“What do you mean, when he told you?” I shot Richard a questioning look then turned back to Gurn. “How long have you known?”
Gurn, realizing he might have put his foot in it, waffled. “Oh, not long. How long would you say, Rich?” He threw the question back at my brother.
“Maybe a week,” Richard answered, head held high.
“A week?” I said indignantly, as only an older sister can say. I glared at my brother.
“Listen here, Sister Mine, I tried to tell you. You never let me.”
“Well, I had a few things on my mind, like solving Stephen’s murder and getting the cats back. Trips to Vegas, and Ipanema, and getting shot at, and knifed—”
“I’m not saying you didn’t,” he interrupted, “but I tried to tell you,” he repeated, “at least four times.” He held up four fingers for emphasis.
“Don’t you worry about it, Richard,” Mom said, dabbing at her eyes with a silk hanky she always carries on
her. “Your timing is just fine. Liana, stop this nonsense right now. Until today, other things have taken precedence over sharing this news within the family.” She blew her nose delicately. “Honestly, you and your hot-blooded temper. Why do you have to take after your father in
every
way?”
“You’re right, Mom. I’m sorry. Sorry, Richard.” I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “Sister Yours apologizes.”
“And what’s this about you being knifed?” Mom said suddenly, her voice raised and demanding.
I watched as all eyes turned on me except for Gurn’s, who had seen the fine exhibit of band aids on my chest earlier, when he helped me put antiseptic on the wound…among other things.
“Knifed?” My voice had a high-pitched strangled quality to it. Gurn looked me dead in the eye, as if to say, “get out of this one if you can, Toots.” I gave it a try.
“Did I say knifed? Ha ha. I meant scratched. I got a scratch. By a little, tiny, small, insignificant sort of …thing…sort of like a nail clipper. It’s just a scratch. Nothing. It’s nothing. Forget I mentioned it.” I turned to Gurn, who was biting his lower lip to conceal the smile.
“Gurn, why don’t we start taking stuff back to the kitchen?” I babbled, jumping up and grabbing a stack of dirty dishes before anybody could say anything more. “The rest of the family, stay put. Relax,” I ordered. “We’ve got this.”
Gurn picked up glasses and soiled napkins from the table. I ran over to him and started pushing him through the door. Once in the kitchen, I dumped the dishes on the white, marble countertop, where they landed with a clatter.
He didn’t reply but grabbed me in an embrace and started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded.
“Here you are, on your high horse because Richard didn’t tell you about the baby first thing, and you didn’t tell them what Kelli did to you in Ipanema.”
“Well, I don’t want to scare them. And they need never know. Fortunately, it’s cooler weather, so until the world’s longest scratch heals, I’m wearing turtlenecks.” I looked at him with a sheepish grin. “Do you think I’m a bad person for not telling them?”
He pulled me close, nose to nose. “Yes, just awful,” he whispered.
We kissed, and my toes curled. All right, maybe not literally, but they sure felt like they lifted off the tiles a little.
I let out a small sound somewhere in between a gasp and a sob then leaned against his chest, glad for the support. “It’s been a horrific last ten days. I can’t remember being this exhausted.”
“As my mother would say, you’re ‘bone weary.’” He kissed me on the forehead. “I think what we need is a small get-away for a day or two. The four of us.”
“The four of us?” I repeated.
“You, me, Tugger, and Baba. I know a charming bed and breakfast near Hearst Castle where they take pets.”
I leaned my head against his chest again and nodded into it.
If only I could shrink wrap my heart, protect it a little
.
But it’s too late for me.
Aloud I said, “Maybe after a rest, I won’t feel so guilty about keeping what Kelli tried to do to me from my family. It’s the first time I’ve ever done that. Usually, I burp, and the Alvarez clan knows about it.”
“There’s an enchanting image.”
We both laughed.
“Most people have a secret or two they keep, even from those they’re closest to, Lee. Sometimes for their own good. Like when you didn’t tell me about Spaulding attacking you until after the race.”
I raised my head and stared directly into his eyes, not saying a word.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking postponing saying something is different than never putting it out there at all. Too many secrets can separate a couple, keep them from being as close as they should be, as they’d like to be.”
I moved away and over to the sink.
“I thought you’d say something like that.” Gurn turned toward the dishwasher.
“Smart, aren’t I?”
“Help me load the dishwasher, will you?”
“Sure, as long as I don’t have to handle any knives. I’m a little leery of them these days.”
