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Archive for December, 2007

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Separate Worlds
By Nancy Minnis Damato
Wings e-Press, Inc.
Copyright 2007
General Fiction/Historical
Series (Book III)

Available on Amazon

The story of the Taylor family saga continues in this the third and final installment, Separate Worlds. Under the skillful pen of talented author Nancy Minnis Damato, the tale reaches a heart-wrenching and fully satisfying conclusion.

Willful and red-headed beauty Taylor is about to come face to face with the most difficult moment of her life—indeed, the most difficult moment for any mother—losing her beloved daughter. For those of you who have read the previous books, the event is not surprising, as you all are familiar with Taylor’s handsome yet incredibly cruel and merciless ex-lover, a charismatic Italian count who is now set on revenge. Since he cannot have her, he will go to extremes to make Taylor suffer. In this case, he decides to abduct his own daughter with Taylor. Needless to say, the struggle and pain she goes through are unimaginable—hunger, poverty, even being kept prisoner in jail. But Taylor will go through anything in order to save her daughter and re-unite with her—especially now that her daughter is under the clutches of the Count’s wife, who’s set on revenge no matter what.

Though the mother-daughter line is the main plot, there are many subplots that revolve around the First World War taking place in Europe. Taylor’s son is away as a soldier, and so is the Count himself. With yet other characters in other parts of Europe, the reader cannot help but wonder… will the family ever unite? Will the pain and struggle go away so they can become a happy, united family after so much darkness and betrayal?

It is impossible to fully enjoy this novel without having read the first two books in the series first. I strongly advice readers to do so in order to understand the characters and their dark legacy. The novel seems to be extremely well researched, grabbing the reader into an imaginary world. The characters are compelling and the storyline interesting. The book also has some intriguing twists and turns. What really stands out, however, is Taylor’s struggle as she goes in search of her young daughter. Some passages were so poignant they really brought tears to my eyes. Heart-wrenching, stirring and thoroughly enjoyable, Separate Worlds is a story fans of historical fiction will devour.

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http://www.bottlecapbooks.com

Hundreds of books on writing are available on the market these days. I try to get my hands on any new writing book that comes out, even though most of them end up being repetitive in one way or the other. I was pleasantly surprised by Bessler's book because, while it touches on the same topics which other similar books touch upon, this one does it in more depth and detail. Definitely it's a 'heavier' book and a longer read than titles such as Writing Down the Bones. Furthermore, because of Bessler's more formal writing style, it is a harder book to read and one that would be better appreciated by nonfiction writers, especially by legal writers.

Writing for Life isn't a grammar book, though it stresses its importance and recommends titles on the subject. Using lots of interesting quotes from some of the great writers and offering helpful tips, the author meticulously discusses a long list of topics such as the importance of daily practice, perseverance, discipline, style, editing, polishing and revising, storytelling, and freewriting. He also writes about procrastination and writer's block–what it is and how to cure it. As I said, these are the same topics that pop out in any writing book, but the difference here is that Bessler goes much deeper and examines the issues in more detail. He's an attorney and it shows in the writing. I particularly enjoyed his insight into the elusive concept of 'style'. 

Writing for Life is a smart, insightful and sophisticated book. It is also well researched and would serve as a fine addition to any writer's reference bookshelf.

 

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Double Daggers is a fascinating story about a cursed coin and the four men who become affected by it across the ages. To read my review of this novel, visit The Slippery Book Review Blog. The author was kind enough to take time of out of his busy schedule to take part in this interview.

Welcome to The Dark Phantom Review, James. Why don’t you start by telling us a bit about your book, and what inspired you to write such a story?

Double Daggers is a story about a curse that spans the ages. The curse begins with the assassination of Julius Caesar on the Ides of March. The chief conspirator in the assassination is Marcus Brutus, a man long rumored to be Caesar's illegitimate son. Immediately after Caesar's murder, Brutus mints a coin celebrating his role in the heinous plot. Today, that coin is known as the Eids of March or Double Dagger Denarius, and it is the most famous coin in all of ancient antiquity. Double Daggers is the story of four men's unrelenting obsession to acquire the coin, and what befalls them once they finally have it in their possession.

