the gender neutral forms posed Martha Graham style, their hair geometric origami, symbolizing the effect of time and space on society or some such ridiculousness.
Gripping the hands of my two best friends, Vivian Moreno and Juan Carlos, I tried to suppress the excitement rising up the back of my throat. We were in Las Vegas! Far from our home in California where I, Azalea March, co-owned a salon with Vivian deep in heart of overly-highlighted, under-styled Orange County. And we had four whole days of nothing but free casino booze and sacrificing sleep for parties ahead of us.
The real reason we were in Sin City was to attend the North American Salon Trade Expo, or NAST-E as Juan Carlos called it. As hairstylists, this event was our Cannes Film Festival, if the festival were held at the overblown Las Vegas convention center and the movies were hairstyling presentations so ludicrous it was like New York fashion week threw up, then rolled around in the notions department of a craft store.
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #22
TITLE: The Exitor
GENRE: YA Paranormal Mystery
When Phoenix Wack discovers she can manipulate death and send her soul out to spy on the neighbors, she stops worrying about her ridiculous name and starts uncovering the town’s darkest secrets.
Nix hated throwing up. Especially on someone else's front porch. Well, technically she'd leaned over and fertilized the flowers, but it wasn't a proud moment.
What a stupid idea it had been to run six miles uphill. Jordan had better be grateful for what she was going through for him. Nix wiped the sweat from her temples and knocked on the enormous oak door. Somewhere inside, a dog began barking.
Until that moment Nix hadn't realized how quiet it was. The darkened grounds seemed completely deserted. Weird. She'd never actually been to a party, but she'd imagined it with music, and...people. Could this be the wrong mansion? She stepped off the porch and looked around. Maybe it would be best to just slip into the forest and make her way home. But as Nix turned toward the surrounding trees, a dark shape caught her eye. It stood motionless for a moment and then disappeared into the shadows.
Before she'd even had a chance to process what she'd seen, the front door opened and an attractive blonde appeared on the porch. The girl held a tiny dachshund that seemed to be all gums and teeth.
“Can I help you?” she said over the dog's high-pitched yapping.
This must be Sara. Nix had seen her around school, but they'd never really spoken. Why would they?
“I thought I saw...” Nix began, but hesitated. What was the point of telling her about the shadow? It was probably just a raccoon. And anyway, the important thing was to find her best friend.
GENRE: YA Paranormal Mystery
When Phoenix Wack discovers she can manipulate death and send her soul out to spy on the neighbors, she stops worrying about her ridiculous name and starts uncovering the town’s darkest secrets.
Nix hated throwing up. Especially on someone else's front porch. Well, technically she'd leaned over and fertilized the flowers, but it wasn't a proud moment.
What a stupid idea it had been to run six miles uphill. Jordan had better be grateful for what she was going through for him. Nix wiped the sweat from her temples and knocked on the enormous oak door. Somewhere inside, a dog began barking.
Until that moment Nix hadn't realized how quiet it was. The darkened grounds seemed completely deserted. Weird. She'd never actually been to a party, but she'd imagined it with music, and...people. Could this be the wrong mansion? She stepped off the porch and looked around. Maybe it would be best to just slip into the forest and make her way home. But as Nix turned toward the surrounding trees, a dark shape caught her eye. It stood motionless for a moment and then disappeared into the shadows.
Before she'd even had a chance to process what she'd seen, the front door opened and an attractive blonde appeared on the porch. The girl held a tiny dachshund that seemed to be all gums and teeth.
“Can I help you?” she said over the dog's high-pitched yapping.
This must be Sara. Nix had seen her around school, but they'd never really spoken. Why would they?
“I thought I saw...” Nix began, but hesitated. What was the point of telling her about the shadow? It was probably just a raccoon. And anyway, the important thing was to find her best friend.
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #21
TITLE: Opelika Ladies Murder Society
GENRE: Cozy Mystery
When the Alabama Azaleas Book Club decides to read only Agatha Christie novels for a year, townspeople start showing up dead, murdered the same nights as book club and in the exact same manner featured in the month’s selection. The women must work together to find the killer before the next murder takes place — even if that means implicating one of their own.
Annelle grunted as she pushed Myrtle’s wheelchair off the cart path and into the rough near the last hole of the Grand National golf course. Ned Pinckney’s casket lay open in the hot Alabama sun, the flag of the 18th hole directly at the foot of the coffin.
Years ago, that rich SOB had somehow convinced the golf course owners to allow his funeral service to be held on the pristine green when the Lord finally called him home. Annelle heard he paid a pretty penny for this spectacle. She hoped he was at least enjoying it from wherever he now resided.
Myrtle and hundreds of other Opelika residents flocked to the funeral, most out of perverse curiosity, Annelle suspected. As much as the town despised Ned, they couldn’t take their eyes off him, especially as a murdered corpse.
“Outrageous,” Myrtle murmured loud enough to let a few people hear her without disrupting the entire funeral.
Annelle refused to engage.
“Look at that rouge! And who dresses a man in plaid pants and golf shoes to meet his maker?” Myrtle had always taken great offense at attire not suited to the occasion. Ironically, she’d resorted to favoring primarily polyester mu-mus in large Hawaiian prints after moving to Northridge Assistive Living last fall to recuperate from hip surgery.
“It’s his funeral,” Annelle said. “And anyway, his attire is probably appropriate given that we’re on a damn golf course.”
