"Just take the picture Aging Gal, then leave me to my snack." --Jack the Dog
As some of you may know, I recently published a new book, Mothers, Daughters, and Other Mysteries. It’s my first mystery novel and, as the reviews say, it’s “a great summer treat” (though that review was written by Jack the Dog who loves treats and, in a pinch, is satisfied to nosh on the pages of my book). This morning, I was lucky enough to be interviewed about the book on TV, so as a treat for you (Jack’s idea), here’s an excerpt from the novel to whet your appetite:
Chapter One
“You killed my father. You took my job. And now you’ve stolen my husband. Slime like you doesn’t deserve to live.”
The attractive young woman barely registers emotion as she points the gun.
An older woman stares at the pistol’s open barrel. She is cool, but not quite as chilled as her nemesis. “But, darling, I’m not any slime. I’m your mother.”
“I want to be an orphan.” And with that, the younger woman pulls the trigger.
The mother falls back, grabbing at her chest. She looks at her blood-stained hand. This wound is indeed fatal. She slowly turns to her daughter. There are tears – and surprise – in her eyes. In her final breath, she says to her offspring, “It’s about time you were a success at something.”
Then she falls to the ground, dead.
The daughter stands looking over her mother for a moment longer, then runs out of the room. The mother lies motionless on the floor, blood trickling from her wound. Silence. A long silence. A deafeningly long silence.
Then with great annoyance, the mother suddenly lifts her head. “Would somebody yell ‘cut’? Hello? I’d like to get up before I’m really dead.”
“Sorry, Ava. Got lost in the scenery.” This is said by the director, a once hot primetime television helmer, now relegated to daytime. He blows a kiss to the five-foot-nine hundred-pound blonde who was his distraction. “Cut! That’s a wrap! Good hiatus, everybody!”
Several production assistants help the actress up from her death pose, as other crew members applaud her work. Meet Ava Gerard, star of the soap opera Day After Day.
“Beautiful scene, darling,” says Harold Butterman, Day After Day’s creator and executive producer, who waits for Ava by the craft service table with two flutes and a newly corked bottle of 1993 Dom Perignon. Its value of $450 a bottle proves that Ava is indeed his star and, maybe, to Harold, a little more.
“What’s this?” Ava asks.
“A toast. To the Queen of Daytime. Long may she reign.”
“So what happens after I’m miraculously resurrected?”
“You’re going to become demon possessed,” Harold says, chuckling. “I like the irony, the devil taking over the body of my angel.”
“You are such a flirt.”
“A good producer knows how to talk to his star.”
A reporter walks into the conversation. “Excuse me, Ms. Gerard, I’m from Daytime Drama Times. You have a minute?”
Ava turns to Harold, whispering through a clenched smile. “You let press on the set?”
“A good producer also knows how to plug his show,” he replies.
Simultaneously, Ava and Harold turn and smile for the camera. The paparazzo flashes off a picture as he asks: “How do you feel about the upcoming Daytime Emmys? Is this finally your year to walk away with best actress?”
“Oh, please. The media makes such a big deal out of this. What really matters to me, corny as it may sound, is that I get to make a living doing what I love. And to know that my peers respect my work enough to just nominate me for twenty-one years in a row is, honestly, reward enough.”
“One solo picture if you would, Ms. Gerard.” She poses; he snaps. “Thank you so much. And good luck at the Emmys next week.”
As he walks away, Ava turns to Harold. “Promise me one thing.”
“Name it.”
“If I don’t win this time, kill me for real.”
“And let you out of your contract? No way.”
“You forget it’s up at the end of the year.”
With an exaggerated gesture, Harold says, “Oh, that’s right. Here, have some more champagne and we’ll negotiate.” He pours. “So where are you going on this rare vacation?”
“Well, since I’m going to New York for the Emmys anyway, I thought I’d spend the week there visiting my daughter.”
“How is Leann?”
“Great. Absolutely fantastic. Men falling at her feet. Business clients knocking down her door.”
Chapter Two
My office door reads “Leann Conklin’s Elite Dating Service.” Truth be told, there’s nothing elite about it.
Good news is my work is not hard. In fact, there’s hardly any of it at all. The only work I’ve done all day is on this bag of peanut M&Ms. But I’m not lazy. I have no aversion to taking on the big jobs. After all, this is the five pound bag of M&Ms.
It’s almost five o’clock and I’m down to the last few M&Ms when there’s a knock on my door. I stash my vice quickly and, as securely as I can muster without choking on the remnants of candy shell, yell, “Come in.”
Boy, he is a cutie. A well dressed Wall Street type, about my age, but a little above my dating grade. Makes me wish I’d put on makeup this morning. And washed my hair. And lost thirty pounds.
“Sorry to bother you,” he says.
“No. No bother at all. Please. Come in. Sit down. Tell me a little about yourself. We’ll get you dating in no time.”
“I was just wondering if you could point me in the direction of the men’s room.”
“Sure, I could do that. But first let me tell you a little about the dating service.”
“No, thanks. I’m married.”
“Well, you have friends, don’t you? Single friends?”
He starts backing out the door. “Uh, no. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I can find the bathroom on my own.”
“If you find any single guys in there, send them my way.” As he leaves – practically running down the hallway – I realize what a pushy bitch I can be. Excessive sugar makes me nutso. I’ve got to stop this binging. I pick up the M&Ms with every intention of throwing them away. And then think, tomorrow.
I finish the bag as I dial the phone. The ditz on the other end answers, as always, “Tony Cavaliere’s office.”
“Hi,” I say, forcing myself to sound pleasant. “Is he in?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Leann.”
“Leann..?”
“Conklin.”
“And who are you with?”
“Him. I’m his girlfriend.” For three years now. Dumb bitch.
“Well, I’ll let him know when he calls in for messages.”
“Wait. He’s out of town?”
“Vegas.”
“Vegas?”
“And Hawaii next week.”
“Business in Hawaii?”
“Honeymoon. He eloped.”
“With who?”
“His secretary. I’m a temp.”
I slowly hang up, contemplating how to kill myself. Or, better yet, him.
I walk, zombie-like, to my filing cabinet, and open one drawer, then another. Five files. Five lousy files. My total number of clients. None of whom are still clients. And not because I found them their “happily ever afters.”
As I exit the office, I grab a thick black magic marker and turn off the lights. I already don’t know how I’m paying this month’s rent. I close the door and as my final act of work, use the marker to cross off “Elite Dating Service.” It’s all I can do not to cross off my name. I am, let’s face it, as useless as a person can get.
To read how Leann and Ava fall into a murder mystery together and try to get out of it without getting killed or killing each other, order the book at Amazon or at Barnes & Noble.