The four men are: Marcus Brutus, a knight traveling on the Crusades, an SS lieutenant under Hitler, and a modern day Wall Street trader. But these men have something more in common than just their obsession to possess the famous coin—And that is the true mystery and curse of the Double Daggers.

My inspiration for this story came from the fact that I collect ancient coins, especially ones that have historical importance. Double Daggers originally was published as a short story set in the present. Then I got the idea that it would be neat to go back in time and write a novel that begins with the assassination of Caesar and follows four men through very different time-periods throughout history.

How would you describe your creative process while writing this novel? Was it stream-of-consciousness writing, or did you first write an outline? How long did it take you to write it?

I would describe it as haphazard. Double Daggers was a challenge to write because it is set in four different time periods: the Roman Empire, The Crusades, World War II and New York City in the present. But the characters in each time period are similar, at least in their motivations, flaws, and obsessions.

The book took about three years to finish but that includes many stops and starts and even months of not working on it at all. Double Daggers took me a little longer to write than others because of the research that was necessary do to the different time periods in history.

Have you ever suffered from writer’s block? What seems to work for unleashing your creativity?

No, I really haven’t. I’m just happy to find any time to write which seems to be my biggest problem. So when I do find some time to work on a story, I’m generally so excited the words just come out without much difficulty. Like many writers today it is a difficult balancing act— pursuing the literary endeavors while working a full-time job, promoting your book, and keeping the family happy.

How was your experience in looking for a publisher? What words of advice would you offer those novice authors who are in search of one?

I’m not good at giving advice but I would say to anyone struggling to find a publisher— get your books out in the public domain anyway possible, and then, probably more importantly, get out and promote and sell your books because no one else is going to do it for you. And, of course, keep writing new material.

My publisher (who has been around for forty years) has a interesting take on what it takes to get published now-a-days. He says, “Don’t believe in that old Writers Digest mantra that if you can only become good enough then the big NY publishers will publish your work. In today’s corporate publishing environment if you create a following and establish a proven sales record then the big publishers will find you.”

The closest author, I can think of, that would be considered a long-lasting overnight success is John Grisham. Yet, his first book was rejected by everyone and his second book was published by a small Mississippi press. He went out and sold his books out of the trunk of his car and one got into the right hands and, of course, the rest is history. Another example is Tom Clancy. He received something like 43 rejection letters until a tiny Naval Press gave him a shot.

As writers we are all at different levels and have different aspirations and ideas of what success is, but whether you are interested in finding a small press, a more pretegious “small” publisher, or the “big-time” NY publisher, the bottom-line is you have to be directly involved in promoting and selling not only your work but yourself.

What type of book promotion seems to work the best for you?

My books are fiction but I have numismatic elements to them so I have a bit of a niche market. We do a lot of targeted marketing through mailers and placing ads in trade magazines. I also have booths at coin shows and I spend a lot of time trying to come up with non-traditional ways to sell my books. An example of the non-traditional market that has worked for me is that a relative of mine owns an auto-repair center and they sell a couple hundred copies of my books ever year.

What is your favorite book of all time? Why?

Wow! I guess the easy way out this question would be to say that is almost impossible to pick just one and to say that it is a body of all the authors and their works that comprise my favorite. But I know that is no fun, so I will say (at least at this very moment) that my favorite book of all time is . . . Justininan by H.N. Turtletaub.

I think the reason I liked the book so much was the way the Byzantine ruler Justinian was portrayed in the story. Unlike how the present media portrays events and people, everything in life is not simply black and white. People are complex and fascinating both in good and bad ways, and so is life.