GENRE: Cozy Mystery
When the Alabama Azaleas Book Club decides to read only Agatha Christie novels for a year, townspeople start showing up dead, murdered the same nights as book club and in the exact same manner featured in the month’s selection. The women must work together to find the killer before the next murder takes place — even if that means implicating one of their own.
Annelle grunted as she pushed Myrtle’s wheelchair off the cart path and into the rough near the last hole of the Grand National golf course. Ned Pinckney’s casket lay open in the hot Alabama sun, the flag of the 18th hole directly at the foot of the coffin.
Years ago, that rich SOB had somehow convinced the golf course owners to allow his funeral service to be held on the pristine green when the Lord finally called him home. Annelle heard he paid a pretty penny for this spectacle. She hoped he was at least enjoying it from wherever he now resided.
Myrtle and hundreds of other Opelika residents flocked to the funeral, most out of perverse curiosity, Annelle suspected. As much as the town despised Ned, they couldn’t take their eyes off him, especially as a murdered corpse.
“Outrageous,” Myrtle murmured loud enough to let a few people hear her without disrupting the entire funeral.
Annelle refused to engage.
“Look at that rouge! And who dresses a man in plaid pants and golf shoes to meet his maker?” Myrtle had always taken great offense at attire not suited to the occasion. Ironically, she’d resorted to favoring primarily polyester mu-mus in large Hawaiian prints after moving to Northridge Assistive Living last fall to recuperate from hip surgery.
“It’s his funeral,” Annelle said. “And anyway, his attire is probably appropriate given that we’re on a damn golf course.”
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #20
TITLE: Dear Departed
GENRE: Paranormal Cozy
While detective Tom Franklin sizzles his way into the heart of murder victim Caroline Nancel, she uses her new ghostly wiles to haunt him into love. If he accepts her spirit is with him they can work together to find her killer and perhaps some of the peace each of them crave.
I woke up on the ceiling the other morning. Thank God it wasn’t an instantly alert “My eyes are open, I control my destiny!” wake-up, but a fuzzy, easy kind of “I see light, it must be morning.” wake-up that gave me a few moments to puzzle out my location before I freaked out.
The sun was peeping over the mountains that cradle our beautiful valley in central California. As the light bloomed the details the darkness had shrouded came into focus. I looked to my left and noted I should have a word with my cleaning lady about her attention to corners, high as well as low. A frail and floaty spider web waved, stirred by air coming out of the heating vent. Was I only noticing it because it was moving, or was it because I was so close to it? Close . . . why was I close to a spider web on the ceiling?
Prompted by this thought I looked down and saw my body, eyes open and staring, lying in blood-soaked sheets. That’s when I lost my composure completely, and a fifty-one year old woman flipping out at this magnitude is not a pretty sight.
I screamed, I cried, I thrashed about; it didn’t change a thing. Calming a bit or perhaps getting tired, I tried bargaining with Fate and God, making loads of promises and offers I never could’ve made good on. The Universe, in its infinite wisdom, ignored me.
GENRE: Paranormal Cozy
While detective Tom Franklin sizzles his way into the heart of murder victim Caroline Nancel, she uses her new ghostly wiles to haunt him into love. If he accepts her spirit is with him they can work together to find her killer and perhaps some of the peace each of them crave.
I woke up on the ceiling the other morning. Thank God it wasn’t an instantly alert “My eyes are open, I control my destiny!” wake-up, but a fuzzy, easy kind of “I see light, it must be morning.” wake-up that gave me a few moments to puzzle out my location before I freaked out.
The sun was peeping over the mountains that cradle our beautiful valley in central California. As the light bloomed the details the darkness had shrouded came into focus. I looked to my left and noted I should have a word with my cleaning lady about her attention to corners, high as well as low. A frail and floaty spider web waved, stirred by air coming out of the heating vent. Was I only noticing it because it was moving, or was it because I was so close to it? Close . . . why was I close to a spider web on the ceiling?
Prompted by this thought I looked down and saw my body, eyes open and staring, lying in blood-soaked sheets. That’s when I lost my composure completely, and a fifty-one year old woman flipping out at this magnitude is not a pretty sight.
I screamed, I cried, I thrashed about; it didn’t change a thing. Calming a bit or perhaps getting tired, I tried bargaining with Fate and God, making loads of promises and offers I never could’ve made good on. The Universe, in its infinite wisdom, ignored me.
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #19
TITLE: The Present is Past
GENRE: YA Mystery
For Ro, order is the only control against chaos, and it comes with the price of her sanity. No one understands this better than her big sister Athena. Athena and Ro tiptoe around the unsolved mystery that scarred them both early in their childhoods. When Athena vanishes, Ro is determined to find her at any cost. Even if it means remembering.
It was pitch-dark. Enclosed. They could have been in a closet, maybe in an overturned box, under a bed. Wherever they were it was dark. The two sisters couldn’t see so they clung to each other tightly. The big sister’s auburn curls entwined with the younger sister’s ebony locks, much like their fingers were laced together.
“Do you think she’s asleep?” the younger one asked.
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you think we can get out of here?” Her voice quivered.
“No. Not for a long, long time.” The older sister answered and squeezed her fingers hard. The younger sister relaxed into the pressure, feeling worried but safe. The darkness swallowed their small frames, huddled together like shadows scared of reality’s bright glare. Finally, the older sister screamed.
