Excerpt from Murderous Decisions by Anna Drake

Murderous Decisions

By Anna Drake

SYNOPSIS:

Victoria Cross believes her greatest challenge in life is keeping up with family duties. But a tempting stranger, an unexpected responsibility, and a ruthless killer combine to complicate her life. And in the end, this young wife and mother's biggest challenge may turn out to be ... surviving.


ANNA SAYS:

This scene was fun for me to write because it centers around such a compelling dream. I mean, who wouldn't love to receive such a generous bequest?

But at one point Harry Price has told a friend that money can bring with it as many problems as solutions. And this is what Victoria learns as she struggles to overcome Harry's death and dispose of the remains of the gentleman's life. Because remember, there is a killer out there. He's killed at least once. Who is to say he will not kill again?

EXCERPT:

Then, one day the phone rang. It was a Tuesday again. As usual, I was home catching up with my chores.

"Mrs. Cross?" a voice asked.

"Yes."

"I'm Matthew Ashworth, Harry Price's attorney. First, let me tell you how sorry I am for your loss. Harry was a wonderful man. It was my pleasure to know him."

"Thank you." Considering Ashworth's comment, I had felt compelled to provide a suitable reply. Although, I couldn't understand why Ashworth was offering his condolences to me? I'd never even met Price.

"I'm sorry for coming at you unexpectedly like this," Ashworth said. "But it is the way these things sometimes go. Anyway, I'm calling to tell you that you're named as Harry's heir."

"I'm listed as an heir?" I pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat.

"Actually," Ashworth said, "you're the sole heir."

"But why would Harry leave anything to me?"

"I don't know, but you've also been designated the administrator of the estate."

"What does that mean?"

"Basically, it makes you responsible for inventorying all of Harry's possessions. Then, you'll need to file a statement with the court, swearing everything has been settled according to Harry's wishes."

It sounded like a lot of work. "Where would I be doing this?"

"I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

I sighed. "No. I've heard Harry was from someplace in northeastern Pennsylvania, but I don't know the exact spot."

"Harry lived in a house located about twenty miles northwest of Wiltonburg. It sits just outside a small town called Placidville."

"And I am to settle his estate? How would I do that?"

"Well, you'll need to come out here. You can stay in the house while you work. Incidentally, the funeral is set for Thursday. I thought you'd want to attend."

I sagged back in my chair. This was a lot to absorb. A funeral two short days from now. An estate to settle. A demand that I spend time in a place I'd never visited, to work on behalf of a man I'd never met.

"I can understand your surprise," Ashworth said. "This has all been a bit rushed. Murder tends to mess up the normal progression of things. Anyway, as you know, we had to wait for the police to release Harry's body. And now, well, we'd like to get on with things as quickly as possible."

"And you're encouraging me to attend the funeral?"

"Yes, I hope you will. Harry was a bit of a recluse. I don't expect a large turn out. Plus, as his executor you'll need to come sometime soon. So, now seems as good a time as any."

"And you say I'm the heir?"

"Yes."

"I assume you wrote the will?"

"I did."

"Did Harry tell you why he named me in it?"

"No, we never discussed you. Harry laid everything out. I just drafted the document according to his wishes."

I pulled a deep breath and released it slowly. None of this made any sense to me. "How long do you think it would take me to settle everything up?"

"I suppose it depends on how you want to do it. Harry had a great many possessions, both real and personal. I can't imagine you'd want to let them all go without giving them serious thought. Then, there's the house to be sold. Cars to be disposed of."

"So what? We're talking a week, maybe two, to wrap all of this up?"

"Oh, I'd think at least that, and possibly longer. It's an extremely large house, and Harry had a great many assets."

I sat there trying to make sense of it all. My entire life would be turned topsy-turvy. And for what? I'd need to take time off from work. I'd have to line up someone to watch David. I knew Aunt Ella would be delighted to cover for me, but I hated to impose on her. And then I wondered what Jake would think of all this?

