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Greta Boris

Stories of Domestic Suspense

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An Excerpt from Mortuary School

Posted by Greta Boris Leave a Comment

Imogene Lynch, ex-hairstylist, wants to become a normal mortician. Unfortunately, she has a talent that’s anything but.

Chapter One

A hot wind whipped my hair into my eyes, but even through the black veil I could see the Cavendish School of Mortuary Science wasn’t what I’d expected. The pictures of it on the website showed ivied halls on a grand Victorian-era estate. The registration building in front of me wasn’t that. It was a three-story blue and beige stucco monstrosity, circa 1980. 

I pushed open the heavy security-glass door and made my way toward the registrar’s office down a linoleum hallway that smelled of cafeteria lunches. The line wasn’t long, Mortuary Science not being as popular a major as, say, Communications or Business. I retrieved my registration packet and headed out into the blustery heat again. 

Despite the Santa Ana winds, famous in Southern California for unseasonal temperatures and seasonal fires, the campus hummed with first-day excitement. Lost students wandered zombie-like along the winding paths. Returning students greeted one another with fist bumps and hugs. The crowd looked much like any other group of college students, albeit a greater percentage preferred dark hair and clothing, but they weren’t. They were here to study death. 

Instead of world history, they would study world burial customs. Instead of Psychology 101, Psychology of Grief. Instead of Biology, a hands-on embalming course. Something warm glowed within. I was a good six years older than most of the students milling around, yet they were my people. 

I pulled the campus map from the registration packet, and as I did, a glossy four-color flier fluttered to the ground. Before I could retrieve it, the wind snagged it and carried it toward the grass. I jogged after it, but a girl with skin as dark as mine was white darted forward and snatched it from the thieving gust. She glanced at the page in her hand and snorted. “I got one of these.” 

I read the heading as I took it from her. Phi Sigma Eta – A Co-ed Fraternity. I laughed and immediately felt guilty. Why shouldn’t there be a fraternity for mortuary students? Hadn’t I spent hours trying to convince Gran that the death industry was a noble one? “Are you going to join?” I asked. 

She snorted again. “No way. My mama would kill me. On the way out the door this morning, she says,” the girl adopted an artificially high tone, “Rochelle, watch yourself, girl. There’s gonna be a lot of strange folks at that school. You’re not there for socializing.” 

I nodded. I got it. I’d tried to convince Gran that funeral directors were like the pastors of their own ever-changing flocks. I’d thought this was an especially nice touch, since Gran was born again in the 1970s during the Jesus Movement. It didn’t sway her. “Yeah, my Gran isn’t too crazy about my career choice either.”

“Oh, Mama is fine with the career choice. It was hers, not mine.” 

I looked Rochelle up and down critically for the first time. She didn’t look like most of the students on campus, and it wasn’t because she was Black. She was too all-American. Too clean cut. Too old, probably only a couple of years younger than me. And above all, too pretty in a TV newscaster kind of way. “Why did you agree? I mean, it’s kind of . . . Well, you gotta be into it.”

“My uncle owns a funeral home and. . . It’s a long story.” She stuck out a hand. “Rochelle.”

 I took it and shook. “Imogene.” 

We fell into step, meandering through a swirl of leaves in the general direction of what I hoped were the classrooms.

“Where are you headed?” Rochelle asked. 

“Anatomy 101. How about you?”

“Same. Do you know where it is?”

I stopped walking. “No. I thought you did.”

Rochelle pulled a campus map from her backpack. “I think it’s behind the registration building.” 

We looked at the map together, pivoted, then pushed our way down a narrow wind-tunnel of a path between the registration offices and the library. 

“You picked this,” Rochelle waved away a twig that had sailed toward her head, “all by yourself?”

“Yeah.” I said the word slowly, making two syllables of it to give myself more thinking time. I knew what the next question would be, because everybody asked it: Why? Why did I want to go into Mortuary Science?

“Why?” Rochelle said on cue. 

