(NOTICE: The winner of this giveaway is Meredith M. Congratulations to Meredith and thanks to everyone who entered the giveaway.)
It’s a pleasure to welcome author J. Frank James to Thoughts in Progress today to share an excerpt from his new mystery thriller, DEAD MONEY RUN, the first installment in the Lou Malloy Crime Series.
Thanks to the author and the lovely Kelsey at Book Publicity Services, I have a copy of this intriguing crime fiction novel to give away. Please see the end of the post for more details.
First, here’s a brief synopsis of DEAD MONEY RUN followed by some early praise for the book.
Lou Malloy learns of his sister's death right before he is released from prison, having served 15 years for the theft of $15 million from an Indian casino. He wants two things: to keep the $15 million, which no one has been able to find, and to track down and punish whoever killed his sister.
Lou Malloy teams up with Hilary Kelly, a private investigator. In no time, Lou has found the hidden $15 million, recovered guns and ammunition hidden with the money, and murdered two low-level mobsters and fed them to the crocodiles.
As the body count rises, the story grows more complex and his sister's death becomes more mysterious.
Praise for Dead Money Run:
"Dead Money Run is a hard-boiled thriller. It is a book of short chapters and almost unrelenting excitement as Lou and Hillary Kelly avoid cops, kill mobsters, and try to unravel the mystery of who killed Lou's sister and why.” - Reviewed by Wally Wood at BookPleasures.com
“Fans of James Ellroy and Elmore Leonard are going to love James’ ingenious capers, devious characters and wry humor. The entire book goes down like a strong yet smooth shot of bourbon.” - Reviewed by BestThrillers.com
"Dead Money Run by J. Frank James is a pure adrenalin rush from the very beginning. Yes, it is very violent with some strong language, but filled with excitement that keeps the reader wanting to know what comes next." - Reviewed by Paul Johnson for Readers' Favorite
“J. Frank James did a very nice job constructing a fast moving plot for Dead Money Run. It is intriguing and thrilling. However, the reader should be prepared for a bit of gruesome violence. Yet, the violence doesn’t override the mystery and suspense within the story. Hold on to whatever it is that you’re sitting on as you read this story, because James is about to take you on a wild ride.” – Reviewed by Red City Review
Now for your reading pleasure and to tempt your reading taste buds, here’s an excerpt from DEAD MONEY RUN.
CHAPTER 1
The warden was a small man, but dressed neatly. Everything about him was neat-from his hair to his shoes. He was almost too neat.
“So what are your plans, Lou?”
When I walked into the room, the warden turned over a little hour-glass full of sand. We both watched it for a few seconds and then looked at each other. This was the first time I ever met the man. What did he care about me now? Since he never cared before, I figured the man was just looking for information. Perhaps he wanted to give me a warning. I didn’t say anything.
“Do you ever think about time, Lou?”
“After fifteen years, what do you think?” I said.
He smiled and said, “Most valuable thing we have and no one seems to mourn its passing until it’s too late.”
I had nothing to say to that. Conversations with a prison warden came with a lot of maybes. While in prison I trained myself to watch a man’s hands. If he rubbed his hands in a washing motion, he was lying. If he messed with his fingernails, he wasn’t interested in the conversation. The warden was rubbing his hands as if he had touched something distasteful.
“I haven’t given it a lot of thought, Warden Edwards.”
“Call me John, Lou. We’re friends now,” Edwards said while rubbing his hands in a determined kind of way.
So now we were friends. I wanted to tell him he was a liar, but my better judgment stopped me. Probably a good way to delay my release-things get lost, papers go unsigned. Things happen.
“Okay, John,” I said.
“You know, we never found the fifteen million,” he said.
“I didn’t know you were looking for it.”
I watched his eyes flicker briefly. I seemed to hit a sweet spot.
“No, Lou. You misunderstand,” he said as he caught himself. “There is a reward for the recovery of the money. Did you know that?”
Edwards said it more as a statement than a question. I said nothing and waited. Edwards shifted in his chair and started to rub his hands again.
“It would be in your best interest to tell them what you know.”
“Who’s the ‘them’ John?” I asked.
“They’re the people looking for the money.”