I cleared my throat. "I'm sorry I can't give you an answer just now. I have to discuss this with my husband. But if I come, I don't want to stay in Harry's house. I didn't know the man that well. I'd feel like an intruder."

"That's okay. There's a lovely old inn nearby, or you could bunk down at a motel in Wiltonburg. I'd be happy to make the arrangements for you, if you'd like."

"I'll have to get back to you on that."

"Either way, let me know. If you're coming for the funeral, I won't bother mailing you a copy of the will. You'd get here before the document reached you."

While he chattered on, I listened as the refrigerator beside me hummed to life and the washing machine let forth a beep, telling me my latest load was done.

They were familiar, homey sounds, I would miss hearing in the coming days if I followed this man's suggestions.

"By the way," Ashworth now said, "are you curious about the estimated value of the estate?"

Recalling Harry's winded voice over the phone, I didn't expect much. "Sure."

"All told your inheritance comes to just under fifteen million."

My eyelids flew open. "Dollars?" I asked, placing my free hand palm down on the kitchen table and drawing several deep breaths.

"Yes, of course, dollars," Ashworth answered. "What else would it be?"

FIND OUT MORE:

Anna Drake, writing mystery novels with a touch of romance and a bit of suspense.  Facebook; Website.

Check out Anna's books on AMAZON.  

Follow Anna on Twitter @LadyNWriter

Excerpt from Harps and Tears by Phil Rowan

Harps and Tears 
by Phil Rowan

SYNOPSIS:

Harps & Tears is a dark humour thriller that centres on Bronkovski: a Polish American nuclear scientist whose wife left him for a Jewish environmentalist. He is furious, and intent on revenge against the state of Israel. When we meet him, he is making a nuclear bomb in rural Ireland's West Cork for ruthless Islamic activists.

Briefly ...
We start with US journalist Rudi Flynn arriving in Dublin. His editor in New York is really into the Land of the Harp. She wants all he can send her on Celtic Tigers and New Irish Women. Flynn, however, is more interested in a lead he has on the embittered nuclear scientist, Bronkovski, and what he may be up to in West Cork.

Our frequently wayward journalist is lured in and seduced by Irish charm and blarney - although he is aware of a powerful Dublin businessman, who knows Bronkovski, and who has politicians and cops in his pocket. Flynn's local contact, Muldoon, is up for a bit of devious blackmail, and our guy's hotel receptionist, Siobhan, agrees to seduce and probe the emotionally challenged nuclear scientist. Middle East money is funding an assassin in West Cork, while in Dublin an Israeli academic is targeted. There are ruthless rogues everywhere, but Flynn has a few cool female allies - and as his local contact takes a crucial call, mayhem is averted in rural Ireland.

PHIL SAYS:

In the piece below from my Harps & Tears story, my character Flynn is talking to Claire at a Dublin cafe. They have only just met when she tells him a little about Hans - a previous owner of  the cafe. He was once, she says, an SS guard at Auschwitz. But when the Dutch requested his extradition, the Irish Government stalled, and after a while Hans disappeared to Brazil. What interests me about this piece is that it is actually based on a true story. The Dutch man, Hans, had a cafe in Dublin called The New Amsterdam. He had been an SS guard at Auschwitz and showed his appreciation to the Irish Government, who let him stay for a while in Dublin, by presenting the Dublin Gardai with untrained wolf hounds who bit everyone - including their handlers - during Cuban missile crisis demonstrations.

EXCERPT:

'I'm Claire,' the friendly woman beside me at a Dublin cafe says when we've smiled at each other. She has interesting blonde hair and she's folding down a page on what looks like an accountancy manual.

            'And I have an assessment this evening,' she explains.

            'Ah –'

            Well, I'm Rudi, and I'm here ostensibly to cover the New Ireland. Only I want you to stop me if I start talking about my wife, Angela, who recently went off with her friend Eva ... because  all of this has left me floundering like an emotional wreck who needs serious help.

            'This is an interesting place,' Claire says when I order coffee with a croissant.