There was a long answer. Last year, I’d been asked to do the hair and makeup for a deceased client, and it had turned into a murder investigation. In the process of stumbling onto the killer, I’d also stumbled onto the answers to some of life’s big questions like: Why was I taking up space on the planet? Was there a purpose to my existence? What did I want to be when I grew up?

I gave Rochelle the short answer. “I used to be a beautician, but business was too up and down.” 

She shot me a look. “The dead are more reliable?”

“Exactly. How about you? What did you want to do before you got hijacked into the family business?”

“History. I have an undergraduate degree. My goal was to write long, boring books about the Peloponnesian war and the fall of Jerusalem in 70 AD. And, I wanted to teach at the university level.” She sighed heavily. “But it was not to be.”

I was curious. Why would such an intelligent girl allow herself to be coerced into studying for a career she didn’t want? But she sounded so sad, I decided not to pry. When we came to an open green belt flanked by the two buildings that had been featured on the website, I changed the subject. “This must be part of the original estate.” 

“It looks old enough,” Rochelle said.

It did. The buildings were less picturesque and more neglected than they’d appeared online. White paint peeled around the window and door frames. Weeds poked through the overgrown rose and hydrangea bushes that only partially hid broken bricks and missing mortar. “Kind of like an archeological site,” I said. “Should make you happy.” She rolled her eyes. 

Anatomy 101 was housed on the second floor of Edgar Hall, the building on the right. Rochelle led the way into a dim, cool space that smelled faintly of chemicals. We followed the sound of voices down a hall and up a staircase. The cheerful noise echoing off the walls accentuated how silent the rest of the building was. Could it be empty except for Anatomy 101? That was a disquieting idea, but I couldn’t say why. 

The room at the top of the stairs was large. Tables rather than desks stood in three rows: two lining the walls, one down the center. There were two students already seated at most of them. 

I gazed around the space looking for the professor who’d been listed as R. Dickey in the course catalogue. I had imagined a narrow-shouldered, bespectacled man with a balding pate who wore sweater vests under a lab coat. Wrong. R. Dickey was a woman. And she was neither narrow-shouldered nor bespectacled. She was tall and wide and in bad need of a good haircut. I was tempted to slip her my Harry’s Hair Stop card, but I only worked there when they were in a pinch these days. 

“I see you found us out here in the barrens,” she boomed at Rochelle and me in a voice as big as she was. “I think they’re ashamed of me.” She guffawed, a style of laughter I’d only heard one other person in my life employ. In fact, even though she was a woman and Harry a man, and even though he would hate her hair—-he was very fastidious—-she reminded me of him. 

“Names?” she asked.

“Rochelle Adams,” Rochelle said. 

“Imogene Lynch,” I said. 

R. Dickey pointed Rochelle to a table in the front row where a handsome, dark-haired guy already sat. Me, she sent to a far corner of the room next to a fierce-looking girl with a nose ring. 

I’m not a fashion prude. Some even call me edgy. My naturally blond hair is dyed deep ebony with burgundy highlights. I have a Rosie the Riveter tat on my right bicep. And I favor black clothing. However, I hate nose rings. Not only are they unsanitary, but they make even the toughest humans appear subservient. It’s like they’ve prepped their nose just so they can be led around by it. 

I nodded at the fierce girl and took a seat. 

“Listen up,” R. Dickey bellowed over the students’ voices. They quieted. “Take a moment and introduce yourselves to your lab partner. You’re going to be working closely together this semester, so be nice.” 

The murmur rose to a din as the students obeyed. I’m a recovering introvert. My natural tendency is to let others take the first step, but I overcame it now and smiled at Nose-ring girl. She didn’t smile back. 

I gave it another try, leaned forward, and spoke over the noise. “I’m Imogene.” 

“Pnmishy,” she said in a voice that would’ve been hard to hear in a quiet room. 

“Sorry?” I said. 

“Pnmishy,” she repeated only slightly louder. 

Okay, this was starting to get irritating. I’ll be friendly to people who make an effort, but I didn’t have time for this. I folded my arms over my chest and stared out the window.