***
Fourteen years later
Ro was a fine example of a person trying to be good. Despite it all. Or maybe because of it all. Either way she tried. No more than two drinks a night no matter how sharp the wind blew through the poorly insulated thirteenth-floor apartment she called home. Never more than one sick day a month from her roach infested high school and absolutely only one crying jag per week. Usually she scheduled this in after a phone call with her father. One had to have limits, however self-imposed: to cope, to manage, to survive. Or so Ro thought.
Why it was so important to be good was something any person suffering from depression, anxiety and a crushing obsessive complex would understand. But Ro knew no one else with this constellation of traits. Her sister understood. Athena and Ro were tight, maybe because of the murder. They never spoke of it. In fact, they told people their mom died of cancer.
GENRE: YA Mystery
For Ro, order is the only control against chaos, and it comes with the price of her sanity. No one understands this better than her big sister Athena. Athena and Ro tiptoe around the unsolved mystery that scarred them both early in their childhoods. When Athena vanishes, Ro is determined to find her at any cost. Even if it means remembering.
It was pitch-dark. Enclosed. They could have been in a closet, maybe in an overturned box, under a bed. Wherever they were it was dark. The two sisters couldn’t see so they clung to each other tightly. The big sister’s auburn curls entwined with the younger sister’s ebony locks, much like their fingers were laced together.
“Do you think she’s asleep?” the younger one asked.
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you think we can get out of here?” Her voice quivered.
“No. Not for a long, long time.” The older sister answered and squeezed her fingers hard. The younger sister relaxed into the pressure, feeling worried but safe. The darkness swallowed their small frames, huddled together like shadows scared of reality’s bright glare. Finally, the older sister screamed.
***
Fourteen years later
Ro was a fine example of a person trying to be good. Despite it all. Or maybe because of it all. Either way she tried. No more than two drinks a night no matter how sharp the wind blew through the poorly insulated thirteenth-floor apartment she called home. Never more than one sick day a month from her roach infested high school and absolutely only one crying jag per week. Usually she scheduled this in after a phone call with her father. One had to have limits, however self-imposed: to cope, to manage, to survive. Or so Ro thought.
Why it was so important to be good was something any person suffering from depression, anxiety and a crushing obsessive complex would understand. But Ro knew no one else with this constellation of traits. Her sister understood. Athena and Ro were tight, maybe because of the murder. They never spoke of it. In fact, they told people their mom died of cancer.
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #18
TITLE: A Place to Live
GENRE: Mystery
A sixty-year old American woman has found her ideal attic apartment in Vienna, a perfect place to live, but her equanimity vanishes when a neighbor across the hall is found dead in her bathtub. An eccentric Viennese detective carries the search for the murderer across Vienna, then on to Berlin and back, while the American woman is trapped in the macabre events in her paradise.
The apartment was small, what the Viennese call a garçonniere, a bachelor apartment; this one was a divided attic room with sloping ceilings, a wood-burning tiled stove and a balcony. That was the real selling-point, a big balcony, big for the size of the garçonniere, with seven big planters in place of railings, like seven tiny gardens. Now, at the end of March, the daffodils in the planters were catching the sun and blowing, as they always did up here, in the wind. The house was very quiet on a Sunday morning. The house was usually quiet; the only disturbance was when the landlord, Herr Zimmermann, was shouting on the telephone, or yelling at his lady-friend, or playing his TV loudly—he was deaf and frequently forgot his hearing aids. He lived in the middle of the house, and he was surely the center of it. But apart from him, it was a very quiet house. On this particular Sunday, the peace of the house was shattered in a way no one expected in the residential district called Döbling, known locally as a “noble district,” the word “noble” nowadays having a mocking sound, used less by residents of the area than by those who could not afford to live there. And what turned up in that quiet house on that perfect Viennese spring morning was surely anything but noble.
Eleanor sat at the table in her window looking out at her daffodils.
GENRE: Mystery
A sixty-year old American woman has found her ideal attic apartment in Vienna, a perfect place to live, but her equanimity vanishes when a neighbor across the hall is found dead in her bathtub. An eccentric Viennese detective carries the search for the murderer across Vienna, then on to Berlin and back, while the American woman is trapped in the macabre events in her paradise.
The apartment was small, what the Viennese call a garçonniere, a bachelor apartment; this one was a divided attic room with sloping ceilings, a wood-burning tiled stove and a balcony. That was the real selling-point, a big balcony, big for the size of the garçonniere, with seven big planters in place of railings, like seven tiny gardens. Now, at the end of March, the daffodils in the planters were catching the sun and blowing, as they always did up here, in the wind. The house was very quiet on a Sunday morning. The house was usually quiet; the only disturbance was when the landlord, Herr Zimmermann, was shouting on the telephone, or yelling at his lady-friend, or playing his TV loudly—he was deaf and frequently forgot his hearing aids. He lived in the middle of the house, and he was surely the center of it. But apart from him, it was a very quiet house. On this particular Sunday, the peace of the house was shattered in a way no one expected in the residential district called Döbling, known locally as a “noble district,” the word “noble” nowadays having a mocking sound, used less by residents of the area than by those who could not afford to live there. And what turned up in that quiet house on that perfect Viennese spring morning was surely anything but noble.
Eleanor sat at the table in her window looking out at her daffodils.
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #17
TITLE: JAP Jeopardy
GENRE: YA Mystery
Ready to show her family that she's not a brainless JAP in need of micro-management, 17-year-old Rachel’s chance comes when Granny’s shady cousin Ren asks her to sign over her interest in a worthless Lithuanian property—the ancestral farm, supposedly given away before WWII. Eager to prove her smarts and get away from home, Rachel finds herself matching wits with corrupt Lithuanian police, unwinding decades-old clues from dead relatives, and ruining her nails in the process. Jeesh. Being smart is hard!