I'm trying to be cool as I take in her dark red heels and a small dolphin that's tattooed discreetly around her finely boned left ankle.

            'You bet –'

            'No ... I mean here – where we're sitting.'

            OK – it's a cafe with a courtyard, where maybe an Irish poet sat and agonised over verses that might one day immortalise the guy or his girl, or the occasional bliss of living.

            Am I being sceptical, or what? A French chain now owns the cafe, which is called La Laguna. Once though, according to Claire, the proprietor was a charismatic Dutchman called Hans. He came to Dublin in the early fifties, where he was regarded initially as a novelty, for he was a tall, gentlemanly sort of guy who spoke with a funny continental accent. His wife, Elsa, apparently made nice pastries, and his fashionable coffee bar was a popular meeting place for well-heeled women who wanted to meet and socialise in agreeable places.

            'It was looking good for Hans,' Claire tells me, 'but then an Auschwitz survivor came forward to declare that our Dutchman had been a guard at the infamous concentration camp. The authorities in Holland apparently wanted to interview him in connection with several hundred wartime deaths.'

            During his time in Dublin, however, Hans made some influential friends – particularly amongst the wives of politicians from the nearby parliament buildings at Leinster House. So the Irish Government refused a Hague request for extradition on the grounds that the evidence was tenuous. While Hans claimed it was all down to mistaken identity.

            Later, according to Claire, when the fuss died down, the Dutchman decided that he wanted to make a small gesture of appreciation to his Irish friends. His 'thank you' came as three large pedigree Alsatian dogs, which he presented to the Commissioner of the Garda.

'My mam said there were pictures of him in all our newspapers on the day he handed over the dogs at the Garda Headquarters in the Phoenix Park,' she tells me. 'They were fine, expensive animals by all accounts – only they hadn't been trained for anything in particular. So when they were let loose on a crowd outside the American Embassy during the Cuban Missile Crisis, they bit everyone they could get their teeth into, including their clueless Garda handlers ... would you credit that?'

I'm sitting speechless with my coffee cup suspended over the saucer and my croissant untouched on the plate in front of me.

            

FIND OUT MORE:

Check out Phil's WEBSITE
Order his books on AMAZON
Follow him on Twitter @WriterRowan

Excerpt from BETRAYED by Wodke Hawkinson

Betrayed 

by Wodke Hawkinson

SYNOPSIS:

Betrayed, a Novel by Wodke Hawkinson, Brook, a Denver socialite, seems to have a good life until she becomes the victim of a botched carjacking. In a matter of minutes, her life is forever altered. She is abducted, transported, and held for days by three brutal men in a remote mountain location. She escapes only to end up barefoot, nearly naked, and hopelessly lost in the Colorado wilderness at the beginning of a harsh winter. Lance, a man who has shunned society, lives like a recluse in a rustic cabin far removed from the modern world. He likes his solitary life. But his world is about to be turned upside down. Advisory: Contains sexual violence and strong language.

PJ and K say:

In our novel Betrayed, Brooklyn is abducted during a botched carjacking. She endures horrific abuse at the hands of her captors and her situation is desperate. In spite of the hopelessness of her predicament, she determines to somehow survive. She refuses to give up.

Parts of the novel were difficult for us to write, and are hard for some people to read. However, we didn’t want to gloss over a crime that is so horrendous it alters the victim’s life. We wanted to make the story as realistic as possible. Once Brook is free of her captors, the novel takes a turn and the scenes were much more enjoyable for us to write.

The following excerpt details one of Brook’s escape attempts.


EXCERPT:

Gina slammed Brook with her forearms, knocking her onto the mattress. Shivering, Brook grabbed the stained sheet and wrapped it around her nakedness, keeping her gaze glued to Gina all the while.

Gina’s eyes roved the room and fell on the torn garments scattered about the floor. Swooping down, she grabbed them and stormed out, bellowing, “Are you guys out of your mind? Do you know how expensive these clothes are? I would have loved….” Her voice trailed off as she moved away from the room.