I thought about that for a few moments. The statement covered a lot of ground.
“Since I didn’t take the money in the first place, I don’t have anything to tell them. They need to ask the people that took it,” I said.
Edwards was smiling now and he stopped rubbing his hands.
“There are some people that think you do.”
“I can’t help what people think.”
“Ten percent,” he said.
“Ten percent of what,” I said.
“The money, Lou. Ten percent of fifteen million is a lot of money.”
“I hadn’t heard about that,” I said.
“Yeah, it seems the Indian casino had insurance. The insurance company that paid off on the claim put up a ten percent reward for the return of the money. A million five is a lot of money.”
“I hope they find it,” I said.
Edwards blinked his eyes signaling he was moving on to something else.
“Sorry to hear about your sister,” he said. “I understand they are doing all they can to find her killer.”
Edwards was a real card and running out of things to say. On any other day, in any other place, he would be dead or wishing he was.
“Thanks, John. Your words are real comforting,” I said and returned my gaze to the little hourglass and the sand as it accumulated on the bottom.
I had nothing else to say except make him happy. Make them all happy. Just one big happy group sitting around smiling at each other; happy, happy, now let’s just get the money and spread it all around and we can go on being happy. In the meantime my sister lies in a hole feeding worms. I had money on the worms being real happy. No word on how my sister felt.
Edwards looked disappointed when I didn’t add to our conversation.
“Lou, it might be a good idea for you to help them find the money. It could be a big windfall.”
Now we were getting somewhere. Just like all the rest of the treasure hunters, the miserable bastard was just in it for the money.
“Windfall for who, John? Me or you?”
As if tasting a lemon, Edwards twisted his face and, at the same time, waived his hands at an imaginary fly.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Lou. I’m just trying to give you a head start. If it was my decision, you would still be with us. Fifteen million dollars is a lot of money to lose.”
“It still is,” I said.
I sat and watched Edwards shift in his chair some more. We had nothing left to talk about. I could feel him working out in his mind how he was going to present his failure to get a lead out of me on the money.
“So, what are you going to do now?” Edwards said.
Finally, I had enough.
“Leave. Isn’t that what we all do?”
His smile vanished. He knew he was wasting his time on someone who had maxed out. He also knew he couldn’t hold me. There would be no parole violation with the threat to re-incarcerate me. No work release effort to rehabilitate me. Just a new suit made in the prison cut and sew area and a hundred bucks was the sum total of it. That probably hadn’t changed since the 30s. I wondered if Al Capone wore the suit they gave him when he got out.
We were both looking at the little hourglass of sand now. The sand had drained from the top of the glass to the bottom. Suddenly, as if being shot out of a cannon, we both stood up. Edwards stuck out his hand. I turned and left the room. I didn’t shake his hand. I didn’t want to touch him.
About the Author:
J. Frank James has a passion for writing, and he certainly has the knowledge and experience to write realistic crime thrillers, thanks to his extensive background in law. Jim attended law school, where he was a member of the law review. He even went on to pass the state bar and started his own law practice that specialized in complex litigation.
Jim's experience in law helps lend credibility to his crime fiction books. He has also traveled extensively and gains inspiration for his crime thrillers from his travels. From observing other cultures and gaining new experiences, Jim is able to infuse new life into his books and develop believable characters that readers can identify with.
Jim writes crime thriller novels that are gripping and suspenseful. He is the author of the Lou Malloy Crime Series and the Indigo Marsh Detective Series. He is also an artist and he creates all of his own book covers.
For more on Jim and his writing, visit his website and connect with him on Twitter, Goodreads, and Facebook.
GIVEAWAY DETAILS:
This giveaway is for one Kindle version of DEAD MONEY RUN. The deadline to enter the giveaway is 12 a.m. on Wednesday, July 15.
To enter, just send me an e-mail (mcbookshelf@gmail.com) with the subject line, “Dead Money Run Giveaway.” Your message should include your name and the email address you’d like the eBook sent to. The winner will be selected by random org. When notified, the winner will have 72 hours to acknowledge the win or another winner will be selected.
Thanks so much for dropping by today during Jim’s visit. Did the excerpt grabbed your attention? Do you enjoy reading excerpts of books before buying them?