I loved this book because with every chapter I experienced different feelings towards Justinian. I think he was a lot like most of us—He tries to go through life and do the best he can with what he has. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t but no matter whether Justinian was on the top of the world or at the bottom, he lived his life with a great passion and a love of just existing.

Do you have a website/blog where readers may learn more about you and your work?

www.jrclifford.com

Do you have another novel on the works? Would you like to tell readers about your current or future projects?

Double Daggers is my second novel and I just finished a new one that I am excited about.

The story is about what happens when a successful family man who has more cracks underneath his surface than a shattered mirror collides with a Cherokee curse, a fortune in gold coins stolen before the Civil War and the discovery of his family’s darkest secrets—Ten Days to Madness.

The book is set over ten days and like Double Daggers it is a work of fiction with a numismatic element to it. In Ten Days to Madness the chief character discovers a diary written by one of his ancestor and the diary makes him obsessed with finding an ancient burial cave in the Appalachian Mountains that, according to his ancestor, contains a fortune in Bechtler gold coins.

The Bechtler coins really existed and they were produced at a mint in Rutherfordton, North Carolina during the mid 1800s.

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Starting December 11th until the 23rd travel to a new blog for a Christmas story, recipe and prize giveaway. The prizes will range from print books to gift certificates to goodie baskets!

Here’s the schedule of the chica-lit stars:

12.11.07: Mary Castillo, author of Switchcraft

12.12.07: Berta Platas, author of Cinderella Lopez

12.13.07: Mayra Calvani, author of Dark Lullaby (That’s me and I’ll post my story here at The Dark Phantom!)

12.14.07: Caridad Pineiro, author of Holiday With a Vampire

12.15.07: Lara Rios, author of Becoming Americana

12.16.07: Caridad Ferrer, author of It’s Not About the Accent

12.17.07: Margo Candela, author of Life Over Easy

12.18.07: Kathy Cano Murillo, author of Crafty Chica’s Art de la Soul

12.19.07: Tracy Montoya, author of Telling Secrets

12.20.07: Jamie Martinez Wood, author of Latino Writers & Journalists and Rogelia’s House of Magic (coming summer 2008)

12.21.07: Misa Ramirez, author of Lola PI: Living the Vida Lola (January 2009 from St. Martin’s Press)

12.22.07: Sofia Quintero, author of Juicy Mangos

12.23.07: Toni Margarita Plummer, author and editor

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A Complete Guide to Promoting and Selling Your Self-Published Ebook
by Dorothy Thompson

http://www.pumpupyourbookpromotion.com

With the rise of the internet, electronic book publishing has become extremely popular. It’s relatively easy and inexpensive to create an ebook and sell it from a website. The hard part comes afterwards. Once the book is published, how do you promote it? How do you let the people know that it’s available? How do you boost sales?

A Complete Guide to Promoting and Selling Your Self-Published Ebook is full of tips and ideas to help you find your niche audience and sell your book. The internet is full of promotional opportunities, but it can be hard to find these venues and decide what works best. Dorothy Thompson has done the homework already, so following her advice, this book can be used as a primer for your promotional efforts. I also found that this is the type of advice which can be used for promoting all types of books and not necessarily only self-published ebooks.

In Thompson’s own words, this book will teach you:

*Why self-publishing eBooks is one of the most viable
ways of earning added income

*How you can make more money publishing it yourself
than having an e-publisher do it

*How to optimize your web site for full impact and get a
top ten ranking in all the major search engines

*How to set up an eBook selling page that will have
everyone begging to buy

*How to syndicate your own articles with clickable links
that will take you right to the submitting page in most
cases

*How to get FREE exposure on radio talk shows and a
list of talk shows that are looking for authors to
interview

*What directories to list your eBook at no cost to you

*How sending press releases can double your profit
including 41 press release companies that will send out
your press release for FREE

*How to give away eBooks to sell eBooks

*How to develop a guerilla marketing plan geared
toward your eBook’s subject and how to put it in action
for best results

Thompson, a publicist and relationship expert, writes in a light, friendly and straight-forward style that also makes this book enjoyable to read. In sum, this book contains an amalgam of valuable information and resources on book promotion and should be on the virtual shelf of every author who is serious about selling books. More information about this book may be found on the author’s website at http://www.pumpupyourbookpromotion.com.