“You hand me everything but the knives. I’ll get them later. How’s that?”
He swiveled, faced me, and gave me the Gurn Grin. I threw it right back at him. We stood there for a moment, basking in each other’s grins.
“Man, I do love you, Liana Margaret Alvarez. You are worth just about anything to me.”
“Enough to tell me who you really are and what you really do?”
“Probably.” He turned away again and opened the door of the dishwasher. “Rinse the stack of dishes and hand them over.”
We both worked for a time, not saying a word, not looking at one another, but there was something sure and easy about it. I felt oddly content, even happy.
“Lee.” Gurn’s voice broke through my thoughts and dreams. My back was still toward him, but I held my breath.
“I want you to come to North Carolina with me and meet my parents. I told them about us. It’s time you met.”
I stopped what I was doing and turned around to face him.
“It’s a long plane ride,” he continued. “There’s a lot of time for me to tell you…some things.”
I swallowed hard, almost unable to reply. Finally, I said, “I would love that.”
About Heather Haven
After studying drama at the University of Miami in Miami, Florida, Heather went to Manhattan to pursue a career. There she wrote short stories, novels,
comedy acts, television treatments, ad copy, commercials, and two one-act plays, produced at several places, such as Playwrights Horizon. Once she even ghostwrote a book on how to run an employment agency. She was unemployed at the time.
One of her first paying jobs was writing a love story for a book published by Bantam
called
Moments of Love.
She had a deadline of one week but promptly came down with the flu. Heather wrote "The Sands of Time" with a raging temperature, and delivered some pretty hot stuff because of it. Her stint at New York City’s No Soap Radio - where she wrote comedic ad copy – help develop her long-time love affair with comedy.
Her first novel of the Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries,
Murder is a Family Business
,
is winner of the Single Titles Reviewers’ Choice Award 2011, and the second,
A Wedding to Die For
,
received the 2012 finalist nods from both Global and EPIC’s for Best eBook Mystery of the Year. The third of the series,
Death Runs in the Family
, recently debuted, has already received rave reviews and is a finalist in the EPIC Best eBook Mystery of 2013.
Stand-alone noir mystery,
Death of a Clown
, was written by author and daughter of real-life Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus folk. Her mother was a trapeze artist/performer and father, an elephant trainer. Heather brings the daily existence of the Big Top to life during World War II, embellished by her own murderous imagination.
Death of a Clown
is published by The Wives of Bath Press, debuting March 1, 2013.
Also by Heather Haven
Persephone Cole and the Halloween Curse
Persephone Cole and the Christmas Killings Conundrum
Persephone Cole and the Mother’s Day Murders
– Coming soon!
A 1940s holiday vintage mystery series starring a
five-foot eleven, full-figured gal named Persephone ‘Percy’ Cole. Percy is a trail-blazing female detective with the same hard-boiled, take-no-prisoners attitude as Sam Spade, Lew Archer, and Phillip Marlow, but tops it off with a wicked sense of humor. A lover of pistachio nuts, Marlene Dietrich pants suits, and fedora hats, Persephone Cole blazes a trail for all other lady dicks to follow. And this shamus finds her holiday cheer in solving crimes of the most deadly kind -
murder
.
This series
takes place on the streets of New York City during World War II, three thousand miles and sixty-odd years away from the California Alvarez Family Murder Mystery series.
eBook – Books We Love Inc.
Print – Wives of Bath Press
All available at Amazon http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004QL22UK
Read on for a taste of Persephone Cole!
Persephone Cole
and the Halloween Curse
By
Heather Haven
Chapter One
Persephone Cole’s hand hovered over the ringing telephone. Waiting for the third ring was almost too much effort, like everything else in this heat, but Percy had a thing about answering a phone on the first ring. Sucking in a hot, sticky breath, she was ever aware of the oppressive temperature. She dripped with it. Eight-thirty-five a.m., eighty-three degrees, and climbing. Humidity high enough to wash your socks in. Welcome to Indian summer on the lower east side, one of the hottest ever recorded
.
Percy reached over and turned off her only source of moving air, a small, beat-up oscillating fan that sounded like her eight-year old son’s bike the time he put a clothespin on the spokes of the back wheel. Looking up at the wall, her gaze focused on her newly framed private investigator’s license, barely a week old.