Minutes later Brook heard the small ding of a microwave. The smell of food reached her, but did not stimulate her appetite. She listened to her captors through the thin walls as they talked around mouthfuls of what smelled to her like popcorn and pizza. No one offered her anything to drink or eat, which was fine with her. She didn’t think she would be able to keep anything down, even if someone shoved food in her mouth. But, the point was well taken that she would not be fed. Her life was to be forfeited. Once the initial rush of adrenaline drained away, Brook became aware of pain flaring in her feet. Her barefoot rush into the wilderness had left cuts and bruises on her soles. She rubbed them gently against the mattress. They were just more injuries to add to the list.

Darkness descended. Lightning flashed outside the window and thunder boomed, startling her. The lights in the room blinked off and then came back on. Brook pulled the blankets closer. Wiggling down between the mattress and the wall, she tried to become as small as possible. Following another loud crack of thunder, the lights went off and stayed off. Crazy patterns crawled around the room; dazzling brightness alternated with menacing shadows. Rain cascaded between the bus and the window. The storm sounded as if it were in the room with her, surrounding her, cursing her.

She wept. Her mind raced frantically away from thinking about what she had just endured. She pushed away even thoughts of Clark because the yearning for him hurt so much she could not bear it. Riding waves of pain, she let the tears flow until there were no more to tears to cry.

After a while the house grew quiet. Brook crept painfully to the door and pulled it open a crack, listening. Hearing nothing but the rain outside, she eased into the hallway and tiptoed towards the living room. Lightning illuminated the room for a long moment, and she could see Pete and Gina sleeping on the fold-out couch. Their bed filled the small room; she would have to go across it to reach the door.

Carefully, moving mere inches at a time, Brook stepped onto the mattress, swaying slightly to retain her balance. She had only taken two small steps when fingers wrapped around her ankle.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Pete’s voice came from the dark.

Brook yelped, jerked her leg free, and fell across the bed and onto the floor. Jumping to her feet she yanked the front door open and darted outside, only to be grabbed around the waist by Pete. “Noooo!” she screamed into the pouring rain.

FIND OUT MORE:

Wodke Hawkinson is the name under which K. Wodke and P.J. Hawkinson produce their co-authored works. They have co-written four novels, an alternate ending to Betrayed, three short story collections, and several short story singles.

Betrayed can be purchased here.   

Wodke Hawkinson Website: http://wodke-hawkinson.com/ 

Reader & Fellow Indie Authors site: http://findagoodbooktoread.com/ 

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Wodke-Hawkinson/e/B00572KLX2/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1   

On Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wodke.hawkinson

Twitter ID: @WodkeHawkinson

Excerpt from Tell Anna She’s Safe, by Brenda Missen

Tell Anna She’s Safe 
By Brenda Missen

SYNOPSIS:

Driving home alongside West Quebec’s Gatineau River one April afternoon, Ellen McGinn spots a parked car that looks like it might belong to her friend, Lucy Stockman. Arriving home, Ellen receives a phone call from Lucy’s common-law partner: Lucy has disappeared. Led by a series of disturbing visions, Ellen embarks on a nerve-wracking search that soon becomes a determined quest for the truth beyond the stereotypical appearances of her friend’s risky relationship with an ex-convict. Terrified for her own life and getting in over her head with a compelling police detective, Ellen reaches a deeper than bargained for understanding of Lucy’s dark journey—and her own.

Tell Anna She’s Safe was inspired by and based on the life of Louise Ellis, an Ottawa freelance writer who disappeared in 1995. The author, Brenda Missen, was a friend and colleague of Louise, and was the person who found Louise’s car when she first went missing.