“Enough.” R. Dickey called class to order. “I have a surprise for you today. It’s a good news, bad news kind of thing. Actually, bad news, good news. Our fetal pigs are on backorder.” 

A corporate groan rang through room. I didn’t join in. I wasn’t excited about fetal pig dissection. I’m a little squeamish. 

R. Dickey raised a hand like a traffic cop. “Now, now, the bad news is actually good news,  because it’s why you’re getting the surprise.” She paused dramatically, then said, “We’re going to visit with Cadaver Mike.”

A happy murmur flowed through some of those gathered. I didn’t join in that either. I’d expected to dissect fetal pigs. I hadn’t expected an actual cadaver.  

R. Dickey walked toward a casket-sized stainless steel box in the back of the room. “Gather round.”

“I thought we’d stick to pigs until embalming class,” I said to no one in particular. 

To my surprise, Nose-ring girl answered in an audible voice, “Cadaver Mike has been around for a long time. He’s a UCI hand-me-down.” 

I must have looked confused, because she continued. “The medical school. They practice surgeries on people who’ve donated their bodies to science. They usually have a funeral afterwards, but once in a while, we get them when they’ve run out of useful parts.” 

“Useful parts?” I parroted. 

“Appendix, tonsils, livers, hearts; you know, the stuff surgeons take out and put back.” She got up and walked toward the casket. 

I followed Nose-ring girl, my stomach doing a jitterbug. I wasn’t worried about seeing human remains. I’d done the hair and makeup for too many funerals now to be upset by the dead’s exterior. It was the interior I was worried about.

My lab partner must have noticed my distress. “He’s not that bad,” she said over her shoulder.

“You’ve seen him?” 

“Last year,” she said. “Flunked once. This is my second time around.”

Anatomy was a prerequisite for all the lab science courses at Cavendish. The idea was for students to get the lay of the land before we started vacuuming things out through tubes. It was a good thought, but I’d been hoping to study on smaller real estate, like fetal pigs. 

Students jockeyed for position around the metal box. I tried to hang back but somehow got shoved into the first tier. 

“This is so exciting,” R. Dickey sang in a deep alto. “Nobody has visited Cadaver Mike in months. I’m sure he’s been lonely.”

Why did I suddenly feel like a kindergartner waiting for the puppet show to start? 

R. Dickey pulled an Allen wrench from her sweater pocket, inserted it into the end of the casket, and turned. There was a clunk and clink of metal as something unlatched. She grabbed a handle and hoisted up the lid. 

A strangled silence blanketed the room. I squinted, struggling to make sense of what I saw. Something wasn’t right. 

There were two faces in the box, one pale gray and sagging, the other a tight, concave profile. There were also four legs and four arms. The shape of Cadaver Mike’s limbs were visible under a sheet, but another, fully dressed man lay on top of the cover next to him. The man had thrown a leg and an arm over Mike in an affectionate embrace. They looked like napping lovers. 

A scream, shrill and high, shattered the quiet. A split second later, someone slammed into my spine and catapulted me forward. I reached out to break my fall.

The next two seconds moved slowly, like pregnant elephants wading blindly forward into a hidden pride of hungry lions. I saw my hands descending toward the bodies in the casket. There was nothing I could do to stop them. I yelled, but on they went, inch by terrible inch, until they struck skin and skull and, worse yet, hair. 

My fingers clenched completely against my will and entangled themselves into the washed-out brown locks of the fully dressed corpse. I gasped. I had no breath. My mouth opened and shut like the maw of a dying fish. The last thing I saw before I fell to the cold linoleum clutching my chest was the dead man’s hand wrapped around a narrow white object.

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A Real Cop Writes Crime Fiction

Posted by Greta Boris Leave a Comment

With over 40 years in law enforcement, Joe D. has plenty of stories to tell.

It’s no mystery that I love crime fiction, reading it as well as writing it. But writing about crime has its own special set of challenges. One of the greatest is knowing if I’ve got something right, or not.

Today I want to introduce you to the guy I go to for expert help.

