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Book Tour Madness Blitz

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Mystery

To Be Published: 4/11/23

 

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A Widow Writer Mystery

 

Jaynie Floyd, a celebrated mystery writer, has a book on the New York Times
bestseller list. It’s wonderful news and her agent wants to send her
on a book tour to promote it. However, Jaynie is newly widowed and
doesn’t want to go. As she works through her grief, a myriad of
problems arise with family and life.

Once she finally decides to go on the book tour, partially to escape, all
hell breaks loose. One of the other authors on the tour is murdered and
Jaynie’s instincts as a mystery writer are called into action. Soon
she is chasing down leads and suspects, all the while avoiding requests from
police and family to keep out of it. Her skills and curiosity take Jaynie
into dangerous territory, from which she may not escape. Bodies pile up as
she gets closer to the truth. Truth that could make sure she bothers the
killer no more.

Book Tour Madness is a story of survival after the death of a spouse, mixed
with an old-fashioned murder mystery.

 

About the Author

SJ SLAGLE started her career as a language arts teacher. When she began
writing, her initial interest was children’s stories, but then she
moved on to western romance, mysteries and historical fiction. She has
published 30 novels. Her website is www.sjslagle.com. SJ has established
Twitter and Facebook fan bases, and a quarterly author newsletter.

SJ Slagle has written several western romance series including: THESE
NEVADA BOYS, RANCHER, and THE WESTERNERS, as well as mystery series: FLOYD
SISTERS MYSTERIES and SHERLOCK AND ME. All her books are distributed in
digital, paper and audiobook formats.

Her first historical fiction novel, LONDON SPIES, was awarded a B.R.A.G.
Medallion in 2018. She was given the Silver Award with the International
Independent Film Awards for her screenplay called REDEMPTION. She conducts
writing/publishing symposiums in her local area.

SJ Slagle lives and works in Reno, Nevada.

 

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Book Tour Madness Teaser

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Mystery

To Be Published: 4/11/23

 

photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

 

A Widow Writer Mystery

 

Jaynie Floyd, a celebrated mystery writer, has a book on the New York Times
bestseller list. It’s wonderful news and her agent wants to send her
on a book tour to promote it. However, Jaynie is newly widowed and
doesn’t want to go. As she works through her grief, a myriad of
problems arise with family and life.

Once she finally decides to go on the book tour, partially to escape, all
hell breaks loose. One of the other authors on the tour is murdered and
Jaynie’s instincts as a mystery writer are called into action. Soon
she is chasing down leads and suspects, all the while avoiding requests from
police and family to keep out of it. Her skills and curiosity take Jaynie
into dangerous territory, from which she may not escape. Bodies pile up as
she gets closer to the truth. Truth that could make sure she bothers the
killer no more.

Book Tour Madness is a story of survival after the death of a spouse, mixed
with an old-fashioned murder mystery.

 

Excerpt

 

          No one responded to my single knock on her door, so I pounded on the door.
Still no answer.

          My nose twitched. Her
overpowering perfume from the other night drifted my way. There was no
mistaking that pungent aroma. She had to be close by. Without thinking
twice, I headed downstairs to find the hotel manager.

          Even before the short,
balding man put a magnetic card into the door lock, I had a sinking feeling
that we weren’t going to like what we found. Chalk it up to writing
murder mysteries for the past ten years, but I didn’t dismiss
feelings. They were a natural part of the selection process and a dogged
reminder of human frailty.

          He opened the door
wide.

          At first, there was
nothing to see, save an unmade bed, clothing and cosmetics scattered around
and a standing ice bucket with a bottle of champagne.

          Champagne?

          We’d checked into
the hotel at 11:30, Hilda and I had gone to lunch with Marliss begging off.
She was entertaining at noon when we had the signing event at two?
Curious.

          The hotel manager stepped
aside and I walked over by the ice bucket. I was about to pull out my cell
phone to take pictures when a furry pink shoe on the floor by the massive
bed caught my eye. We had been booked into suites with four-poster beds that
occupied seemingly half of our bedrooms. Marliss’ room looked just
like mine.

          I walked two steps toward
the furry shoe with heels too high for me when a leg suddenly stretched out
not far from it. I froze in my tracks when the rest of the body came into
view. Crystal clear.

          Marliss!

          My stomach pitched with
the mixed aromas of perfume and body fluids. She lay crumpled on the floor
with a small amount of blood oozing from the side of her head. Her eyes were
open, yet unseeing. I didn’t expect to find a pulse.

          I turned to the short man
immediately behind me. He rubbed his eyes as if they were deceiving him and
took a step back.

          “Call
9-1-1.”

          He looked from Marliss to
me and back.

          “Now!”

          With a shaky breath, he
nodded and backed all the way out of the room, shutting the door quietly
behind him. The idiot.

          I snapped to and
remembered I had my phone on me. As I made the call, I was careful not to
touch anything in the room, especially by the body. I had written scenes
like this too many times to be unaware of the liability I had put myself
into just by being here.

          Marliss was dead. I knew
that for sure, but my troubles were just beginning. 

          While waiting for the police to arrive, I stayed away from the body, but my
eyes searched the room. Marliss’ suite, like mine, had a bedroom
separated from a nice sitting area with a table and chairs situated by a
large window overlooking the city. The sleek paneled doors were wide open to
the sitting area. An ice bucket sat by the table, but a chair had tipped
over. It lay on its side pointing the way to Marliss’ body in the next
room. The champagne in the ice bucket hadn’t been opened and had to be
plenty cold by now. Two champagne glasses sitting on the table indicated she
had been expecting company.

          The rest of the sitting
room held little interest for me, so my eyes strayed back to the body.
Marliss was wearing lingerie. Sexy lingerie. A frilly lavender number,
I’m sure by a famous designer, with a barely-there bra, thong and tiny
lace skirt. I couldn’t be sure from this distance, but the skirt
appeared to be torn. The whole outfit didn’t cover much and I was
tempted to reach for a blanket. Tempted, but I didn’t. The crime scene
needed to be kept as it was.

          Her face was turned to me
and I was sad to see her blank eyes. The Marliss I’d known and, okay,
disliked, had eyes that could look right through you or knock you down with
her deadly glare. Hilda had been the recipient of that look more than
once.

          The blood splatter
pattern indicated she’d been killed where she had fallen—yes, I
knew about patterns from years of research—and the red mark on her
face indicated a hard slap. Maybe the slap had caused her fall and she hit
her head on the corner of the bed when she fell.

          Maybe her death was an
accident.