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Laurel, MD–December 1, 2007—FIRE! You see it on the news, on the Internet, in the papers, but if it doesn’t strike close to home it’s easy to ignore. With one e-mail sent by publisher Karen Syed to 21 authors, “The Heat of the Moment” was developed. Each of the authors, the youngest being sixteen years old, involved in this remarkable collection of short stories has made a pledge. Contributors, authors, editors, and artist, have all committed their royalties to benefit the survivors of the San Diego fires of 2007.

Local Librarian and Author, Heather S. Ingemar will have her story, “Firedreams,” featured in this anthology. “Firedreams” tells of one woman’s supernatural encounter when a truly ‘hot’ stranger answers her newspaper ad for her rented room.

Heather S. Ingemar has loved to play with words since she was little, and it wasn’t long until she started writing her own stories. A musician since the age of five (piano, saxophone, violin, pennywhistle and Irish flute), she completed a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature in December of 2006. She and her husband reside on the family cattle ranch, where she takes great delight in thinking up new stories to tell.

“The Heat of the Moment” is a compilation of twenty short stories with one common theme—fire. From fantasies to tributes remembering historical catastrophes, chilling and moving, the stories will tap human emotions with their overwhelming credit to survival.

The Fire Safe Council of San Diego County (FSCSDC) was formed in 1997 and is comprised of a 15-member Board of Directors (voting members). The Board consists of federal, state, and local agencies and stakeholders as determined by the FSCSDC. The FSCSDC is a 501(c)3 non-profit organization, is incorporated under the California Franchise Tax Board. The FSCSDC is a member of the California Fire Safe Council, a non-profit corporation, and is authorized to use the name “Fire Safe Council” and the FSC logo. All FSCSDC Council members have common goals of fire safety education and pre-fire management, attend meetings, and participate in SDCFSC programs and activities.

Echelon Press, LLC, is an independent publishing house based in Laurel, MD. With ninety authors in their three divisions, Echelon Press has spent nearly seven years cultivating a stable of authors ranging from beginners to national award winners. Echelon authors are located across America as well as in New Zealand, Australia, Israel, and Canada.

A listing of all parties contributing to “The Heat of the Moment” is available upon request. The list includes story titles and author locations.

For review copies, requests for interviews, and author events, please contact Karen L. Syed at echelonpress@comcast.net.

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Today on the Dark Phantom is Roberta Isleib, author of the psychological mystery PREACHING TO THE CORPSE. Join her as she virtually tours the blogosphere in December on her first virtual book tour with Pump Up Your Book Promotion Virtual Book Tours!

The Author…
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New Jersey born clinical psychologist Roberta Isleib took up writing mysteries to justify too much bad golf. Her Cassie Burdette series featuring a neurotic golfer and a sports psychologist was nominated for an Agatha and two Anthony awards. Her new mystery series debuted in March with DEADLY ADVICE, starring a psychologist/advice columnist. PREACHING TO THE CORPSE will follow in December 2007.

Roberta is the president of National Sisters in Crime, and the former president of the New England Chapter. She has had articles published in Golf for Women, Mystery Scene Magazine, National Golfer, Tee Time Magazine, and the New Haven Register. Her short story “Disturbance in the Field” (published in SEASMOKE by Level Best Books) was nominated for both Agatha and Macavity awards. You can visit Roberta’s website at www.robertaisleib.com.