Joe keeps my characters out of jail when there isn’t enough evidence against them. He gets the correct professionals to my crime scenes. And, he slaps my detective’s hand when she goes out of bounds. 

With over 40 years in law enforcement J.C. De. Ladurantey knows his stuff. Not only is he a consummate pro, he also has some crazy stories to tell. To protect the innocent–and probably the guilty–Joe has chosen to fictionalize his experiences. He tells them through the eyes of Howard Hamilton, cop extraordinaire. 

Read on for my interview with Joe.

  • Lots of people ask authors where they get their ideas. Here’s my more “writerly” version of that question: What inspired you to devote the months or years needed to write your stories?

Spending over 40 years in a profession gives you a wealth of knowledge but does not necessarily make you a writer. Most of my inspiration came from friends and family that said, “why don’t you tell that story in a book?” For almost 10 years I heard their voice but could never sit down long enough to write. Now it has become a passion, or perhaps an obsession. 

  • What’s the most difficult thing about the writing process for you?

The most difficult part of the writing process is the personal discipline needed to write. I do not know how people with kids or full-time careers find the time, other than to ignore other priorities. Writing must be a priority and not just something you do occasionally. Right now, it is third in line, so I find it easy to balance family, work and writing. Exercising and reading have taken 4th and 5th place.  

  • What message do you hope readers take away after they close the cover of your book?

I guess I have a two-fold purpose. Perhaps an escape from their own life and issues they deal with daily followed by a means to educate people on topics and thought processes they may otherwise not have insight into.

  • Some writers’ primary goal is to entertain, some to educate, some to motivate. Which best describes you?

I have written textbooks that educate but novels or narritive non-fiction are different. My goal then becomes a combination of informing, entertaining and providing insight into a world that perhaps many have only peeked into. 

  • Writers generally have a lot to say. How did you tease out the most pertinent story lines and discipline yourself to toss the rest? 

I am struggling with this issue right now! I will put everything in, then take things out on the second or third go-around. Last resort is I will succumb to my editor!

  • What has changed in your life now that you are a published author? 

What has changed is that I have become a bit more introverted. I spend more time thinking about what I want to write and therefore space off someplace when I should be more in the moment. Hard to shut off the brain sometimes.

  • If you could go back in time and encourage your unpublished self, what would you say?

Take more notes about life that you wish to write about. As has been said, I have forgotten more than I remember. I wish I’d have kept a journal of those little stories that I could someday embellish into a piece of fiction.

  • What are you working on now?

I am working on my third novel which is a sequel to COWARDS, CROOKS, AND WARRIORS and 23 MINUTES. It is called AVAILABLE TIME. The saga of my character, Howard Hamilton, continues, and he is writing it himself. 

  • Where can people find out more about you and your work?

That is my biggest problem! I hate marketing me and the books. I guess that is why it is more of a hobby than a career. Even some of my friends do not know I have written. 

  • Well, I’ve just told a bunch of people about you, Joe. 

Today, Joe teaches criminal justice and forensic science. His books, COWARDS, CROOKS, AND WARRIORS AND 23 MINUTES tell the story of Howard Hamilton, a mild-mannered street cop in a mid-sized community. The work and streets challenge him and mold him, sometimes for good and sometimes for bad.

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My Inspiration for The Sanctity of Sloth

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There were so many things I didn’t think about when I chose the Seven Deadly Sins as the theme for my series, like don’t start with lust or your books will be shelved next to the erotica books in the online bookstores! True story.

Another thing that never occurred to me was how I would write about sloth. Most of us think of sloth, if we think of it at all, as laziness. A novel where everybody laid around not doing anything didn’t sound suspenseful.

Time to research. I learned that although laziness is part of the definition, sloth is linked to the sin of omission. You know the expression, evil thrives when good people do nothing? That’s also sloth, and it seemed a better possibility for a crime novel than laziness did.

But what would the crime be?

A number of years ago I got involved with an anti-human trafficking organization. The stories I heard rocked my world. I had no idea it was as big a problem as it is right here in the good ole’ US of A.