It’s my pleasure to be participating in a Book Publicity Services blog tour for author Lauren Leigh’s spellbinding murder mystery, RETARDED GIRL RAISED IN DOG PEN.
As part of this stop, I’ll share my thoughts on this fascinating book and Lauren is sharing an excerpt for your reading pleasure. In addition, thanks to Lauren and the lovely Kelsey at Book Publicity Services, I have Kindle copy of the book to giveaway. Please see the end of the post for details.
At times I found it hard to read RETARDED GIRL RAISED IN DOG PEN. It had nothing to do with the author’s writing or style. In fact, the author’s way with words made it so realistic is why it was hard.
The cruel punishment and abuse woven throughout the story made my heart ache. But to balance out the author also included tender moments of love and compassion. One can only hope abuse to this extreme doesn’t exist, but at the same time it’s a harsh reminder that the world contains cruel people and some of them are in places of authority.
Adopted the day of her birth, Baby’s new parents – Rivers and Angus – discover she is blind. In time they also find out she is unable to speak, paralyzed from the waist down, and diagnosed with developmental and intellectual disabilities. While Rivers tries to show Baby love and kindness, Angus has more love for his bird dogs than he does for his new daughter. At the hands of Angus, Baby is placed outside in the dog pen where she lives. Angus, a Mississippi deputy sheriff, also constantly abuses Rivers.
When Angus is found brutally murdered, Rivers is arrested and Baby is placed in an institution. The story takes an unusual turn when Rivers is sentenced to death. Professionals discover Baby can communicate and may hold the key to who really killed her father.
As the minutes tick down to Rivers’ execution, a psychologist scrambles to unlock the mystery of what Baby knows. The story deals with abuse, struggles faced by individuals with disabilities, and the inner workings of mental institutions.
RETARDED GIRL RAISED IN DOG PEN is a stirring murder mystery that will tug on your heart strings and enrage your sense of justice. It’s a riveting story that will hold you captive until the very end.
Retarded Girl Raised in Dog Pen by Lauren Leigh, Sartoris Literary Group, @2014, ISBN: 978-0991374540, Paperback, 262 Pages
FTC Full Disclosure - This book was sent to me by the book promoter in hopes I would review it. However, receiving the complimentary copy did not influence my review.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Lauren Leigh is a mental health professional who has devoted her life to working with individuals with intellectual disabilities. This is her first novel.
EXCERPT …
When Thad Vanderbilt arrived at the county jail, he was eating a hamburger that he’d picked up at the drive-through window of a fast-food restaurant. He took bites of the burger and sips from a cup filled with iced tea as he walked into the building and asked to meet with Rivers in a private conference room.
As she walked in the door, he was in the process of wadding up the paper wrapping around the burger. He tossed it into a nearby trash can and then took a sip from the cup, gurgling the last few drops from the bottom of the cup before discarding it. Left behind was a touch of mayo that stuck about an inch from the corner of his mouth. Rivers noticed it, but said nothing, not really caring whether her lawyer looked foolish or not.
Thad stood and extended his hand as she approached the table and sat in a folding chair. His fingers felt damp from the soft drink cup, and she wiped her hand against her jumpsuit.
“I’m Thad Vanderbilt,” he said. “I’ve seen you around town, but I don’t think we’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.”
“I’ve seen you in your convertible.”
Thad laughed. “Yes, and it will be paid for in another three years, just in time to trade it in for a new one.”
Rivers didn’t think that was funny and she did not respond with a laugh of her own.
Thad looked at a legal pad, reading over his scribbled notes.
“I see your husband was a deputy.”
Rivers nodded.
“And you have a little girl named Baby. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Have you seen her?”
“No, I haven’t. I understand she was taken away and placed at Silverstone Retardation Center.”
“That’s what the sheriff told me.”
“She’ll be well taken care of there.”
“I hope so. She’s not used to strangers.”
“They are used to people like her.”
“What do you mean, people like her?”
“You know, retarded.”
“Oh.”
“How do you want to plead on this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Guilty or not guilty.”
“Oh.”
Rivers didn’t answer, sort of drifted away, lost in thought.
“Did you hear me?”