I hadn't expected Mom to go all cheerleader at the news of my weekend date with Tommy Arndorfer. In fact, I expected her to ask, "Is he Jewish?" like she asked about every guy I ever dated. All five of them. Instead, she said, "You're not going out with any boy this weekend. Not that I’d allow you to go out with Tommy anyway. Granny has an emergency.”
“What kind of trouble could Granny have that we couldn’t solve over a manicure? I’ll need one for Saturday night.”
“With Papa still in the hospital, Granny wants you with her. . .”
“Not a chance. Love Granny and all, but she can be home alone . . .” Mom looked like I'd slapped her. Big red splotches grew on her cheeks like Diablo sauce on pasta, blurring together until I thought her head would explode.
Through compressed lips, she continued “. . . when her crooked cousin Ren comes from California.”
“Seriously? You’re ruining my weekend for this?”
“Rachel, let me get through that kugel-like brain of yours. Ren just announced his travel plans by fax. This morning. He sent papers for her to sign relinquishing her rights to the family homestead in Lithuania. Which she never owned. He’s up to no good. You know Granny won’t take my help. I’m sorry your brother can’t get back from Wash U this weekend—no doubt he would take care of Ren—but you’re here so suck it up, and do your best."
GENRE: YA Mystery
Ready to show her family that she's not a brainless JAP in need of micro-management, 17-year-old Rachel’s chance comes when Granny’s shady cousin Ren asks her to sign over her interest in a worthless Lithuanian property—the ancestral farm, supposedly given away before WWII. Eager to prove her smarts and get away from home, Rachel finds herself matching wits with corrupt Lithuanian police, unwinding decades-old clues from dead relatives, and ruining her nails in the process. Jeesh. Being smart is hard!
I hadn't expected Mom to go all cheerleader at the news of my weekend date with Tommy Arndorfer. In fact, I expected her to ask, "Is he Jewish?" like she asked about every guy I ever dated. All five of them. Instead, she said, "You're not going out with any boy this weekend. Not that I’d allow you to go out with Tommy anyway. Granny has an emergency.”
“What kind of trouble could Granny have that we couldn’t solve over a manicure? I’ll need one for Saturday night.”
“With Papa still in the hospital, Granny wants you with her. . .”
“Not a chance. Love Granny and all, but she can be home alone . . .” Mom looked like I'd slapped her. Big red splotches grew on her cheeks like Diablo sauce on pasta, blurring together until I thought her head would explode.
Through compressed lips, she continued “. . . when her crooked cousin Ren comes from California.”
“Seriously? You’re ruining my weekend for this?”
“Rachel, let me get through that kugel-like brain of yours. Ren just announced his travel plans by fax. This morning. He sent papers for her to sign relinquishing her rights to the family homestead in Lithuania. Which she never owned. He’s up to no good. You know Granny won’t take my help. I’m sorry your brother can’t get back from Wash U this weekend—no doubt he would take care of Ren—but you’re here so suck it up, and do your best."
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #16
TITLE: Necessary Action
GENRE: Mystery / Suspense
Two events altered Nicholas Marek’s future: his father’s assassination and seeing the cross hairs settle on ex-girlfriend, Agent Nailah Tengelei.
The line drive punched through a spray of blood sixty feet from where Nicholas Marek hit the baseball. He flung aside the bat and ran to the makeshift pitcher’s mound from where his father delivered the curveball. He reached his father’s side before the twitches stilled in his body. Something had obliterated the top of the senator’s head. Nicholas knew damage of this magnitude did not result from being struck by a ball.
The person Nicholas admired more than any other lay supine in a Wyoming field. The rush of blood out of the head wound lessened to a steady flow. Someone had assassinated United States Senator Ben Marek.
Nicholas dug his fingers into soil dampened by the afternoon rain. He bowed forward and rested his head on his dad’s chest. This time there was no rhythm of heart beat; no strong arm wrapped around his shoulders or deep tones in a voice that for more than twenty-six years provided guidance and instruction.
The father-son relationship they enjoyed ripped apart without warning.
Scents of blood, dirt and manure merged with his father’s cologne. They screwed into his viscera. The stench nauseated him. Nicholas closed his eyes and fought losing the last meal they shared--elk medallions, roasted red potatoes and asparagus--at one of the local ranches near Jackson Hole.
Why?
Something thumped his dad’s chest. The way it jerked reminded Nicholas of a hiccup. Air rushed out of the left ribcage.
GENRE: Mystery / Suspense
Two events altered Nicholas Marek’s future: his father’s assassination and seeing the cross hairs settle on ex-girlfriend, Agent Nailah Tengelei.
The line drive punched through a spray of blood sixty feet from where Nicholas Marek hit the baseball. He flung aside the bat and ran to the makeshift pitcher’s mound from where his father delivered the curveball. He reached his father’s side before the twitches stilled in his body. Something had obliterated the top of the senator’s head. Nicholas knew damage of this magnitude did not result from being struck by a ball.
The person Nicholas admired more than any other lay supine in a Wyoming field. The rush of blood out of the head wound lessened to a steady flow. Someone had assassinated United States Senator Ben Marek.
Nicholas dug his fingers into soil dampened by the afternoon rain. He bowed forward and rested his head on his dad’s chest. This time there was no rhythm of heart beat; no strong arm wrapped around his shoulders or deep tones in a voice that for more than twenty-six years provided guidance and instruction.