The Book…

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The holidays have arrived in postcard-perfect Guilford, CT, but someone’s taking the joy out of the season…

Psychologist/advice columnist Dr. Rebecca Butterman gets a call in the middle of night from the minister at her church. He’s in custody after going to a fellow parishioner’s home and finding her dead. The murdered matron was the leader of a search committee charged with finding a new assistant pastor after the previous assistant left in a rush. The minister begs Rebecca to intervene.She learns that the committee was divided–has someone tried to eliminate the competition? Rebecca puts her analytical skills to work to do her own search–for a killer–all while resisting the urge to break the seventh commandment with a very married detective, and praying she’s not the next victim.

Excerpt…

Chapter One

The phone jarred me out of a restless sleep.

“Dr. Butterman?”

I groped for the clock radio. 12:18. It was pitch dark and my mind swirled with dream riffs.

“Rebecca? Are you there? It’s Reverend Wesley Sandifer. Sorry to wake you.” His voice sounded tremulous and strained.

My lizard brain—home of primitive fears and fight-or-flight reactions—kicked in: “Minister plus phone call after midnight equals disaster.” Years of training as a clinical psychologist couldn’t protect me from a rush of nightmarish possibilities and dread.

My sister Janice? My niece Brittany? My dearest girlfriends, Angie or Annabelle? The image of a terrible car wreck, pulsing red flesh and twisted metal, flashed into mind. But why would any of the people I loved most be driving in the middle of the night? And how the hell would Reverend Wesley know? My heart pounded and my hands slicked up so much I almost dropped the phone.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered fiercely. “What happened?”

“I’m sorry to bother you at this hour,” he said again, his voice growing shrill. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I need your help.”

I logged a reassuring observation: Besides the comforting words, he hadn’t cloaked himself in the sorry-to-have-to-tell-you-this tone that preceded breaking bad news.

“We have a situation.” He cleared his throat and paused.

“Could you be a little more specific?” I asked, feeling the adrenalin sluicing through my veins shift to annoyance at being woken up and frightened out of my gourd.

“I’m going to put Detective Meigs on, if that’s okay.” I heard rustling and mumbling then Meigs’s voice.

“Dr. Butterman? I’m with the Reverend Wesley Sandifer at the emergency facility on Exit 59.”

I hadn’t expected to hear Detective Meigs’s deep rumble any time soon—not ever, really. Midnight observation number two: He and I were back to formal salutations.

We’d made an unexpected connection after I stumbled into one of his cases last fall. But I’m single and he isn’t. End of drama, curtain falls, as my practical friend Annabelle would say. Only it wasn’t really the end, if you counted flashbacks and dreams in which the sighing damsel (me) was rescued over and over by the muscular though well-padded redheaded cop (him). It was enough to make any card-carrying feminist cringe.

The partial fog in my mind began to lift. “Is Reverend Wesley hurt?”

“Not exactly,” said Meigs, sighing heavily. “You’re a member of the Shoreline Congregational Church?”

He was looking for religion at midnight? I was too tired to answer anything but “yes.”

“There’s been a suspicious death,” Meigs said. “We’d like to get this sorted out before the news hits the coffee shops in the morning. Can you possibly come down? The reverend insists he won’t talk to anyone but you,” he continued, his exasperation plain. Clearly he thought this utter crapola. I had to agree. I’m a psychologist, not a detective. Or a lawyer—if that’s what he needed.

My brain shifted one gear higher, trying to put the pieces together. “Good God! Was Wesley involved in the death?”

“He called it in,” said Meigs, not saying what everyone knows from TV: whoever finds the body is a damn good suspect.

“Trust me, Reverend Wesley wouldn’t kill anyone.” Another shock wave of fear rocketed through me. “Who died?”

“Lacy Bailes.”

I felt the air whoosh out of my lungs, as if I’d been socked in the gut. Maybe he had it wrong; maybe it wasn’t her at all. I was just getting to know Lacy—a big woman with a forbidding exterior, but all heart underneath. My mouth watered with budding nausea.

“When can you get here?” Meigs asked. “Should I send a patrol car?”