“What?”
“Guilty or not guilty?”
“What’s the difference?”
“If you plead guilty, there is no trial and the judge decides your sentence. If you plead not guilty, you go to trial and listen to people say a lot of bad things about you, and then the jury decides if you are guilty or not guilty, and then, if you are guilty, they pass sentence.”
“And if the jury decides I am not guilty?”
“Then they send you home.”
“In that case, who goes to prison?”
“The prosecutor will decide if there is someone else he wants to prosecute. If there is, then he will go after them and try to get a conviction.
“Oh.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“Did the sheriff give you any information about Angus?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Did the sheriff give you any details about what happened to him?”
“Sure.”
“Would you mind telling me what you know?”
“No problem.” He looked over his notes. “OK. They found his body yesterday, buried along the tree line of your property, about fifty yards from the dog pen.”
“Did he look upset?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did it look like he was upset over being dead?”
Thad paused again, this time to collect his thoughts. “Ma’am, when you’re dead I don’t think you necessarily look upset or not upset.”
“I see.” She lowered her eyes, looking down at her lap, where her fingers were intertwined in a knot. “Does it say anything about how he died?”
“Yes, ma’am, it says he was struck in the chest with an ax.”
“That all?”
“No, it says he was hacked on a little bit.”
“Do they have the ax?”
“Apparently, it was buried with him.”
Rivers sat quietly for a while. Then she put her hand on her chest, feeling her thumping heart. “Would you mind seeing after the burial?”
“That’s not really what I do.”
“Baby and I are the only family he’s got. If not you, then who?”
“Ma’am, you’ve put me on the spot.”
“I know that.”
Thad doodled on his legal pad as he struggled with her request. He had moved to Murphy County from Memphis, where lawyers played by a different set of rules. In Memphis, her request would have been laughed at, but not in a rural community where everyone knows everyone else, or if they don’t, they know of them or have heard stories about them.
“That’s not something I usually do,” he said. “But I’ll make an exception in your case.”
“Thank you.”
“But you still haven’t answered me.”
“About what?”
“About your plea.”
“Can I decide what goes on the tombstone?”
“I don’t know for sure, but assume that would not be a problem. You are his wife.”
“Will there be flowers?”
“Yes—if I have to send them myself.”
“That’s nice.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, ma’am, but I need to know your plea.”
Rivers looked up, as if searching for the answer on the ceiling. Inexplicably, a serene look appeared on her face. “What will happen to me if I plead guilty?”
“It is a capital offense to kill a police officer, so the penalty would be death by injection.”
“I see.”
“Is that what you would like to do?”
“Yes, I believe it is.”
GIVEAWAY DETAILS:
This giveaway is for one Kindle version of RETARDED GIRL RAISED IN DOG PEN. It will be gifted through Amazon. The giveaway will end on Wednesday, May 14. To enter, just click on the Rafflecopter widget below and following the instructions. It may take a few seconds for the widget to load, please be patient.
Thanks so much for stopping by today. Have you found books that are hard to read emotionally, but you can’t put them down until you know what happened?
*This post contains affiliate links.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Sharing books and introducing new authors is part of the fun of blogging. Today I want to tell you about author Liz Stauffer’s debut mystery novel, THURSDAY MORNING BREAKFAST (AND MURDER) CLUB.
I’m happy to be a part of Liz’s Book Publicity Services Virtual Blog Tour. Liz will be sharing an excerpt from her new novel, which was published by the Sartoris Literary Group.
Things are not always what they seem in this fast paced book of murder, mystery, and intrigue. When the "breakfast club" ladies of idyllic Mount Penn see bruises on Clare Ballard's pretty face, they suspect her hot-headed husband of abusing her, but the truth is much more complicated.
When violence disrupts this Appalachian village's lazy routine, the ladies, led by the irascible Lillie Mae Harris, jump feet first into danger as bodies appear, neighbors disappear, and Clare is arrested for murder.
Follow Lillie Mae and the other "breakfast club" ladies, who, armed with casseroles and pastries, help the police uncover the deep secrets this town hides beneath its perfect facade.
THURSDAY MORNING BREAKFAST (AND MURDER) CLUB can be purchased as an eBook and as a paperback on Amazon.