          Maybe. Oh, no. My eyes
saw more than I wanted. A small shaft of sunlight flashed on something shiny
by the bedpost. My feet itched to move closer to see what it could be when
my brain came back online.

          Hilda’s emerald
ring.

          No, it couldn’t
be.

          I remembered my
conversation with Hilda. She’d remarked that she had left it back in
her room. But her body language belied her words. Her chin dipped to her
chest as she spoke and she’d averted her eyes from mine. I could swear
she was lying, and her comment hadn’t made sense. I knew how much she
loved that ring because Antoine gave it to her.

          Maybe Antoine had
returned to the scene and asked for it back. Had he then gone to see
Marliss, killed her and dropped the ring to implicate Hilda?

          Food for thought.

          Where could I find
Antoine?

          I checked back through my
texts from Marliss. She’d mentioned something I was trying to
remember. Ah, here it was. She had to miss lunch because she had a quick
meeting with a secret admirer. Apparently, the “meeting” was
code for a nooner and needed to be quick because the signing event would be
starting at two.

          So whatever happened to
her, happened between noon and two o’clock. I glanced at the
door’s heavy security locks. She must have let him in, another
indication she knew the killer. It would have been nice if she’d let
me inn 
on her little secret, but that was the way Marliss worked. She was always
cloaked in secrecy, which didn’t save her.

          The man opening the door
wasted no time.

          “I’m
Detective Sloan from LAPD.  You the one who found the
body?”

          “Yes,
sir.”

          “Your
name?”

          “Jaynie
Floyd.”

          “What’s your
connection to the deceased?”

          “I was on a book
tour with her.”

          Although the man wore
wire-framed glasses, I could see the squint aimed my way. His fake smile
wasn’t filling me with confidence.

          “A book
tour?”

          “Yes, sir.
We’re fellow authors at a book signing event.”

          I could tell he
didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, so I babbled some
more.

          “It’s when
authors go to bookstores to sign books purchased by readers.”

          While he stood still
sizing me up, I suppose, I had a good look at him too. A wrinkled jacket
over jeans with a crooked tie. All that was missing from his costume was the
felt hat and he could have been straight out of a Mickey Spillane novel. He
looked more like Spillane’s detective, Mike Hammer, from what I read,
than Stacy Keach from the old television show. A hard-boiled detective faced
me as the color bleached from the hotel room placing me in the middle of a
classic film noir.

          I knew there’d be a
holstered gun under the jacket, and a badge peeked out from his belt. He
wasn’t any happier to see me than I was to see him. If more minutes
ticked by, I would be breaking into a cold sweat.

          His gaze dropped to the
body and he moved toward it. A uniformed officer stood by the door keeping
me in his sight at all times. What did he think I was going to do? Make a
run for it? I sure did think about doing exactly that, but I was pinned in
place by his steely look. My knees had locked up and I seriously hoped I
wouldn’t tip over. I’d be lying next to poor Marliss.

          The detective’s
gaze flicked over Marliss, taking her in. I bet he had a snapshot of her in
his head and details would come back to him as he thought over the scene.
I’d written about detectives like Sloan, so I wasn’t
uncomfortable being around him. I just didn’t appreciate being
considered a suspect because I happened to be in the wrong place at the
wrong time.

          When a police
photographer entered the room, Detective Sloan moved me into the sitting
area. His questioning look returned to an otherwise neutral face.

          “How did you happen
to find the body?”

          “She missed the
signing event today at Book Soup and I came to look for her.”

          “She hadn’t
said anything to you about possibly being detained?”

          “Actually, she
did.” When I reached for my cell phone in my pocket, the detective
took a step back as the uniformed officer at the door took a step
forward.

          “Easy, guys,”
I said. “I’m getting my phone out.”

          Sloan didn’t
exactly relax, but his shoulders weren’t hunched around his ears
anymore.

          I scrolled through my
text messages until I found what I was looking for.

          “Here.
See?”

          He took my phone and read
the message. His face remained as vacant as a blank chalkboard.  I bet
he was a good poker player. He handed the phone back.

          “We’ll need
to copy all your messages from Marliss Kendall. Could you come down to the
station today?”


“Certainly.”

          He jerked his head toward
the officer at the door. “Officer Petrie will give you the information
you need.”

          I glanced at Petrie who
embodied those uniformed guards at Buckingham Palace. An expression on his
face was as useless as my presence in a hotel room with a dead body.

          “Can you add
anything else to what you’ve told me?” asked Sloan.

          “No,
sir.”

          “You
sure?”

          I could tell he thought I
knew more than I was saying and maybe he was right. I didn’t mention
the ring because I wasn’t supposed to have seen it. I had been closer
to the body than I should have been and I wasn’t going to tattle on
myself. Besides, Sloan didn’t appear to be a dummy. He’d learn
whose ring it was in due course.

          “Yes, sir. May I
go?”

          He nodded curtly.
“Give your contact information to Officer Petrie and go down to the
central station to make your deposition. I’ll need it as soon as
possible.”

          “I can do
that.”

          I left as quickly as
possible. Being close to poor Marliss for so long had me rushing back to my
room for a long, hot shower. With soapsuds rinsing off, several things
occurred to me:

1.    What was the Detroit connection?

2.    Was she being blackmailed? The scene in the alley back
in San Francisco could have been about blackmail. Maybe a rabid fan?

 

 

About the Author

SJ SLAGLE started her career as a language arts teacher. When she began
writing, her initial interest was children’s stories, but then she
moved on to western romance, mysteries and historical fiction. She has
published 30 novels. Her website is www.sjslagle.com. SJ has established
Twitter and Facebook fan bases, and a quarterly author newsletter.

 

SJ Slagle has written several western romance series including: THESE
NEVADA BOYS, RANCHER, and THE WESTERNERS, as well as mystery series: FLOYD
SISTERS MYSTERIES and SHERLOCK AND ME. All her books are distributed in
digital, paper and audiobook formats.

 

Her first historical fiction novel, LONDON SPIES, was awarded a B.R.A.G.
Medallion in 2018. She was given the Silver Award with the International
Independent Film Awards for her screenplay called REDEMPTION. She conducts
writing/publishing symposiums in her local area.

 

SJ Slagle lives and works in Reno, Nevada.

 

Contact Links

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Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

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The Reunion Tour

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Murder Mystery

 

Date Published: 2017

Chris Singer, former homecoming queen, stumbles in the dark in front of the high school where her reunion is taking place. She is brutally murdered. A fire breaks out in the gym and the ensuing chaos leads to the discovery of Chris’ bloodied body. Since David Wilson, her boyfriend from high school, is one of the last people to be seen with Chris, he is arrested for the crime. Detectives are sure they have their man, but his wife isn’t so sure. Her questioning leads her into secrets and lies from long ago. The danger she meets is real and deadly.