I didn’t want to get involved with another tragedy; I’d barely recovered from the stress of my next-door neighbor’s death in September. “What am I supposed to do once I’m there?”

Meigs was silent for a moment. “Reverend Wesley says he’ll talk to me if you’re here. Look, he hasn’t been arrested. Yet. You might make a big difference with that.”

“I’ll be down in half an hour.”

I pulled on my warmest sweats, heavy gray fleece pants and a hoodie whose princess seams could not disguise the seven pounds of winter padding I’d packed on earlier in the season. Being held at gunpoint by a lunatic back in September had had the effect of increasing my appetite and decreasing my self-control.

I glanced in the mirror, then stripped the sweats back off, exchanging the Michelin Man look for jeans and a holiday sweater, refusing to think about why I would spend more than one minute dressing for our minister and the local ER. Refusing to think about what could have happened to Lucy Bailes. Grabbing my purse and a small notebook, I headed out to the garage.

A plume of exhaust drifted under the Honda as I backed into the street. Babette Finster’s white Christmas lights glowed softly on the large holly bushes on either side of her front walk. I could feel the hairs in my nose freeze up before the heater kicked in. It was unusually cold for December and clear enough to see a picture-book display of stars. We’d had six inches of snow in the last week and not one flake had melted.

I turned the radio up, looking for company. An all night station was playing a run of sappy Christmas tunes. I suffered through “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” then Paul McCartney crooning about having a wonderful Christmas time. He was a Beatle for God’s sake, an icon of rock and roll. Couldn’t his manager—or his wife—have saved him before he sank to the lowest common denominator of holiday schlock?

McCartney’s faux cheeriness couldn’t push back the worried possibilities that waited to surge forward if I gave them any room. Reverend Wesley a murderer? It didn’t seem possible that he would hurt anyone, certainly not Lacy. They were always cordial in my presence. In fact he’d handpicked her to head the search committee currently working to find a new assistant minister. This was one of Wesley’s strong points—persuading lay people to take up the heavy yoke of church business in return for no pay and lots of second-guessing from the rest of the congregation.

I felt a little twinge of small-minded dismay. What did he want from me? Enough! I ordered. You’ll find out when you get there. My mind glided seamlessly to Detective Meigs. What was the status of his wife’s illness? STOP! STOP!

I turned off Route One, drove under I-95, and pulled into the Shoreline Emergency Clinic’s driveway. Quite a few cars were parked in the front visitors’ lot, even though most people in our little Connecticut town are fast asleep at this hour.

I picked my way across the blacktop, boots crunching on small pyramids of compacted snow—and slipped on a patch of ice. Arms flailing, I crashed onto my butt. A sharp pain radiated from my buttock and down my right thigh. I lay on the pavement, moaning, and assessed the damage: bruised hip and pride. I rolled to my knees and staggered up.

Meigs was waiting at the front door, the smile on his lips not quite reaching his worried eyes.

“You all right?”

Was he interested in the sequelae of my awkward landing or the deeper psychological ramifications of this past fall’s events? I chose to grunt out “fine.” Meigs looked more tired than when I’d seen him several months ago: cheeks a little more chiseled, circles under his eyes a darker hue. His close-cropped curls glinted gold-red with a spritz of silver under the bright lights of the front portico.

Forget it, Rebecca, I scolded myself. “What happened?” I asked curtly. “Why am I really here?”

“Your reverend seems to be flipping out,” Meigs said. He strode ahead of me through the waiting area, detouring around a woman vomiting into a trash can and an older man with his head wrapped in a bloody towel. We pushed through two sets of glass doors and walked down the hallway toward the back of the clinic. “He called 911 and reported an emergency. He says he stopped into Lacy Bailes’s condominium and found her very sick.”

“So she isn’t dead!” I exclaimed, weak with relief.