One story in particular, about a young girl from Egypt, broke my heart. This child was ‘sold’ by her parents to a wealthy couple who brought her to America with them. They worked her to the bone, ignored her basic needs, and made her sleep on the garage floor. Since she spoke no English they were able to convince her that the American police would beat her, toss her in jail, and throw away the key if they found her. Thankfully, a neighbor noticed what was happening and tipped off Social Services.

This girl was the inspiration for Hannah in The Sanctity of Sloth, but she had a happier end than Hannah’s. (I am a murder and suspense writer, after all.) Shyima Hall became a U.S. citizen and got an education with the goal of becoming a police officer.

My Lesson

I often say I have to grapple with my own B.S. (besetting sins) when I embark on a novel. To write well about sloth, for instance, I had to dredge my life for misdeeds. This is my method for creating character emotions and responses that feel real.

I’ve never enslaved anyone (no matter what my hubby says when the honey-do list comes out). But, I’ve seen injustice and shut my mouth rather than ruffle feathers.

What Shyima’s story teaches, and what I learned from the anti-trafficking organizations, is exposure is the traffickers’ kryptonite. The more good people understand the scope and nature of the problem, the less criminals like the couple who enslaved Shyima will be able to get away with their crimes.

Why not kill two birds with one stone?

Hence the plot for The Sanctity of Sloth was born. It seemed perfect–an action-packed crime married to a message of social awareness. I could be entertaining and assuage my own conscience at the same time.

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The First Black Police Officer in Santa Ana, CA

Posted by Greta Boris Leave a Comment

An Interview

With all that has been going on in our troubled world, I decided I needed to push through the politics and hear from a couple of people who’ve lived what everyone is talking about. I sent out two sets of author interview questions.

One went to my buddy Lamb Lambert, the first black police officer hired in the city of Santa Ana. (The second set went to another wonderful career law enforcement friend and author, Joe DeLauderante, who is white. That interview is coming soon.) I had the privilege of reading Lamb’s book before it was published. It wasn’t an easy read, but so worth the discomfort.

And, on a bright note, I didn’t realize Lamb also trained K9 dogs! I always knew he was a man after my own heart. As all of you who’ve read my stories know, I’m a big fan of the pooch and have many doggy characters.

Here’s the interview

  • Lots of people ask authors where they get their ideas. Here’s my more “writerly” version of that question: What inspired you to devote the months or years needed to write your story?

The short answer, initially, was the need for acceptance, both from my brothers- in-blue and from members of the community I served. However, as life happened it was “aha years” before – with the prompting of my wife and historians who had taken an interest in me – I understood that I needed to be acknowledged for my humanity and to document police and ongoing race-related issues as I experienced them.

  • What was the most difficult thing about the writing process?

To relate my story as I lived it, without embellishment or explanation. As I wrote about my early years growing up in the troubled South through playing basketball in the Army, and eventually being hired onto the police force, I began learning more about myself and what it meant to fit in a world made by others.

It’s hard to understand a crisis when you’re living through it. I thought I’d have a shot at understanding if I stepped back and looked at enduring the indignation of racism, intimidation, harassment, and the pain associated with being a black officer in an all-white police department through a historical lens.

  • What message do you hope readers take away after they close the cover of your book?

The way history continues to play out between police (racism and brutality) and the African American and other minority communities, leaves me hopeful my book will lead people to question themselves or each other or to have a conversation about cultural differences that no longer serve us by allowing the past to inform the future.

  • Some writers’ primary goal is to entertain, some to educate, some to motivate. Which best describes you?

Education is key, and although education is the road-map, it does not trump racism. There are enormous opportunities to compare similar previous challenges and to hold meaningful conversations as a means for change.

  • Writers generally have a lot to say. How did you tease out the most pertinent storylines and discipline yourself to toss the rest?

With the help of my creative writing class, we edited out events that were similar or that did not add value to the overall theme of my book.  

  • What has changed in your life now that you are a published author?

Dr. Seuss said it best: “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” I’m an extraordinarily blessed man in countless ways.

  • If you could go back in time and encourage your unpublished self, what would you say?