 

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EXCERPT

The Reunion

Prologue

 

The first time she fell, thick branches caught her fall. Her silky dress, ripped above her knee and waist left bits of fabric clinging to the bushes. Some dropped on the ground. 

A final push did the trick. With blurred vision and leaves in her mouth, it was hard to yell out although she tried.

“Get away from me! I never liked you!”

The words were muted like an echo in the desert swallowed by emptiness.

Down

Down

Her head exploded with pain when it hit something hard. Earthy smells filled her nostrils.

Pain was a carpeted path to nowhere.  Darkness circled the periphery of her vision. She longed for sleep and when it came at last, she stopped worrying about the blood.

So much blood.

So much… 

 

LISA

 

I didn’t want to go to that stinking reunion in the first place. What are they really for anyway? A place where the former homecoming queen gets to shine for a night again, the cheerleaders can snub their peers and the band guys can brag about sneaking cigarettes behind the bandleader’s back?

What was I in high school?

It’s no secret I was one of those snobby cheerleaders who wouldn’t give the math geeks the time of day. They sure got their revenge. The head of my high school’s math club started his own dotcom, sold it for a zillion dollars and, last I heard, was living in Paris. Marvin Ziegler had had a major crush on me, which he couldn’t hide, but I never took him seriously. I was too caught up in being part of the popular crowd…too caught up in myself.

High school social dynamics can be like that. Can be full of regret.

But the only regret I have right now is going to David’s fifteen-year class reunion.

This office reeks of furniture varnish. The interior designer obviously likes dark wood since every wall is covered with it except one wall of windows. His massive desk has drawers on all sides. It looks French provincial but who really knows besides the decorator. A thickly cushioned chair seems a match for the room’s tone: rich and distinguished. Degrees and photos with important people line the wall like sentries. Carpet colors are muted probably to keep his clients calm. But calm is not how I’m feeling. The receptionist asked me to wait for the man himself to appear like he was God incarnate or at least one of the disciples. He was running late from a previous appointment but would he be as understanding if I were running late? Doubtful.

Where do these guys get their sense of entitlement? But I elect to sit on a couch by the window wall so I could at least amuse myself as I wait.  

David’s late too. I check my phone for the time. Five minutes past our scheduled appointment. Glancing out the window to the street below, I watch a family try to pile into a minivan. The dad yells at the mother across the top of the car probably something like, “Get in! We’re late for T-ball.” She hurriedly gets in, as does the young son in the back seat. The teenaged daughter, however, stands her ground. Not surprising. She stands forlornly on the curb looking anywhere but at the minivan. She checks her nails as the car speeds off, screeches to a halt and then backs up just as fast. The mother and father both yell out the window at her, wave her towards them. She doesn’t move no matter what incentive or threats they throw at her. A scene I’ve seen us perform over and over ad nauseam.

Ten minutes. I wonder how much this guy charges per hour. At this rate, it’s going to cost us a fortune.

 

DAVID

One week earlier

 

I seem to live my life stuck in traffic. This freeway gets worse every day but I think there’s an accident up ahead. We’re moving less than usual this morning.

I sip my coffee and my gaze falls to the gas gauge. I thought Lisa said she would fill up the tank yesterday. She borrowed my car for her latest commercial shoot downtown. I shake my head and frown as the arrow on the gauge is tilting alarmingly towards empty. That woman doesn’t seem to know what planet she’s on half the time. 

To amuse myself, I stare out the grimy windshield at other weary travelers. We all have somewhere to go but we’re not going to get there anytime soon. The dashboard clock reads seven-ten meaning I’m already late for the early morning meeting. Principal Morse will duly note my tardiness and there will be a stern note in my mailbox. Sometimes it seems he disciplines me like I discipline my ten-year old son. Now I know how Ben feels.

We sluggishly begin to move, haltingly, an inch or two at a time. As I connect to Bluetooth to call in, I catch the woman in the next car over waving at me. Great. My tire must be flat or something. I roll down the window.

“What?” I yell over at her. “Is something wrong?”

“David? Is that you?”

And then I recognize her: it’s Chris Singer or whatever her name is now. She was homecoming queen in high school and I haven’t seen her in years. My eyes dart between her and the road. I don’t want to plough into the car in front of me but a siren is calling. Long blonde hair, dark glasses dipped on her upturned nose. A frilly blouse showing deep cleavage. She still looks amazing.

“Chris? Yeah,” I laugh. “It’s me. Nice to see you.”

Her gaze roams my face. I hope that piece of tissue isn’t still stuck on my chin where I cut myself shaving this morning. 

“Hey! You’re looking good. Are you going to the reunion?” Strands of hair sprinkle on her face like glitter.

I slam on the brakes just before hitting the car I’m trying to avoid. Perspiring, I turn back to the gorgeous woman still watching me.

“Haven’t given it much thought. Why?”

“It’s our fifteenth. You’ve got to show. I’m helping plan it and it’s going to be fun. Please come!” She smiles with a pouty redlined mouth that flings me back to some sweaty back seat action in my dad’s cool Camaro many moons ago. The smile turns seductive and she knows what’s going through my mind at warp speed. I was always putty around her and she knew it. “I promise I’ll behave.” It sounds like she doesn’t want to.

“Maybe. I’ll see what’s happening that weekend.”

“Good. It’s coming up fast.” That beautiful face turns up the wattage. She wiggles red-tipped fingers at me. “Can’t wait to catch up. See you there.” Her row of cars is moving at last and she’s gone before I can wave goodbye. I blink wondering if she was actually there at all.

My day moves at a glacial pace through class after class with students who don’t have their homework, the dog ate their homework or they weren’t aware they even had homework. I’ve been teaching long enough that I wouldn’t even bother with homework anymore but it’s mandated by school policy. So I continue to nag kids with ineffective words I’ve said a million times.

Meeting Chris Singer accidentally in traffic this morning remains the highlight of my day. Home is normally a safe harbor. 

“Megan, put that phone away. We’re having dinner.”

She slams it on the table. “I’m expecting an important call, Dad.”

“From the president of Harvard or Stanford?”

“Funny. You know I’m not going to either of those places.”

“Not with your grades.”

Lisa intervenes by picking up the platter of food and handing it to me. “More meatloaf?”

I shake my head.