After some thirty years writing everything from political encyclopedias to software manuals, Liz retired from corporate life to write fiction, travel, and play on the beach.
Since that time, she has traveled extensively throughout the United States and the world. She lives most of the year in Hollywood (FL) with her two doggie best friends, Mattie and Jakey, where she owns and manages a vacation rental business.
For more on Liz and her writing, visit her website and connect with her on Twitter and Goodreads.
Now here’s an excerpt from THURSDAY MORNING BREAKFAST (AND MURDER) CLUB to entice your reading taste buds.
8
Typing up a storm on her on her new Apple laptop, lost in the world of her own tale, Lillie Mae was jarred back to reality by the chime of her doorbell. Peeking out the window by her desk, she saw Clare at the front door, fidgeting like a two-year-old boy who needs to pee.
“Coming,” Lillie Mae called.
“Is it Roger?” Clare spurted when Lillie Mae opened the door.
“I don’t know, Clare,” Lillie Mae said, knowing exactly what Clare was asking. “I was never close enough to the body to see who it was, and when I asked Charlie, he wouldn’t say. Come in and sit down.”
Lillie Mae reached her hand out to Clare and guided her into the room. “Sit, dear,” Lillie Mae said. “Let me get you some coffee.”
“Don’t leave me, please,” Clare said, taking hold of Lillie Mae’s arm and pulling her down beside her on the sofa. “I’m crazy with worry. Too much has happened the last couple of days, and now this.”
Clare’s eyes filled with tears. “Roger hasn’t been home since yesterday, Lillie Mae. He hasn’t talked to Billy at all. Not even a phone call. There is something terribly wrong.”
“That doesn’t mean that Roger’s dead,” Lillie Mae said. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“But it’s the other things, too. The phone calls. Billy. Just everything.”
Lillie Mae suspected by everything she was referring to Dale Beavers.
“What’s going on Clare? Tell me.”
“You were there when Mabel Goody stopped by the house yesterday looking for Roger.”
Lillie Mae nodded. “I went home shortly after she left.”
“Then Billy went out,” Clare said. “He thought he knew where Patrick might have gone, so he went up the mountain to check.”
“Did he find Patrick?”
“He said he didn’t, and he had no reason to lie.”
“Where did you go, Clare?”
“How do you know I went somewhere?”
“I saw you. I remembered I was wearing your apron and was bringing it back.”
Clare stared at Lillie Mae as if deciding how much to tell her. “Where I went is incidental,” she finally said. “It’s what happened after I got back home that’s more important.”
“What was that?” Lillie Mae asked, her curiosity piqued.
“Billy was in the kitchen finishing up dinner. Believe it or not,” Clare said a half smile on her lips, “the boy likes to cook. Anyway, he was stirring the gravy and asked me to mash the potatoes.”
“You said he had gone looking for Patrick Goody but didn’t find him.”
“That’s right,” Clare said. “He went up to the old hangout close to High Mount, but nobody was there. It’s an old shack half falling down. You’ve seen it.”
Lillie Mae nodded.
“Billy was sure somebody had been there recently, though. Said there been a scuffle. Blood was everywhere.”
“Roger?” Lillie Mae asked.
“I don’t know, but I thought the same thing,” Clare said. “Billy wanted to call Charlie Warren, but I told him no, saying it might look bad for Patrick.”
“Makes sense,” Lillie Mae said.
“Billy agreed. Said he guess he watched too much TV. He’s such a good boy, Lillie Mae.”
“Billy’s a wonderful boy, Clare. You should be proud.”
“We had a nice supper. Billy talked about school and then reminisced about his high school years. I guess his father not being at dinner brought up special memories from the past.”
A frown furrowed Clare’s forehead. “It was at the end of supper that the phone rang. I thought it might be Roger, so I rushed to answer it. But it wasn’t.”
“Who was it?” Lillie Mae asked.
“I don’t know,” Clare said. “But it wasn’t Roger. The voice was weird, muffled. I’m not sure if it was a man or woman.” Clare paled as if reliving the experience. “I saw you, the voice murmured. You’re going to be sorry.”