New York State Department of Licensing,
Private Investigator, Persephone Cole
Effective Date: October 15, 1942
Pride filled her at being one of New York City’s first female P.I.s, instead of merely a secretary. Of course, technically she was both now, but a little extra work never scared Percy. She took a slug of tepid water - no ice to spare in weather like this -- and picked up the receiver. She pushed back in her chair, lifted and crossed her legs, resting them on a corner of the desk. She’d relax if it killed her.
“Good morning,” she said, going into professional work mode. “Cole Investigations, Persephone Cole, private investigator speaking.”
There was a beat, where both parties were silent. Then a male voice asked on the other end of the line,
“Is this Cole Investigations?”
That’s what I said, bub.
“Yes sir, it is.”
“Who’s this?” The voice was gruff, almost rude.
What are you, deaf?
“This is Persephone Cole, private investigator.”
“You sound like a woman.” He barely disguised his astonishment.
And you sound like an ass.
“That’s right. This is Persephone Cole, private investigator for Cole Investigations.”
She pulled her crossed legs off the desk, and leaned forward, her large, five foot-eleven inch frame causing the chair to creak in protest. Strands of long, flaming red hair broke free of the rubber band atop her head, damp locks sticking to her forehead and neck. Everything stuck to everything in weather like this.
“How may I help you?” She tried to keep her voice sweet. It was an effort.
“You can help me by handing the phone over to a man. Who’s there? Give me Gil or Pop Cole.”
“Gilleathain is deceased and Pop is out of the office on a long-term assignment.”
“Crap.”
“Uh-huh. So can I do something for you or not?”
If you hang up, you might just be turning down the best ‘man’ for the job. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
He let out a long hissing sigh, as if parceling out his breath in accordance with his thought processes. Percy blew down the front of her blouse waiting for him to either hang up or tell her what the hell he wanted. The cast iron phone felt like it weighed a ton, and if this was a big venture into ‘no thanks’ land, she’d just as soon end it now and get it over with. There was some grub in the kitchen with her name on it.
I’m starving. Oatmeal and canned peaches with diluted condensed milk ain’t doing it for me. Maybe there’s something else. Even Spam sounds pretty good right now.
While he thought, she pulled out the ever present sack of pistachios from the pocket of her trousers and threw it on the table. Still holding the earpiece with one hand, she rooted around inside the bag with the other. She popped a nut into her mouth and separated the meat from the shell with her teeth.
“Very well,” he finally said. “I don’t have time to try to find another agency, if there is one. Besides, from what I understand, every available man seems to be tied up or drafted. It’s such a nuisance.”
“The war’s a hassle, but don’t let it get you down.”
She picked the shells out of her mouth, continuing to chew the nut as silently as possible.
If he heard what she said, he ignored her comment. “I knew the Cole Brothers from when I was starting out years ago. The boys helped me once before and they were honest. Are you honest?”
“I can be.”
“I guess it’ll have to be you, God help me.
My name is Dexter Wainwright. You know who I am, little lady?”
“I do. You’re a hotshot Broadway producer and you can call me Miss Cole. Now we got the introductions out of the way, what can I do for you?”
“Last night one of my actors fell from the overhead catwalk and broke his neck. He’s dead.”
“That’s too bad. I hope he had an understudy,” Percy added.
Clearly taken aback, Dexter Wainwright gurgled. “No. Yes. What? Yes, of course, but that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Then get to it.” She popped another pistachio into her mouth.
“The police don’t believe it was an accident. They want to close my whole show down. It’s the…ah…Scottish play. Maybe you’ve seen it? We’ve been in previews for the last four weeks.”
Like I have a buck-fifty to throw away on your show.
“No, I haven’t, but I’ve read about it in the papers. Macbeth, right?”
“Uh-huh.” He grunted. “It happened sometime around midnight. I don’t know what the hell Carlisle was doing in the theatre at that time of night.”
“Getting himself killed, for one thing.”
“I have until eight o’clock tonight to find some answers or the police are threatening to lock the doors.” He paused for a moment. “You know, I think you might be a wiseacre.”
Percy let out a chuckle. “Could be, but like you say, everybody else is drafted or tied up. If you want me, it’s the going rate, fifteen bucks a day plus expenses. You got that?”
“Got it.”
“Good. You’re at the Royal Theatre, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll be there in an hour. And Mr. Wainwright…”
“Yes?”
“When I get there, you’re going to tell me the truth. All of it.”
“I…I…”
Percy hung up on a stuttering Broadway producer.
-----------------------------------
Available in eBook at Amazon.Com
Soon to be available in print through
The Wives of Bath Press