“Don’t you like it?” Her smile fades and her pout reminds me of Chris’ this morning. I catch myself before my lips curve up. Or think I do.

“What’s that smirk about?” She drops the platter back on the table with a thud. Juice from the meat slops on her hand. Before she realizes it, Lisa pushes her hair back with the meat-stained hand. My curved mouth has a field day.

“What?” she demands.

It’s times like these when I remember what I always liked about her. She can be a dork, a sweet dork but a dork all the same. It’s an appealing quality.

“You’ve got meat loaf in your hair, sweetie.”

Her eyes open widen comically until she realizes what I’ve said. The kids begin to laugh and she has the good grace to laugh too. Endearing little lines crinkle around smiling eyes. The stained hand strays to her pretty chestnut hair on reflex and I reach over to stop her.

“Your hair is already a nice color of brown, honey. Sauce doesn’t really match.”

Ben laughs so hard that the bite of meat loaf in his mouth drops back on his plate. Megan scrunches her nose at him wrinkling the freckles she hates and flicks her napkin at him. Before a food fight starts, I throw up my hands.

“Who’s loading the dishwasher tonight, since dinner is apparently over?”

Megan pokes Ben in the arm. “It’s Pudgy’s turn.”

“Don’t call your brother that, Megan. It’s not nice.” Lisa gets up to stack plates by the sink.

“Well, he calls me stuck-up.”

“And are you?” I ask.

“No,” she says shrugging a shoulder. “I’m just choosy who I hang out with.”

“Nevertheless,” continues Lisa, “don’t make fun of Ben.”

“Yeah,” Ben sneers, “I’m sensitive.”

Megan stalks off to her room, phone pressed to her ear. Lisa wanders towards the den mumbling about preparing for the next day’s shoot. I want to talk to her about something when Ben comes up behind me.

“Dad?”

I turn to face him. “Yes, son?”

“I, ah.” He coughs, clears his throat. “I need to talk to you.”

Stupidly, I glance at my watch. He catches it.

“Unless you don’t have time.”

I shake my head. “No, no. Of course, I have time. Let me help you with the dishes. Talk to me.”

We’re rinsing dirty plates and glasses before stacking them in the dishwasher. My heart stops when he finally blurts out he’s being bullied at school. I lay a hand on his shoulder. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since school started.”

“That long?” My mouth drops open. “Why haven’t you said anything before now?”

He blushes, my smart, wonderful son actually blushes. “I wanted to take care of it myself.”

“And have you?”

“Not quite.”

I turn on the dishwasher and go back to the dinner table. I pull out a chair for him and motion for him to sit. “Tell me what you need.”

For the next half hour or so, Ben tells me what has been going on and what he needs from me. What he plans to do. I nod my head in wonder that I helped create such a brave boy. I agree to do as he asks and we decide to talk more this weekend. In a fog, I go into the office to talk to Lisa about it but she’s on the phone neck deep in conversation with the other photographer for tomorrow’s shoot. She’s stressed to the max as usual and now is not the right time to tell her about Ben. Or maybe she already knows. We haven’t been able to connect much these past weeks. I also want to mention the reunion coming up. She didn’t have much fun at the ten-year one, so that’s another subject that sticks in my mouth. 

With Lisa in the office working, Megan in her bedroom talking on her phone, Ben on his computer playing a video game, I realize no one will notice that I’m not there. I write a note anyway and leave it on the kitchen table. I have to go back to school to set up tomorrow’s lab. Once I do that, I think I’m heading for the nearest pub. I need a beer.

 

LISA

The next day

 

Hair and makeup are taking their sweet time but I guess that’s all right. The freaking director hasn’t even shown up yet. One of the crew said they’d had a late one last night, so I assume that means we’ll all sit on our collective asses while we wait for the prince to make an appearance. The air conditioner doesn’t seem to be working right and it’s got to be one hundred degrees in the shade outside. Phoenix in the summer isn’t for the faint of heart.

Everyone’s listlessly milling around. Everything is set up. The latest model is sitting on a chair in the center of the all-white background we’ve arranged for this commercial. While her makeup is being retouched, the guys are checking their equipment, rechecking the lighting. Several bottles of shampoo sit on a table off to one side, basking in their colorful glory. Buy me, they seem to say, and your shiny hair will get you noticed. I shake my head. Shampoo won’t make you as pretty as this model, but that’s the story we’re trying to sell. I walk out of the busy area to clean my camera lens. Glancing back, I wonder for the millionth time what I’m doing shooting commercials. One of the tech guys kisses the model’s graceful hand and everyone laughs. That small action clicks memories of last night in my mind like a series of frames on film.

David snuggled into my side and woke me with his cold feet.

“Hey! Get some socks on.” I tried to turn away from him but he threw an equally cold arm around me. “Where have you been? Sitting in the refrigerator?”

“No,” he chuckled, softly blowing tiny puffs of air in my ear. “But as long as you’re awake…” He traced my profile with kisses and turned my face to his. As soon as he pressed his lips to mine, tenderness switched to passion from the word go. I marveled at the instant connection that had always been there between us and melted into him without thinking. He smoothly turned up the heat until we were writhing, sweaty and desperate for release. 

His fingertips pressed into my shoulders.

His mouth smashed into my mine over and over. 

His long body weighed heavily as he took what he needed, allowed me some as well. David always had that magnetism, the ability to make me feel like…that’s it. Just making me feel. 

Breathing subdued, I could hear the faucet dripping in the bathroom and the red roar that had ripped through me quieted to a tipsy tiptoe. Lying there, I felt drunk from the taste of him, wondered why the bed was swaying. He didn’t spring up as usual, dash into the bathroom to do his man business and stagger back to fall instantly asleep. 

He stayed put. With his sticky body pressed to mine, I needed to move.

“David?”

My hands tried to push him back. He responded by grabbing my face and planting kisses everywhere he could reach. I could feel him hardening against my thigh.

“Again,” he whispered in my mouth.

“David.” I pushed again. “We both have to get up early. Get some sleep.”

“No.” He rose up on his hands to look me directly. “I feel like I’m losing you.”

I blinked. Where in the world had that come from?

“Honey, I—”

“No. Show me how you feel, don’t tell me.” He sounded mildly anxious, his eyes wide and wary.

“You have an early meeting tomorrow. I have to drop the kids off at school before the shoot. We need to—”

He quickly moved away, swung his legs off the bed. “We need to connect once in a while, damn it, Lisa. When was the last time we made love?”

My mind blanked. “It was, um, probably…” The words trailed off and died as I tried to remember.