Thanks so much for stopping by today. Do you get together with a group of friends once a week or so for a meal or drinks?
Note: The winner of the eBook giveaway of MARCEL PROUST IN TAOS is Carl S. Congratulations!
I’m delighted to welcome ‘new-to-me’ author Jon Foyt here today in celebration of his recently released contemporary romance novel, MARCEL PROUST IN TAOS: IN SEARCH OF TIMES PAST.
Jon will be sharing an excerpt from this intriguing story. In addition, thanks to Jon and the lovely Kelsey at Book Publicity Services, I have an eBook copy of MARCEL PROUST IN TAOS to giveaway. Please see the end of the post for details.
MARCEL PROUST IN TAOS tells the story of Christopher and Marlene, two recent immigrants to Taos, New Mexico, who fall in love with their adopted city and eventually each other. Christopher, a retired nuclear physicist, works on his first novel, while Marlene, newly arrived from Germany, spends her days painting the landscape and people around her. The two team up to open a microbrewery, and their relationship is tested by the hurdles they deal with along the way: Christopher hits a rough patch in his book, and a powerful enemy of Marlene’s threatens to destroy everything.
Christopher and Marlene find themselves confronting terrorism of a new sort with the matriarch of the Taos community, Agnes Havelock Powers, who strongly opposes having a brewery in town. Agnes is rich, powerful, and influential. She has the city authorities tucked in her purse next to
her checkbook. Follow the exciting and charming love story of Marlene and Christopher in historical Taos, as they experience the challenges of confronting abusive power.
Striving for new heights on the literary landscape, along with his late wife Lois, Jon began writing novels 20 years ago, following careers in radio, commercial banking, and real estate. He holds a degree in journalism and an MBA from Stanford and a second master’s degree in historic preservation from the University of Georgia.
An octogenarian prostate cancer survivor, Jon, 81, is a marathon runner (60 completed), hiker, and political columnist in a large active adult retirement community near San Francisco. Jon is the successful author of 10 fiction books. He currently resides in Walnut Creek, CA.
For more on Jon and his writing, visit http://jonfoyt.com/
Now here’s the excerpt to tempt your reading taste buds…
Excerpt:
While standing in the checkout line at the art supply store, Marlene reproached herself for her curt and inelegant response to Christopher’s invitation. For sure, she felt, he hadn’t been particularly suave in his outreach to her, either. In the two weeks of waiting for his call, she had gone over every nuance of their conversation in the Taos Inn, regretting that she hadn’t teased him into a more serious, or at least a fun relationship. She’d been too focused on her art, and she knew men were attracted to women who flirt, even if the man was married—Christopher wore no ring, but so what did that mean?
That afternoon in the tavern she should have invited him to her studio, changed into alluring attire and produced a romantic air for scintillating conversation by uncorking a bottle of Moselle wine, preparing a tasty tray of vorspeisen, turning on enchanting Bavarian music and lighting her scented candles—all against a backdrop of her prized art. As she paid the cashier, she brought herself back to the moment. Enough of this playful fantasizing! She was nervous about showing her art to this wealthy patron. Christopher would have to wait.
She reminded herself to concentrate on how she would present herself and her art to this woman with the name of “Mrs. Powers.” She vowed she would never abdicate her own ideals to a person who might be a domineering fuhrer in a skirt. Blumy and the other Taos artists had benefited from sponsorship those years ago and still did. Because of the railroad’s beneficence, their Taos School was indelibly imprinted upon the annals of world art, mentioned in every art history book and probably taught in every MFA program. Other individual artists, not so fortunate, had been readily co-opted. Marlene didn’t want such a destructive fate to befall her. She could think for herself, and she vowed to continue to paint, but solely for her own satisfaction.
Hurrying back to her studio, Marlene climbed the stairs only to see a note pinned to her door—Joe’s delinquent rent notice—and she panicked. She needed money and she desperately hoped this prospective patron would be generous, yet allow her to express her talent in the hallowed tradition of the Taos School, where her Blumy and his diverse group had pledged themselves to always remain faithful to their own individual artistic styles.