The father-son relationship they enjoyed ripped apart without warning.
Scents of blood, dirt and manure merged with his father’s cologne. They screwed into his viscera. The stench nauseated him. Nicholas closed his eyes and fought losing the last meal they shared--elk medallions, roasted red potatoes and asparagus--at one of the local ranches near Jackson Hole.
Why?
Something thumped his dad’s chest. The way it jerked reminded Nicholas of a hiccup. Air rushed out of the left ribcage.
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #15
TITLE: Tourist Town
GENRE: Upmarket mystery
A pregnant homicide detective works her first big case, investigating the murder of a woman who recently gave birth.
I root through the coat closet for my soccer ball. In the confines of my tiny kitchen, I kick the ball. Left foot, right thigh bounce, right foot kick, left thigh bounce. The cat scampers from her post atop the stove.
The plan is my partner comes over any time now, and I calmly tell him I’m pregnant. We argue that yeah, it’s unbelievable because even though the air’s electric between us we only screwed that once two months ago. Maybe we have a conversation about which one of us will leave the police department. Then he goes home, and tomorrow comes.
The polyurethane ball swirls the green and brown stains from the field as it rotates. It’s already past 10 p.m., but across town they’ll have the stadium lights switched on for another hour. I could go there right now.
I lean forward, get my head in front of the ball to catch it between my shoulder blades.
If the plan’s so simple, why did I stash my weapon away in the lockbox like I might have some freak compulsion to use it?
I shake my head, and the soccer ball rolls off me, bounces against the oven door, writhes torturously on the floor, settles into a corner.
The doorbell buzzes. Heart racing, I jerk the apartment door open, and it’s so light, made from plywood and veneer – not up to fire code – that it slips from my grip, and bangs against the wall only to slam shut again immediately. I take a deep breath, exhale through my mouth. Open the door.
GENRE: Upmarket mystery
A pregnant homicide detective works her first big case, investigating the murder of a woman who recently gave birth.
I root through the coat closet for my soccer ball. In the confines of my tiny kitchen, I kick the ball. Left foot, right thigh bounce, right foot kick, left thigh bounce. The cat scampers from her post atop the stove.
The plan is my partner comes over any time now, and I calmly tell him I’m pregnant. We argue that yeah, it’s unbelievable because even though the air’s electric between us we only screwed that once two months ago. Maybe we have a conversation about which one of us will leave the police department. Then he goes home, and tomorrow comes.
The polyurethane ball swirls the green and brown stains from the field as it rotates. It’s already past 10 p.m., but across town they’ll have the stadium lights switched on for another hour. I could go there right now.
I lean forward, get my head in front of the ball to catch it between my shoulder blades.
If the plan’s so simple, why did I stash my weapon away in the lockbox like I might have some freak compulsion to use it?
I shake my head, and the soccer ball rolls off me, bounces against the oven door, writhes torturously on the floor, settles into a corner.
The doorbell buzzes. Heart racing, I jerk the apartment door open, and it’s so light, made from plywood and veneer – not up to fire code – that it slips from my grip, and bangs against the wall only to slam shut again immediately. I take a deep breath, exhale through my mouth. Open the door.
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #14
TITLE: Freedom and Magnolias
GENRE: Mystery/Suspense
CIA Agent Reese Trenton's life was simple—dodge bullets, make reports, stay alive—until almost being run down by Maggie Donovan, a woman who makes him consider a life without secrets. When a vengeful perp from Reese's past targets Maggie, he realizes the only way to keep her safe is to leave, but first, he must fight to keep her alive.
The gas pump icon on the instrument panel of Maggie Donovan's SUV flashed a bright red warning. Now what? She flicked the display panel with her finger. No change. How long did she have before she blocked a Chicago thoroughfare? Got arrested for creating a disturbance?
A small panic stirred her insides, churning into light pain. She didn't like cars, didn't like to drive, and didn't like traffic. The past few years, planes, taxis and the occasional rental car served her travel needs. Early this morning life had changed when she bought a brand new Jeep Grand Cherokee. Now, less than five hours later, she couldn't remember ever seeing one solitary gas station in her neighborhood.
For being mid-afternoon, the traffic on Michigan Avenue moved at a good clip. A gaggle of pedestrians packed the sidewalk with an occasional power walker pushing their way through the mass. Out of nowhere, a man catapulted from between cars parked at the curb. He grabbed over his shoulder for empty air, his legs stumbling over each other as he fell in front of her.
"Noooooooo!" She crushed the brake pedal to the floor bed. Her breath hitched inward with each jerky pump of the anti-lock brakes. Fingers vice-gripped the steering wheel as the screech of tires against pavement wrapped around her brain. She shut her eyes. Braced. Stopped. Exhaled.
Had she hit the man?
No thud. No scream. No dead body on top of her hood. Had to be a good sign. Right?
GENRE: Mystery/Suspense
CIA Agent Reese Trenton's life was simple—dodge bullets, make reports, stay alive—until almost being run down by Maggie Donovan, a woman who makes him consider a life without secrets. When a vengeful perp from Reese's past targets Maggie, he realizes the only way to keep her safe is to leave, but first, he must fight to keep her alive.
The gas pump icon on the instrument panel of Maggie Donovan's SUV flashed a bright red warning. Now what? She flicked the display panel with her finger. No change. How long did she have before she blocked a Chicago thoroughfare? Got arrested for creating a disturbance?