He jerked upright, grabbed a bottle of water from the nightstand and chugged it down. I watched the muscles contract in his throat as he swallowed. His anger was palpable and inevitable as he leveled his stormy gaze on me.

“It’s been five months. Five damn months.” A bushy brow arched. “Did you know that? Do you care?”

I pushed up to a sitting position, wringing hands that suddenly had nothing to do. “Of course, I care, David, it’s just that—”

“Do not give me any lame excuses about our fast-paced lives, careers, kids, whatever.” He sat down on the bed and reached out to place his hand on mine. The air in the room stilled.

“Tell me straight: are you having an affair?” His voice was so low that I had to lean toward him to hear.

“An affair? Why would you think that?” I pulled my hand out from his. “How dare you!” I shivered uncontrollably, got out of bed and stormed into the bathroom. I flicked on the light and turned. “I can account for every nanosecond of my day, you bastard, and,” I crossed my arms, stared at him, “how convenient for you to turn this on me. You’re the one who’s always going back to the school at night supposedly to set up labs and then you come home horny and smelling like beer! What am I supposed to think?”

During my tirade, he’d sauntered closer until we were nearly chest to chest, both breathing hard. Keeping our eyes locked, he palmed my breasts, ran his hands slowly over my quivering body. A traitorous finger outlined the lips I knew so well before my hand curled around the nape of his neck to draw his face closer to mine. It wasn’t common sense; it was chemistry. 

“Lisa! You with us?” The director prince snaps his fingers before my face.

“Yeah. Yes, I’m here.”

“Well, you sure looked nine million miles away and we need to get busy here.”

I don’t bother to mention that we had been waiting an hour for his grand entrance because I want to keep this job. Or do I? As I click away trying to show the plastic bottle with the golden liquid in its best light, I decide I have to. On the plus side, I’m my own boss—when I have a gig—and we need the money. Megan will be going to college in four years and her college fund is seriously lacking. Ben’s braces cost a bundle and David’s teaching salary won’t pay for everything we need. Right. It’s so wonderful being a two-salary couple.

I move to shoot different angles. So what if my professional dream has always been to see my work hanging in a gallery somewhere. If I’d learned anything from having to work since the age of fourteen, I learned that you can’t always get what you want. I think the Rolling Stones said it first. 

The model shifts prompting hair and makeup to rush back in. I stop to reload my camera. 

 

MEGAN

 

“No, I don’t want any. Get away from me.”

“What the fuck, Megan. I thought you were cool. Guess not.”

“I may not be cool but I’m not stupid either. Go away, you freak.”

The skinny boy throws up hands with rings on nearly every finger. “No need for name-calling. I thought I was helping out. My mistake.” He steps away tripping over the long laces of his untied combat boots. A teacher standing in the open doorway glances from him to me with disinterest and goes back inside. I take a few calming breaths before opening my locker. Baby fine hair falls in my eyes and my shaky hand pushes it back before reaching in for my social studies book. Two girls with matching white polo shirts with Greenbrae Jr. High written above a front pocket suddenly flank me.

“What did Tyler want?” asks the girl on my right.

“Whaddya think?”

“Come on, Megan. You’ve got to loosen up,” says the other girl.

I turn to stare at her. “What are you talking about, Allison?”

“Don’t give us that crap. You’re wound up tight and need to chill.”

I swing my head the other way. “I need to… chill? Really, Brooke?”

Slamming my locker, I turn completely around and lean against it. The metal feels cool through my thin shirt. My feet shift sluggishly as if I were up to my ankles in mud.

“Yes, really. All you do is bitch about your parents…”

“…Or brother,” adds Allison. “So we thought—”

“You needed a mood enhancer.”

I stare at them both. “You guys sent Tyler over to me?” And I thought they were my friends.

Allison shrugs. “Just a pick-me-up. We all do it. Thought you wanted to hang with us…”

Weighing my options makes my head spin. Eighth is so much harder than seventh. One minute I’m a kid and the next—I’m not sure what category I belong in anymore. And with high school breathing down my neck next year, I’m sure to be in for a rocky ride. A quick decision is called for.

I smile. “Maybe you’re right. It’s been awful at home lately and—”

“Parents still fighting?” asks Brooke. I fall in step with them as we’re heading for class.

I heard angry voices late last night. My parents create a happy front but both Ben and I are beginning to worry about them. All is not as happy as it seems. 

And Ben… 

Brooke and Allison babble on about their terrible lives while my mind drifts. Although we’re at the same school, Ben is in sixth grade and in a different wing. I rarely see him but I did catch a glimpse in the cafeteria last week. Some big boys were crowding him, messing with his glasses. It had bothered me at the time but I forgot about it soon enough. 

Allison gets on her phone and in a flash, Tyler swings around the next corner heading right for us, sneaky look on his scruffy face. I swallow hard enough to know something is choking me but the four of us duck into an alcove, a small storage area where the janitors keep mops and pails. A few minutes later, we emerge with big smiles heading towards the exit.

 

DAVID

 

The gym smells like old sweat socks stuck in an abandoned locker for five years. Bright yellow signs advertise the success of past basketball teams and a red scoreboard flashes numbers off and on. An electrician perches on a tall ladder attempting to figure out the problem. Daren goes in for a layup just as I charge him. The basketball hits the backboard but refuses to go in the net.

“Foul, Mr. Wilson!”

“Come on, Dylan,” I wipe the sweat off my face with the bottom of my shirt. “We’re just playing a friendly pick-up game here.”

“There’s still rules and you fouled him.”

Daren flashes gleaming white teeth at us both. “I like your style, Dylan, my man. How’d ya like to get in my homeroom instead of Mr. Wilson’s?” He grabs the ball out of Dylan’s hands and moves in for the shot. Once in the net, the basketball drops onto the polished floor but no one makes a move for it. The three of us just stand looking at the ball with perspiration dripping off our faces. Damp shirts become damper. The electrician snips a wire and steps down the ladder. We watch him fold it up, swing it under his arm and walk out of the gym. The huge wall clock reads five o’clock.

Dylan runs over to the sidelines, retrieves the basketball and starts walking towards the boys’ locker room.

“Hey! Where you goin’?” I yell after him.

“I’m goin’ home. You two try to figure out how to play basketball.”

Daren and I exchange ill-concealed smirks. “What’s the fun in that?” Daren calls out to an empty gym. Dylan’s gone, along with the ball and our game. 

I pick up a towel from a side bench. “That’s what we get for trying to be nice guys, playing a little one-on-one with the kids after school.”

“Yeah,” Daren chuckles. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

“Who said that? Hemingway?”