Marlene remembered that the gallery owner told her that the patron woman was heiress to a molybdenum fortune, and that her philanthropic nature was well known throughout the Southwest. “But, whatever you do, don’t say anything about the mountain top up by Questa that her mining company is scarring in the worst way—she’s very sensitive about the environmental issues about her company having stripped the mountain of its natural beauty.”
Having been both briefed and warned about her potential benefactor, Marlene waited for the knock on her door. Fresh flowers graced her rustic pine table. In her oven baked an apple strudel, its flavors wafting through her studio. Twice she repositioned her canvases, which she had purposely enriched with gilded frames, each time twisting her track lighting to best capture the aura and ambiance of each painting.
“What smells so yummy?” the amply proportioned Mrs. Powers inquired immediately upon entering Marlene’s aromatic stage.
“It’s my mother’s recipe for apple strudel from the old country. You will have a taste in just a minute or two—that is, when it cools.” Marlene rushed on, “There’s no sugar. I use pure honey from a little town outside Nuremberg—my father sends me a jar a month. He says the honey will counteract the pollen from our juniper trees, and I will never have an allergy.
“Oh, please sit down. May I pour you a cup of coffee?” Marlene knew she must put an end to her unrehearsed rapid speech, but she couldn’t stop. “Hasn’t our weather been glorious for this time of year? Makes me want to hike to the top of the unspoiled mountains around here instead of painting them. I’m a very disciplined artist and I know I could complete your assignment quickly and faithfully.”
“Could I have that strudel now?”
“Yes, of course. Do you take cream in your coffee?”
“I prefer tea with two sugars.”
“Would honey do?”
“Oh, forget it, dear. I’m here because Mr. Peters at the gallery recommended your work. My decorator is redoing my living room for this season’s Opera Guild socials. Mr. Peters insisted I select the art because he so values my opinion. Money’s no object, for me color is what’s important.” She looked at the painting on Marlene’s easel. “Not this one, but I do like the shading in that one over there. Don’t you have any landscapes without all these mountains?”
“I can paint a fresh subject for you,” Marlene assured her visitor. “Yes, I think we shall have to do that.”
“Do you have a particular setting in mind? Perhaps I could do an interpretive rendering of your house?”
“Maybe—no, I don’t want to appear overly pretentious, you know. Some people react….” Mrs. Powers produced small decorator color swatches. “Here, these will guide you. Your painting must not clash with my new draperies. I plan to give your painting the prominent space above my grand kiva fireplace, so make sure it blends in with everything in the room. Mine is, of course, quite a large room.”
Hesitatingly Marlene showed Ms. Powers another canvas. “This is my current work in progress. I’m painting my impressions of the Tu-o-ta Pueblo.”
Mrs. Powers pointed to the reddish-brown branches of the red willow trees lining the small stream. “Yes, this color here…a teeny bit softer, I should think. Put in a sweet little deer or two—you artists know what to do—but none of those rickety ladders. I want my friends to feel at home…you know, comfortable…so they’ll come back and donate more money to the Guild. That’s why I hold these socials, you know, to raise money for a good cause. One must support the community, as well as art and artists, don’t you think?”
Marlene nodded.
“How much do you require to get started?”
Marlene didn’t know how to respond.
“Five hundred, then, is that all right?” Mrs. Powers asked, then inquired, “How will you sign my painting? Can you make Marlene look a little like Remington? I don’t want you to actually forge his signature, of course, but I want my guests to be impressed—I mean, they all know that name. Now, could I have that strudel now?”
Marlene cut a slice of her pastry, covered it with gobs of whipped cream and deliberately shoved the culinary concoction into the face of Mrs. Powers.
“Ernest Leonard Blumenschein made me do this, and he hopes you get the message.”
GIVEAWAY DETAILS:
This giveaway is for one Kindle version of the book. The winner will be send a gift copy through Amazon.
To enter, just send me an e-mail (mcbookshelf@gmail.com) with the subject line, “Win Marcel Proust in Taos.” Your message should include your name and the email address you’d like the eBook sent to. The deadline to enter this giveaway for a chance to win an e-copy of MARCEL PROUST IN TAOS is 8 p.m. (EST) on Wednesday, Dec. 11.
Thanks everyone for stopping by today. Have you ever considered what it would be like to operate a microbrewery?