A small panic stirred her insides, churning into light pain. She didn't like cars, didn't like to drive, and didn't like traffic. The past few years, planes, taxis and the occasional rental car served her travel needs. Early this morning life had changed when she bought a brand new Jeep Grand Cherokee. Now, less than five hours later, she couldn't remember ever seeing one solitary gas station in her neighborhood.
For being mid-afternoon, the traffic on Michigan Avenue moved at a good clip. A gaggle of pedestrians packed the sidewalk with an occasional power walker pushing their way through the mass. Out of nowhere, a man catapulted from between cars parked at the curb. He grabbed over his shoulder for empty air, his legs stumbling over each other as he fell in front of her.
"Noooooooo!" She crushed the brake pedal to the floor bed. Her breath hitched inward with each jerky pump of the anti-lock brakes. Fingers vice-gripped the steering wheel as the screech of tires against pavement wrapped around her brain. She shut her eyes. Braced. Stopped. Exhaled.
Had she hit the man?
No thud. No scream. No dead body on top of her hood. Had to be a good sign. Right?
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #13
TITLE: GHOST RIVER
GENRE: Paranormal Mystery
When Veronica loses her boyfriend, career, and condo in one record-breaking bad month, she agrees to house-sit her uncle’s seemingly tranquil home on the water while she recuperates. But when ghosts appear in her bedroom, a body floats in with the tide and a friend is accused of murder, Veronica must use clues from the ghosts to track down the real killer, before the killer finds her first.
On the Suck-O-Meter Scale of Life, my month had been hovering around a 9.2, and I was about to score a perfect 10.
I was okay about losing my boyfriend, because let’s face it, as nice as he was, there was never any “zing” with Ben. Nice guy, no zing. It would have been better if he told me he wanted out instead of me walking in on him playing doctor with that slutty student nurse, but looking back, I think he did us both a favor. Now I kinda feel bad about stuffing mashed potatoes in the tailpipe of his expensive “I have a small p**** so I’m overcompensating” Beemer ragtop. Not bad enough to admit I did it, but wondering if he was worth wasting good mashed potatoes on.
Losing my job-- now that hurt. I loved my job, lived for my job, even moved for my job. And then I was dumped, like a CEO starter wife. With this economy there was no way I could find another job that good, or even a crappy one for that matter, and without a job, there was no way I could pay my rent. So it was no wonder when my Uncle Fred called to ask if I wanted to house-sit his weekend home rent-free, I jumped on it. Free, as they say, is a very good price. Looking back, I should have asked a few more questions, like where the house is and what it is.
GENRE: Paranormal Mystery
When Veronica loses her boyfriend, career, and condo in one record-breaking bad month, she agrees to house-sit her uncle’s seemingly tranquil home on the water while she recuperates. But when ghosts appear in her bedroom, a body floats in with the tide and a friend is accused of murder, Veronica must use clues from the ghosts to track down the real killer, before the killer finds her first.
On the Suck-O-Meter Scale of Life, my month had been hovering around a 9.2, and I was about to score a perfect 10.
I was okay about losing my boyfriend, because let’s face it, as nice as he was, there was never any “zing” with Ben. Nice guy, no zing. It would have been better if he told me he wanted out instead of me walking in on him playing doctor with that slutty student nurse, but looking back, I think he did us both a favor. Now I kinda feel bad about stuffing mashed potatoes in the tailpipe of his expensive “I have a small p**** so I’m overcompensating” Beemer ragtop. Not bad enough to admit I did it, but wondering if he was worth wasting good mashed potatoes on.
Losing my job-- now that hurt. I loved my job, lived for my job, even moved for my job. And then I was dumped, like a CEO starter wife. With this economy there was no way I could find another job that good, or even a crappy one for that matter, and without a job, there was no way I could pay my rent. So it was no wonder when my Uncle Fred called to ask if I wanted to house-sit his weekend home rent-free, I jumped on it. Free, as they say, is a very good price. Looking back, I should have asked a few more questions, like where the house is and what it is.
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #12
TITLE: The Interim Solution
GENRE: Mystery
The Interim Solution is about Tom Stinson’s plan to replace his depressed, troublesome wife with a more pleasant woman who is easier to manage. Tom is a member of a storefront cult and he relies on the technically savvy pastor to manage his wife’s removal and to provide a suitable replacement.
They parked around the corner on Kimbark Avenue. Nobody parked on 55th since the city put in the meters, except people too lazy to walk a few steps. Karen usually enjoyed this street. At least once a week, she walked to Ribs ‘n’ Bibs, lunched at the window counter, and then walked to the hardware store.
Karen spent time learning how to fix the fading elements of the house. They had enough tools for basic repairs, but Tom reacted when she suggested they buy more. “Repair isn’t ladylike. I’ve told you to take golf lessons. Why is it so hard for you to follow simple suggestions?” He didn’t know about her accomplishments. Ken from the store loaned her tools for big projects.
Karen wondered if she was starting to slip. That’s the thing about being crazy. You don’t know if you are sliding into the hell of another episode, or if you are just having a bad day. Which this was shaping up to be. She’d accepted Tom’s devotion to this church; it improved his behavior, but brought other challenges. Each day was becoming more difficult. Tom was not what he seemed, but few people saw through the flawless manners, the natty attire, and the sweet good looks that still thrilled. Occasionally.
Karen checked her reflection in a storefront. Her hair was a little wild, maybe a cut next week. Her slacks were too short, and the waist pinched. All from the recent forty pounds she’d gained. It just happened, sitting alone all day.