< laughing> Observe posted speed while listening to the whooshing sound of the deadline as it races by.

  • What are you working on now?

A second memoir that briefly outlines what I did after leaving the police department, and ultimately focuses on my career working with and training dogs. I was acknowledged with another “first” when I trained the first U.S. cell-phone detection K9 teams for the Virginia Department of Corrections.

The greatest pleasure and success in my life has come from these amazing, wonderful four-legged canines, who love and accept their humans without reservation.

  • Where can people find out more about you and your work?

Go to my website at https://lamblambertauthor.com/ . There are videos, articles, and photos available for review, as well as excerpts from my two published free verse poetry books (Affairs of the Heart, Vols. 1 and 2) and from my memoir.

Our second website (www.lambzauthorsandbeyond.com) is in work and will focus on my K9 training and other endeavors.

Another resource is at https://www.youtube.com/user/k9lamb/videos.

Badge of Color, Breaking the Silence – A Documented Memoir

From southern states cotton fields to California police officer. From Jim Crow south to John Birch, Orange County.

This is a history that must be read by all who have even the slightest interest in the truth of what it was like growing up Black in America. – Daniel Michael Lynem, Sr., Pastor and former Black Panther

Click Here to get your copy.

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Excerpt from A Pinch of Gluttony

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Gluttony is an emotional escape, a sign something is eating us. – Peter De Vries

CHAPTER ONE

Honey marched forward into the maw of the mountains despite the growing gloom of the canyon. Despite the persistent feeling she was being swallowed alive. Despite the fact her feet were killing her.

So was her back, her knees, and her lungs. Honey was out of shape. She could stand in a kitchen for hours at a stretch, but hiking up steep inclines wasn’t a normal part of her day. She trailed behind Booker, her husband, who was as fit as she wasn’t.

Booker was a firefighter, but she bet she put out more fires than he did. If she had his schedule, she’d exercise all the time too. Honey tripped over a rock, put a hand on his shoulder, and righted herself. Okay, she probably wouldn’t, but she would exercise more than she did.

“You okay?” He gazed at her with concern. The look in his eyes made her ashamed of her attitude.

“Yeah. Thanks,” she added.

“The cut off for the falls is right around the bend.”

“But how far to the falls?” She couldn’t seem to get the adolescent whine out of her voice.

“We’ll take a break when we get to the boulders.” Unlike her, Booker sounded energized. He was enjoying his new role as her personal trainer, and anything that made Booker happy these days was something she’d go along with. Which wasn’t to say she didn’t wish it was something else. Something else like a good movie, dinner out, or wine tasting. Most of the time, she was grateful her husband was a hunk. Not today. Today it was downright irritating.

At the end of last year, Honey’s doctor had announced she was insulin resistant, which could turn into type two diabetes if she didn’t make changes. Dr. Hillary also said Honey’s cholesterol was high. If it got any higher she’d have to go on medication. The doctor recommended regular exercise and cutting back on animal fats, simple carbs, and sugar.

Of course, Honey didn’t do anything about the proclamation before Christmas. How could you bake cookies without butter and sugar and white flour? Booker wasn’t happy about it but agreed they could start Honey’s lifestyle makeover in the new year. It was now January, the month of resolution hell, hence the hike in Black Star Canyon.

Before they reached the path to the falls, Honey noticed the entrance to another trail branching off the fire road they were on. A barricade decorated with several pockmarked signs stretched across it. The signs read, “Keep Out,” “Beware of Dogs,” and “No Trespassing.” Were those pockmarks made by bullets? Guns were also outside Honey’s comfort zone. Guns were one of the reasons she and Booker had left Kentucky fifteen years ago. There were too many of them in Kentucky. Hunters shot up the hills every fall. They aimed for deer but took farmers’ cows and even large dogs. It didn’t seem like a safe place to raise a family even if she and Booker had made it out of childhood alive. Thinking about Kentucky reminded her of Joe and their lost money. Her mood soured more if that was possible.

“Friendly around here, aren’t they?” Honey said.

“Well, you can’t blame them. They’ve had their share of troubles.”