BRENDA SAYS:

This excerpt is part of a longer scene that shifts back and forth between Lucy’s visit to Tim at a medium-security prison and her arrival back home to her current boyfriend, Curtis, in Ottawa. I had received permission from Corrections Canada to visit Warkworth Institution so that my description of Lucy’s visits there would be authentic. I had never visited a prison before and the whole experience was so etched in my brain I think it fuelled and sharpened the writing, especially when I had to write it from the perspective of a woman so filled with fears and anxieties. This first visit to Tim (after many letters and phone calls) is a pivotal moment for Lucy, when she makes the decision to truly leave behind her familiar world and pursue a relationship with this man whom she had met after he had given testimony in an important Supreme Court case. I got the idea to shift back and forth between the prison visit and her own home, using word association to provide a link between the two settings. I think the quick alternating of scenes, and the contrasts between them, gets across the shift as it is happening inside her—and shows how it is, for her, a positive shift. It was a very satisfying scene to write. The word associations and contrasts/similarities in emotions that provide the links between the two settings came very naturally, and it’s a technique I’m now using on a much larger scale in my current memoir.

EXCERPT:

As she stood, dazed and exhausted, the screen door swung open. She had to step out of the way.

            There was a man in the doorway. He looked puzzled. “Why are you just

standing out there?”

            She didn’t respond.

            “Hello?” said Curtis. “Earth to Lucy. Come in. Come in,” he repeated, stepping aside and opening the door wider. “Did they lobotomize you while you were in jail?”

            She stepped in through the door. She handed over her purse. If body searches had been legal, he would have found it was her heart, not her frontal lobe, that was gone. She was amazed at how detached she felt from him. And not amazed at all.

            They sat down at the kitchen table. Curtis poured her a glass of wine. She was too tired to appreciate the gesture. She was too tired to drink it.

She was overcome by the wearying sensation of having driven not just hundreds, but seemingly thousands, of kilometres. What was she doing here? Who was this man? He sat before her, shoulders slightly slumped, avoiding her eyes. Where were the presence and confidence he had exuded in the courtroom? Where was the familiarity she had felt in meeting him there and in their letters and phone conversations? She was sitting before a prison inmate who, when he had lived in her world, had committed countless acts of fraud—and one act of manslaughter. What was she doing?

            She was starting to feel dizzy. The smoke seemed to have filled not just her lungs but her entire insides. It was choking her. She was going to faint. She just needed to signal to one of the guards. She could get up and walk out without saying a word. They could pretend she had never come. She could go back to her safe, familiar world and he could stay here, in his. In her mind, she was already summoning the guard, mentally raising her arm as if he were a waiter.

            Tim cleared his throat. “Your drive here,” he began.

            Her horror magnified. In her mind she was tugging furiously on the guard’s sleeve, to get her out of there before Tim spoke. She was terrified he was going to say something mundane about the drive, the weather. That he wouldn’t be who she thought he was. That she’d made a massive mistake. Her head began to spin. Nausea overwhelmed her. She was going to throw up.

            “Your drive here,” repeated Tim, “means a lot to me.”

            The words entered her head like a peacekeeping troupe and made it stop spinning. The nausea vanished. Her vision cleared. It was Tim. Thank God he was still not looking at her, had not seen her face; it was shyness, not social backwardness. It was respect. It was nothing she’d ever experienced before.

            “I’m kind of overwhelmed by you sitting here in front of me.” Tim gave a small, embarrassed laugh and then he met her eyes.

            The guard she had summoned in her mind stood waiting. She handed him all her doubts, all her skepticism, all her fears—shitloads of fear. And then she sent him away.

            “If I seem a bit stupid, and like I got nothing to say, it’s—well….”

            There was a long pause.

            “Do you mind,” he said at last, “if I just sit here and look at you for awhile?”

He was looking at her. She was supposed to be talking, spilling out the experience. She didn’t want to share this. She didn’t want it exposed to his cynical paintbrush, his layering of ridicule and mockery. Thinly disguised jealousy.

            She met Curtis’s eyes. And for the first time she saw the pain in them.

  

FIND OUT MORE:

For more about Brenda, check out her website  

Find Tell Anna She’s Safe on Amazon   and get updates on Goodreads