GENRE: Mystery
The Interim Solution is about Tom Stinson’s plan to replace his depressed, troublesome wife with a more pleasant woman who is easier to manage. Tom is a member of a storefront cult and he relies on the technically savvy pastor to manage his wife’s removal and to provide a suitable replacement.
They parked around the corner on Kimbark Avenue. Nobody parked on 55th since the city put in the meters, except people too lazy to walk a few steps. Karen usually enjoyed this street. At least once a week, she walked to Ribs ‘n’ Bibs, lunched at the window counter, and then walked to the hardware store.
Karen spent time learning how to fix the fading elements of the house. They had enough tools for basic repairs, but Tom reacted when she suggested they buy more. “Repair isn’t ladylike. I’ve told you to take golf lessons. Why is it so hard for you to follow simple suggestions?” He didn’t know about her accomplishments. Ken from the store loaned her tools for big projects.
Karen wondered if she was starting to slip. That’s the thing about being crazy. You don’t know if you are sliding into the hell of another episode, or if you are just having a bad day. Which this was shaping up to be. She’d accepted Tom’s devotion to this church; it improved his behavior, but brought other challenges. Each day was becoming more difficult. Tom was not what he seemed, but few people saw through the flawless manners, the natty attire, and the sweet good looks that still thrilled. Occasionally.
Karen checked her reflection in a storefront. Her hair was a little wild, maybe a cut next week. Her slacks were too short, and the waist pinched. All from the recent forty pounds she’d gained. It just happened, sitting alone all day.
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #11
TITLE: Dead Like Me
GENRE: Adult Mystery
Homicide Detective Kate Springer discovers she has something in common with the thirteen-year-old female victim in her latest case—the man the teenage girl cleaned house for is the same man who molested Detective Springer as a child.
Swiping a last tear from my cheek, I forced a smile which was becoming increasingly harder to fake. I nodded to the officer standing guard. Afraid to speak, my voice would hold too much emotion. I signed my name into his logbook.
“Two more miles to the north, and all of this would have been someone else’s problem,” he said, barely containing a yawn.
After a second nod, I ducked under the yellow crime scene tape strung between two ancient oaks, towering on either side of the driveway's entrance. Early this morning a call came in from Thonotosassa, a small city bordering Tampa on the northeast side. Just on the fringe of our jurisdiction. The body of a young Caucasian female had been discovered by a neighbor walking his dog.
Following the dirt driveway, I arrived at a vacant, single-story house. Scratch that. Make that a rotting, vacant house. The weather's so different in Florida compared to where I grew up in the burbs of Chicago. Up north the drastic temperature changes make paint peel away from the houses. Down here, the paint stays intact, but left unchecked a black mold can devour a home. Consequently, you got a place that looked like the one standing in front of me—as if some disease ate away at it from the inside out. I estimated the bungalow stood on three acres of land. Although there were neighbors on either side of the property, the trees surrounding it gave it a secluded feel.
GENRE: Adult Mystery
Homicide Detective Kate Springer discovers she has something in common with the thirteen-year-old female victim in her latest case—the man the teenage girl cleaned house for is the same man who molested Detective Springer as a child.
Swiping a last tear from my cheek, I forced a smile which was becoming increasingly harder to fake. I nodded to the officer standing guard. Afraid to speak, my voice would hold too much emotion. I signed my name into his logbook.
“Two more miles to the north, and all of this would have been someone else’s problem,” he said, barely containing a yawn.
After a second nod, I ducked under the yellow crime scene tape strung between two ancient oaks, towering on either side of the driveway's entrance. Early this morning a call came in from Thonotosassa, a small city bordering Tampa on the northeast side. Just on the fringe of our jurisdiction. The body of a young Caucasian female had been discovered by a neighbor walking his dog.
Following the dirt driveway, I arrived at a vacant, single-story house. Scratch that. Make that a rotting, vacant house. The weather's so different in Florida compared to where I grew up in the burbs of Chicago. Up north the drastic temperature changes make paint peel away from the houses. Down here, the paint stays intact, but left unchecked a black mold can devour a home. Consequently, you got a place that looked like the one standing in front of me—as if some disease ate away at it from the inside out. I estimated the bungalow stood on three acres of land. Although there were neighbors on either side of the property, the trees surrounding it gave it a secluded feel.
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #10
TITLE: The Tip of A Bone
GENRE: Mystery
In a small town on the Oregon coast, feisty waitress Maya Rivers tries to prove her brother innocent of arson—only to discover he may be responsible for a young woman vanishing from the woods.
She’d told no one where she was going tonight. Not one soul. So when the branches rustled in the woods behind her, Sara Alvarez flicked off her headlamp quickly. Darkness. Even the moon hid behind a gray shroud.
Another rustle.
Animal? Human? Sara’s heart hammered, pulse jumping, before her training kicked in. Stay calm. Identify the threat. She forced herself to breathe deeply, inhaling the forest’s cool, damp tang until her heartbeat slowed. Rain dripped onto mossy ground.
Rustle. Scrape.
Shivering, Sara slid a hand into her jeans pocket and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. She clenched it in her fist as she reached for her headlamp. Flick. The beam sliced through the shadowy spaces between trees. No birds. No scurrying animals.
Just a whisper of movement.