“No, I did.” He angles his head at me. “Didn’t you just hear me?”

I plop down on the bench, reach over to retie my sneakers. They’re torn and ugly but are still the best shoes I’ve got for basketball. Does that mean I’m stuck in a rut, superstitious or just cheap?

Daren folds his long body on the bench near me. He stretches arms out that must have a wingspan of five feet. If he were a bird…

“Okay. So it was a piss poor joke.” He cracks every knuckle on both hands while I watch mesmerized. “How’s Lisa?”

And I’m back in the bedroom alternately having fabulous sex with my wife or trying to get answers from her. I suspect I got more sex than usual to quiet my questions. Or were they accusations?

“Yep. She’s a stone fox.”

Not what I want to hear right now.

“Dave? What’s cookin’?”

“Nothing.” I look over into an earnest face. “She’s fine. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just a question, not an inquisition.” He stares at me hard. “I ask about your wife and you ask about my dog. It’s our standard icebreaker into conversation.”

“Sorry.” I shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs away to make a clear picture. “I’m just preoccupied, I guess.”

“With what?”

A shoulder moves up and down. “If it’s not the job, it’s the kids. If it’s not the kids, it’s the wife or the relatives or emptying the rain gutters or fixing that loose front step before the mailman blows the whistle on me. A big one is how I’m going to find the money to send Megan to college, much less Ben.”

“Whoa. Calm down, boy. I didn’t want a dissertation.”

“And you’ll never get one from me because Lisa got pregnant and I had to drop out of grad school before I could finish my PhD.”

He reaches out a hand, pats my arm. “You’re worked up about something and it has nothing to do with all that family stuff. Out with it.”

I stand, start to walk away. 

Daren won’t have it. “Talk to me, man.” 

Turning back, I exhale a long breath. My arms hang limply at my sides and my feet shift from one stance to another. All the air in the gym seems to have been sucked out. The air in my lungs went right with it. The scoreboard begins to sway and Daren pulls me back down on the bench before I keel over. He pushes my head between my knees.

“Breathe, buddy. You’re hyperventilating. What the hell?”

The little white dots flickering before my eyes slowly begin to fade but the acidic taste in my mouth doesn’t go away. The fear I feel is as real as Daren’s concerned gaze looking right through me.

“This is serious. Tell me something, anything or I’m going to see if the nurse is still here. You havin’ another panic attack?”

I don’t want his anxiety kicking mine up any higher so I shrug. I feel the words forming in my mind, slipping into my throat and attempting to spill out my parched lips with no success. Licking with no saliva doesn’t help.

“I, ah…”

He grabs a bottle of water from his backpack by the bench and hands it to me. “Here. Drink this.”

The water splashes in and I swirl some before swallowing. I’m hoping the words are swallowed too but Daren won’t let up. It’s not like I want to admit this.

“I think… Lisa’s… fooling around.”

His jaw drops to the gym floor as he’s caught unaware. For the first time, I notice the glistening sweat on his dark skin. It’s like my senses are on full alert and I see, no, I observe for maybe the first time in months. The minute hand of the clock staggers noisily forward. One tube of the overhead fluorescent lighting isn’t working way over in the far corner of the gym. It will take me twenty-eight steps to walk to the exit and the trees beyond the high windows are swaying to a light breeze. Phoenix could use a breeze or two. It’s been hotter than the hubs of hell lately.

He’s still staring at me.

“No kiddin’?”

“Don’t think so.”

“How do you know?”

“Her work schedule is crazy and she talks about her boss all the time. Every conversation I’ve heard her have with the other photographer on this shoot is about how cute the guy is, how talented, they make these chick jokes.”

“Chick jokes?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what?”

“I walked into the office last night and heard her say she’d like to get her ‘some of that’.”

“Women say that shit all the time to each other and it doesn’t mean anything. You’re taking what she said out of context.”

I think about that for a minute. “Maybe.”

“Maybe, nothing. You guys are the happiest couple I know. You’re my standard for how a marriage should be.”

I cocked my head. “I fear for you, Daren. We’re a long way from ideal.” Yeah, if marriage means having sex once every five months, then sure. Put us on that pedestal.

“You look like you just swallowed a bug.”

“I’m having trouble swallowing anything these days.”

I collect myself, stand and begin walking across the gym. Daren falls in step with me.

“Let’s go have us a beer.”

“Lisa doesn’t like me smelling of beer when I kiss her.”

He drapes a long arm around my shoulders. “Trust me, buddy. You can use a beer and a big step back.”

My face pinches as I try to understand. “A big step back into what?”

“Out of yourself. That big old spotlight of life is shining the bejesus out of you and you need to take five. Come have a beer.”

“Maybe just one.”

I think I hear him mutter you could use five but I don’t respond. He’s right. I need to step out of myself for an hour and learn how to breathe normally. These short, anxious puffs aren’t filling my lungs and they’re making me light-headed. I could use a trip to Tahiti. 

Halfway into my first beer, I get a call from the school. Ben’s been hurt in a fight and they’ve called an ambulance. That last gulp threatens to come up as I ask what hospital they’re taking him to and then rush out of the pub without informing Daren. He follows me and jerks the keys out of my shaking hand.

“You’re in no condition to drive, man.”

“I haven’t even had one whole beer.”

“That’s not what makes you unable to drive. You’ve lost all face color and for a white man, that’s saying something!” He points to the passenger seat. “Get in. I’m driving.”

Mumbling about being bossy, I climb into the car still shaking. “Hurry up before I pass out.”

He starts the engine, backs out of the parking lot. “Not gonna happen as long as that adrenaline is coursing through your veins. Sit tight. I’ll get ya there…in one piece,” he adds for good measure.

I close my eyes but all I can see is a selfish guy complaining about his sweet wife while his son gets beaten up by bullies. Where was I? Why wasn’t I helping Ben? Because he asked me not to, that’s why.

It’s not good but it’s a reason.

Daren drives too fast and we’re there.

Later that evening

 

I get Ben home from Emergency with a black eye, cut lip and taped ribs. The guys he told me about jumped him after math club. When I asked him why, he said because he wears glasses. That made no kind of sense whatsoever and I try to get Lisa on the phone. Again. She doesn’t pick up and it’s like the tenth time I’ve tried to call her. Her shoot must be running over and I have no idea what the location is this time. I realize I forgot to ask her. But I make a mental note to tell her she needs to check her phone frequently just in case. 

In case of what? In case I’m freaking out about not being able to find her? Maybe this is my problem and not hers. Seductive Chris Singer stalks my brain and I wonder where she is too.