“Like what?” She wasn’t especially curious, but a story might take her mind off her feet.

“You know everyone thinks this canyon is haunted, right?”

“I heard it was something to do with Native American burial grounds.”

“Sort of. Back in the eighteen hundreds, the natives were stealing horses from the Mexicans. Some fur trappers rolled into town and offered to take care of things. They found the natives eating horse meat over there.” Booker pointed up the mountain. “They slaughtered everyone who couldn’t outrun the bullets, and returned the live horses to the señors.”

“On your right.” A voice behind Honey made her jump. She turned to see five women in full riding gear pedaling up the hill. She moved to one side and watched them pass, admiring the definition of their thighs. It would be wonderful to have muscles like that. If only you didn’t have to exercise to get them.

“Trail angels,” Booker said.

Honey glanced around, looking for wildlife. “Where?”

Her husband jutted his chin at the cyclists. “Them. It’s a group of mountain bikers. They call themselves Trail Angels. You should look into it. It’d be good for you.”

She didn’t respond. He couldn’t be serious.

Booker made a right onto a dirt trail overhung with branches. The pungent odor of sage and wet leaves pinched Honey’s nose, but the shade was pleasant. She was sweating despite the cool weather.

Booker said if you perspired, it meant you were healthy. She strongly suspected Dr. Hillary had exaggerated her condition. Her thoughts wandered to the frittata she’d make when they got home.

“The dead are said to haunt the old mines and trails of Black Star. The story attracts a certain element.” Booker’s words interrupted the bacon or turkey sausage debate running through her mind.

“Who bothers the locals up here, teens or crazies?” she said, pulling herself out of the kitchen.

“Both.” Booker pushed a branch that crossed the trail aside and held it while she passed. “There are the usual ghost hunters, but there’s also a fair amount of crime. Two girls were gang-raped and their boyfriends beaten to a pulp.”

 Honey’s foot slid forward. She grabbed a tree branch to stop herself from falling. The past week it had rained for several days in a row, which was great for the environment, but the ground was slick. Honey’s tennis shoes didn’t have much traction.

Booker stepped around her and resumed his position as leader of the pack. “There are also Satanist wannabes who’ve been known to steal goats and sheep off local properties and sacrifice them on the rocks.”

Why did he sound so cheerful? He’d been as somber as a turkey on Thanksgiving since Joe had disappeared. Honey shook her head. If she’d known all it would take to perk him up was rape and animal sacrifice, she’d have dragged him to a horror movie.

“The Sheriff’s Department has cracked down on things,” he continued. “But sometimes the locals get a wild hair and take matters into their own hands.”

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It’s a Dog’s World

Posted by Greta Boris Leave a Comment

Some of my favorite characters both in real life and in fiction are of the four-footed variety.

One of my lovely readers sent me a picture of a dog she’s in the process of adopting, and it got me thinking about how important dogs are to many of us. They’re so important to me, I’ve written them into every one of my stories.

In light of that, I’ve decided to do a round-up over the next few months of all my doggy characters and feature adoptable dogs who look like them. Hope you enjoy the posts and maybe find a new friend in the process!

Rocket – A Margin of Lust

Rocket is Gwen and Art’s black lab mix from A Margin of Lust. He doesn’t play a huge role in the book other than to provide a bit of comic relief. When the storms of the big battle scenes of the story start, we find out Rocket isn’t much of a watchdog. He’s terrified of thunder and lightning.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Thunder rumbled through the night air. “Well, I don’t.” Tyler’s chin tilted to the treetops. “I want to sleep in the tent.” Rocket must have felt the same way. Art watched their brave defender slink across the dirt on his belly and disappear into the Coleman six-man tent.

He emerges in Chapter Fifty when the storm is over: A small earthquake erupted under Art’s bed. A moment later a hot tongue slapped his cheek, and dog breath filled his nostrils.

My inspiration dog is Dominic. He’s available for adoption from Lucky Lab Rescue! Check out their website to see the adoptable dogs in your area. Click here to view Dominc.

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