Her light dipped, washing across gnarled roots and low shrubs—sword ferns, evergreen huckleberry, salal. Nothing there. She tilted her head up, searching the canopy, but all she saw were towering spruce and hemlocks. Their branches swayed in the breeze. Rustle, rustle.
Oh.
“Nice going, nature girl,” Sara grumbled as she slipped the knife back into her jeans. She’d survived the group’s “wilderness immersion experience”—foraged for bugs and berries, dug latrines, scrounged up leaves for toilet paper. She’d gone face-to-face with cops in riot gear, dodged pepper spray, and resisted arrest with style. So why the hell was she so spooked tonight?
Because from the moment she’d found that bone here…
Get a grip. Sara tapped her GPS watch. Nobody’s coming before dawn.
GENRE: Mystery
In a small town on the Oregon coast, feisty waitress Maya Rivers tries to prove her brother innocent of arson—only to discover he may be responsible for a young woman vanishing from the woods.
She’d told no one where she was going tonight. Not one soul. So when the branches rustled in the woods behind her, Sara Alvarez flicked off her headlamp quickly. Darkness. Even the moon hid behind a gray shroud.
Another rustle.
Animal? Human? Sara’s heart hammered, pulse jumping, before her training kicked in. Stay calm. Identify the threat. She forced herself to breathe deeply, inhaling the forest’s cool, damp tang until her heartbeat slowed. Rain dripped onto mossy ground.
Rustle. Scrape.
Shivering, Sara slid a hand into her jeans pocket and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. She clenched it in her fist as she reached for her headlamp. Flick. The beam sliced through the shadowy spaces between trees. No birds. No scurrying animals.
Just a whisper of movement.
Her light dipped, washing across gnarled roots and low shrubs—sword ferns, evergreen huckleberry, salal. Nothing there. She tilted her head up, searching the canopy, but all she saw were towering spruce and hemlocks. Their branches swayed in the breeze. Rustle, rustle.
Oh.
“Nice going, nature girl,” Sara grumbled as she slipped the knife back into her jeans. She’d survived the group’s “wilderness immersion experience”—foraged for bugs and berries, dug latrines, scrounged up leaves for toilet paper. She’d gone face-to-face with cops in riot gear, dodged pepper spray, and resisted arrest with style. So why the hell was she so spooked tonight?
Because from the moment she’d found that bone here…
Get a grip. Sara tapped her GPS watch. Nobody’s coming before dawn.
Mysteries For Danielle Svetcov #9
TITLE: WHERE THERE'S SMOKE
GENRE: Mystery/Suspense
Fire-fighter Jo Woods’ life stopped the day her husband and daughter died. Discovering they were murdered just kick-started it again.
Death approached, not with a scream, but a whimper, as six-year-old Lucy Hamilton’s thumb slipped from her mouth. She sat up in bed and peered into the darkness, wondering what had awakened her.
Outside, the wind whistled and screamed, and she shivered as the branches of the old oak tree tapped against her window, like brittle knuckles rapping for entry. She reached for her Barbie, but found the bed empty.
Taking a deep breath, Lucy slipped out of bed, legs trembling beneath her bright pink nightdress. Determined not to cry, she held tight to the mattress with one hand while the other groped shadows until her fingers found the smooth curve of a plastic leg. With a relieved sigh, she clasped the doll to her chest and clambered back into bed.
A loud thump came from the direction of her parent’s room and Lucy froze. She heard a cry, quickly muffled, then a thud, as if something heavy had fallen. She waited, but the sound wasn’t repeated. ‘It’s okay, Barbie,’ she said, arm tightening around the doll, ‘there’s nothing to be afraid of.’ She dipped her head, nuzzling its fine blonde hair. The wind eased, silence descending once more over the house. Safe and warm in her bed, with Barbie to keep her company, Lucy was lulled by its gentle whisper. Her eyelids drooped.
‘Little bird?’
Lucy bolted upright. ‘Who’s there?’ she asked.
Her answer was a laugh. A laugh so cracked her skin shrank in protest, shrivelling until it felt much too tight for her bones.
GENRE: Mystery/Suspense
Fire-fighter Jo Woods’ life stopped the day her husband and daughter died. Discovering they were murdered just kick-started it again.
Death approached, not with a scream, but a whimper, as six-year-old Lucy Hamilton’s thumb slipped from her mouth. She sat up in bed and peered into the darkness, wondering what had awakened her.
Outside, the wind whistled and screamed, and she shivered as the branches of the old oak tree tapped against her window, like brittle knuckles rapping for entry. She reached for her Barbie, but found the bed empty.
Taking a deep breath, Lucy slipped out of bed, legs trembling beneath her bright pink nightdress. Determined not to cry, she held tight to the mattress with one hand while the other groped shadows until her fingers found the smooth curve of a plastic leg. With a relieved sigh, she clasped the doll to her chest and clambered back into bed.
A loud thump came from the direction of her parent’s room and Lucy froze. She heard a cry, quickly muffled, then a thud, as if something heavy had fallen. She waited, but the sound wasn’t repeated. ‘It’s okay, Barbie,’ she said, arm tightening around the doll, ‘there’s nothing to be afraid of.’ She dipped her head, nuzzling its fine blonde hair. The wind eased, silence descending once more over the house. Safe and warm in her bed, with Barbie to keep her company, Lucy was lulled by its gentle whisper. Her eyelids drooped.
‘Little bird?’
Lucy bolted upright. ‘Who’s there?’ she asked.
Her answer was a laugh. A laugh so cracked her skin shrank in protest, shrivelling until it felt much too tight for her bones.
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