Medical science has done all it can for Ben and he’s asleep in his bed. I pace the living room wondering what to do next. It’s too late to call the school. I want to talk to the principal. With the phone in my hand, I leave a message for Megan to come home, she’s late too, and then I call the cops. 

“I’d like to report that my son was beaten up at school today.”

“How old is your son?”

“He’s ten.”

“Were the assailants under eighteen as well?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll need to speak to someone in Juvenile Court. I’ll switch you over.”

A stern voice lectures me about not drinking and driving for a couple of long minutes until another equally stern voice breaks in.

“Dan Stevens here. May I help you?”

“I’d like to file charges against two boys who beat up my son today.”

“I can take some information by phone, but I’ll need to have you come down for a longer deposition. And I’ll need pictures of the damage sustained by your son.”

“Fine. What do you need right now?”

“Your son’s name, age and a brief summary of what happened. Like I said, I need to have you here to make and sign a formal statement before we can take any action.”

“Okay, his name is Ben Wilson, he’s ten years old and in sixth grade at Greenbrae Junior High School.”

“Is that school in north Phoenix?”

“That’s right. Anyway, he told me last night that some boys were bothering him but he planned to take the problem to his counselor to handle it.”

“What were they bothering him about?”

“They call him names like geek, nerd, four-eyes since he wears glasses and apparently adopted him to bully.”

“Cyber bullying as well?”

“Ben didn’t mention any.”

“We’ll come back to that. What did the counselor do?”

“He called the boys in and tried to do an intervention. After that, they hunted Ben down and beat the crap out of him. He’s a mess.”

“All right. Let me get my calendar out to make an appointment for you to come down some time tomorrow. Hang on a second.”

I’d been pacing all over the house with the phone pressed so tightly to my ear that I’m getting a mild headache. Checking on Ben again, I absently walk into the office where Lisa’s computer is sitting on the desk. She always uploads her photos to her computer when she’s working to get a general feel for the shoot. She develops photos in a small dark room we’d set up for her use since not all of her work is digital. I’m surprised to see the computer sitting open and I sit in the desk chair to take a load off.

Stevens takes his sweet time finding his calendar and I turn on Lisa’s computer to check my email. Boy, I shouldn’t have done that. Front and center is an email to her from a Marv Ziegler. It’s not a love note but there’s something personal going on between them that I’m reading between the lines. I check past emails and there’s several from Ziegler and Lisa back and forth to one another. Maybe they weren’t chatting but it hit me in the gut all the same.

“Mr. Wilson? You there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” I reply dumbly as I stare at the illuminating monitor.

“Could you come in tomorrow at five?”

“Where?”

“Here’s the address. Got a pencil handy?”

I blindly jot down the time and address on whatever is close by. I can’t drag my eyes from the computer. 

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Wilson. Don’t forget the pictures of your son’s injuries.”

I nod instead of replying and the phone falls out of my hand.

Don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t jump to conclusions.

I’m jumping to conclusions as I tell myself not to. I can’t help it. The evidence is right before my eyes. I only suspected Lisa. I guess there is something going on and who the hell is Marv Ziegler? My mind warns me about self-fulfilling prophecies, but I don’t listen. Did I want her to be having an affair? Is that what I’m thinking? Just because I’m having a few lewd thoughts about Chris Singer doesn’t mean that I want Lisa to be having similar thoughts about some jock she knew in high school. Or some beefy director on her latest photo shoot.

I’m forgetting to breathe and another panic attack is taking over. I swing away from the desk and my head goes between my knees. Second time today. If this keeps up, I’m going to ask the doc for Valium. Life is hitting me between the eyes and I need, what do the kids call it? A mood enhancer. Tahiti would be better but I can’t afford it and spring vacation is two months away.

I need to get a grip and find my wife.

 

About the Author

SJ SLAGLE

SJ SLAGLE started her writing career as a language arts teacher. Her initial interest was children’s stories, but she moved on to western romance, mysteries and historical fiction. She has published 24 novels, both independent and contract. SJ contributes regularly to guest blogs and her website is www.sjslagle.com. SJ has established Twitter and Facebook fan bases, a quarterly author newsletter and a website under her pseudonym: JEANNE HARRELL at www.jeanneharrell.com.

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The Reunion Blitz

 

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Murder Mystery

 

Date Published: 2017

Chris Singer, former homecoming queen, stumbles in the dark in front of the high school where her reunion is taking place. She is brutally murdered. A fire breaks out in the gym and the ensuing chaos leads to the discovery of Chris’ bloodied body. Since David Wilson, her boyfriend from high school, is one of the last people to be seen with Chris, he is arrested for the crime. Detectives are sure they have their man, but his wife isn’t so sure. Her questioning leads her into secrets and lies from long ago. The danger she meets is real and deadly.

 

 

Excerpt

Prologue

The first time she fell, thick branches caught her fall. Her silky dress, ripped above her knee and waist left bits of fabric clinging to the bushes. Some dropped on the ground.

A final push did the trick. With blurred vision and leaves in her mouth, it was hard to yell out although she tried.

Get away from me! I never liked you!”

The words were muted like an echo in the desert swallowed by emptiness.

Down

Down

Her head exploded with pain when it hit something hard. Earthy smells filled her nostrils.

Pain was a carpeted path to nowhere. Darkness circled the periphery of her vision. She longed for sleep and when it came at last, she stopped worrying about the blood.

So much blood.

So much…

 

 

About the Author

SJ SLAGLE


SJ SLAGLE started her writing career as a language arts teacher. Her initial interest was children’s stories, but she moved on to western romance, mysteries and historical fiction. She has published 24 novels, both independent and contract. SJ contributes regularly to guest blogs and her website is www.sjslagle.com. SJ has established Twitter and Facebook fan bases, a quarterly author newsletter and a website under her pseudonym: JEANNE HARRELL at www.jeanneharrell.com.

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The Case of Billy’s Missing Gun – Blitz

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The Case of Billy's Missing Gun cover

 

(Sherlock and Me series)
Cozy mystery
Date Published: March 2019
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Super sleuth Lucy James is hired to find the Colt pistol that may have belonged to Billy the Kid. Hampered by dishonest weapon experts, a pawnshop murder and unusual architecture at a downtown casino, her investigation is rocky at best. A massive snowstorm has blanketed Reno leaving Lucy to slog her way to interviews with uncooperative witnesses. Her father’s abrupt firing from his job as the host of a local children’s television show and the impending marriage between her best friend Cindy Floyd and her detective fiancé Skip Callahan grab chunks of Lucy’s fleeting attention. But she is determined to find the missing gun before the next snowstorm even though she on and off relationship with handsome professor Eric Schultz is off again. With sheer tenacity and a pair of thick snow boots, Lucy muscles through to the mystery’s resolution. It isn’t easy but the mystery and murder never are.




Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
My name is Lucy James. Life seems to revolve in cycles and I’ve been trying to decide if this is an up or down cycle at this moment in time.
On the up side, I earned my private investigator license in Nevada last year and got a decent chunk of cash a couple of cases ago. On the down side, I shot through most of it renting my new office in downtown Reno and blowing the rest on a horse. No, it wasn’t a racehorse and I wasn’t betting in one of the casinos around here. I’d helped out a little boy in his hour of need.
That’s me. Lucy the do-gooder or so my best friend Cindy always tells me. Anyway, the boy’s dad was so grateful that he’s paying me back in installments. Problem is sometimes his installments don’t meet all my expenses and since another case hasn’t darkened my office lately, I’m still plugging away at the old movie theater by the Truckee River that winds its way through the city. It’s been my go-to job all through college and it appears it’s going to see me through a bulk of my adulthood too.
It pays the rent.
Today I wandered down to a local television station, KNVP, to see my dad at work. Larry James has been the host of Uncle Ollie’s Playhouse, a hit local show for kids under ten since the beginning of my ill-fated college career. Not my cup of tea but he enjoys it. Dad’s tenacity to stick with the program is the one characteristic I’m pleased to have inherited from him. Jury’s out on the rest.
In through a back door, everyone nodded as I slipped by to stand at the edge of the playhouse set to see how Uncle Ollie was doing. Shelves with colorful toys, bouncy balls, a purple-leafed plant, a man in shining armor and bowls of fruit decorated the interior. Ollie was perched on a stool in the center of the activity singing a song about getting along with your neighbors. His singing partner was a puppet resembling some unidentified breed of dog. The droopy ears and bulbous nose should have been dead giveaways but weren’t. Not that it mattered. Several happy little kids hovered around the puppet clapping and singing along with a beaming Uncle Ollie.
I watched in wonder at the man in bright red slacks and striped sweater. With his feet encased in fuzzy slippers and a shaggy blondish wig, Uncle Ollie, aka my dad, was a cross between a stylish Mr. Rogers and a 1950s Captain Kangaroo. But if memory served me, Dad should have been singing with a bunny rabbit if his emphasis that day was Captain Kangaroo.
I never asked him what daytime children’s show his was patterned after because I knew what he’d say. With wide eyes and a forlorn look etched on a comic face, Larry James would exclaim, “Lucy! How can you think I would ever stoop so low as to mimic one of those people?” He would draw out the word ‘those’ to two syllables laced with enough irony to make me want to starch a shirt. Ugh. Then I would get his standard lecture about being an original and if you couldn’t be original, why bother?
But there weren’t as many children on the set as usual and the two cameramen stifled yawns. No director hovered creating the usual chaotic whirlwind and there was a slight chill in the atmosphere I’d never experienced before. Even Uncle Ollie’s typically bright eyes and smile seemed forced and I wondered what was up. I found out as soon as Ollie and his sidekick Pete the Dragon finished singing the theme song, signaling the end of the program and the children were herded off the set. Dad stormed after them heading right for the control booth on the second floor. Sensing trouble, I tagged along.
“Wait up, Dad. What’s the rush? Aren’t you going to take off your costume?”
He didn’t turn in his haste to acknowledge me as he ran up the stairs, but managed to spit out, “Not now, Lucy.”
Blowing through the door of the control room, he got right in the executive producer’s face. A large man with few strands of hair and fewer principles, Rance Morgan wasn’t more than forty but looked fifty, clogged the already stuffy air with cigar smoke and ordered his staff around like they were born to wait on him. He had only become executive producer this past year and he and Dad had clashed from day one. Today didn’t seem more promising than any other day.
“Morgan! What the hell is the idea?” Puffs of steam from Uncle Ollie’s ears seemed to wilt his shaggy wig.
Rance Morgan stood stiffly towering over Larry James with a look of defiance.
“What is it now, James? The lead arc light too bright again?”
“You know what I’m talking about, Morgan. Cut the crap!”
Morgan smirked, folded his arms across his broad chest. A button popped open when he inhaled.
“Yeah. Same old, same old. Pete got more camera than you did.” He shook his head so slowly that I nearly laughed out loud. The guy was as big a ham as my father.
“Pete did, the children did, the puppets all did. Even Leapin’ Lizard got great angles. Why I was barely in the program at all. Why don’t you make it ‘Uncle Ollie’s Playhouse Without Uncle Ollie’?”
Morgan’s smirk became a sneer. “Great idea, James. Pack up that crap costume you insist on wearing and don’t let the door hit you on the backside when you slink out!”
Dad’s jaw hit the floor. “What are you saying?”
“Just what you suggested: I’m firing you. Thanks for saying what I’ve been meaning to for the better part of this year.”
Dad raised himself to full height, put his fists on his hips and sneered right back. “How do you expect to have Uncle Ollie’s Playhouse without Uncle Ollie? That’s me, you idiot!”
“What?” He laughed. “Think I can’t get another guy to play your moronic character? In a heartbeat, pal.” Morgan stepped aside and headed toward me. “You and your stuck-up daughter can find your own way out.”
“Hey!” I protested. But he muscled by me tossing a shrug in my direction without giving either of us a second look. When I turned to my dad, a very indignant Uncle Ollie met my open-mouthed stare. His camera make-up looked about ready to drip off his tomato red face.
“Dad, you just got fired.”
About the Author

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SJ SLAGLE started her writing career as a language arts teacher. Her initial interest was children’s stories, but she moved on to western romance, mysteries, and historical fiction. She has published 24 novels, both independent and contract. SJ contributes regularly to guest blogs and has her own blog called anauthorsworld.com in which she discusses the research involved in the books she writes. SJ has established Twitter and Facebook fan bases, a quarterly author newsletter and a website under her pseudonym: JEANNE HARRELL at jeanneharrell.com.
Her first historical fiction novel, LONDON SPIES, was awarded a B.R.A.G. Medallion in 2018 and Slagle was a finalist in the 2017 UK Independent Book Awards. She was given the Silver Award with the International Independent Film Awards for her screenplay called REDEMPTION. SJ conducts writing/publishing symposiums in her local area. OSLO SPIES, her second historical fiction novel will be published in September. She lives and works in Reno, Nevada.
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