“She’s definitely dead. They worked on her for almost two hours before they gave up. We haven’t been able to get a sensible word out of Reverend Wesley since, and he insisted on speaking to you. The doc on call has been too busy to formally evaluate him.” He glanced back at me and grimaced. “We had three choices: Put him in jail, take him to the Yale emergency room, or give him a half a Valium and call you.” He shrugged. “We’re trying you first.”

I stopped still. “But if Lacy was ill, why would you even consider putting Wesley in jail?”

Meigs turned to face me, lowering his voice. “She had all the classic symptoms of a heart attack. But the doc got suspicious about poison and called me in. We can’t be certain until the autopsy results come back. That could be days—we need permission from next of kin, and nothing happens on a damn weekend. Obviously, I’m exaggerating about an arrest tonight, but it’s imperative that your reverend tell us everything he knows.”

We rounded the corner and passed through another set of double doors, these painted deep purple. Reverend Wesley was slumped in a blue plastic chair in a mini-waiting area, his white shirt rumpled and marked with rings of sweat. His eyes were closed and he held a dog-eared copy of People magazine on his lap.

“Wesley?”

As the minister popped up to hold out his hand, the magazine dropped to the floor, open to an article about celebrity cheating. “The Ultimate Betrayal!” the headline brayed.

“Thank goodness you’re here.”

I squeezed his fingers gently. “What happened? Are you all right?” With most people in this situation, I would have rushed forward to offer a hug. Reverend Wesley’s body language didn’t welcome that kind of consolation.

“Let’s find a room where we can talk more comfortably,” said Meigs. He strode down the hall, poked his head into one of the doors, then waved us down. “Can I get you some coffee? Water?”

I almost smiled. Flight attendant Meigs: who’d have guessed? Wesley and I shook our heads as we settled into more plastic chairs on either side of an examining table. Wesley’s gaze shifted to the metal stirrups and quickly back to the floor. Meigs perched on a rolling stool near the medicine cabinet. I reached diagonally across the white paper-covered table to shorten the distance between Wesley’s hand and mine.

Meigs pulled out his Palm pilot and cleared his throat. “Start from the beginning please, Reverend, and take us through what happened tonight.”

Wesley patted his lips and combed through his hair with his fingers. His nails, ordinarily as fastidious as a hand model’s, were filthy.

“I had an appointment to talk with Lacy at eight.” His eyes filled and he snuffled into the back of his hand. I rummaged through my purse, extracted a tissue, and handed it over.

“You had an appointment to talk about what?” Meigs prompted.

“The search committee, of course,” said Reverend Wesley. He closed his eyes, clenched his hands on the examining table, and lowered his forehead to his fists.

“Lacy was chairing the committee charged with locating an assistant pastor to serve under Reverend Wesley,” I said to Meigs. “Our former assistant found a new job and left rather precipitously. But nothing moves quickly in a church bureaucracy. And we have a large congregation. It’s been quite a stretch, hasn’t it, trying to meet everyone’s needs?” I patted the white paper on the table. “We do have an intern,” I added inanely.

Wesley lifted his head and stared at me, his pupils dilated. Valium or shock? I wondered.

“Will you take over as chair?”

I sucked in a deep breath, noticing the sharp tang of his body odor and a waft of disinfectant. “Wesley, listen to me. The search committee is the least of your problems.” I glanced quickly at Meigs. Leaning closer, I squeezed the minister’s wrist and whispered: “You could be arrested for murder here.”

“No!” he said, shaking me off, a glazed look in his eyes. “Of course I didn’t kill her! She was barely conscious when I got there. She was having trouble breathing. That’s why I called the clinic.”

“How did you get into the house, Reverend?” Meigs asked. “It doesn’t sound like she was in any condition to answer her door.”

Wesley’s cheeks flushed pink. “She was expecting me. When she didn’t answer my knocking, I went in. I had a feeling something was wrong.”

“So you arrived at eight, discovered her on the couch a few minutes later, and called 911 right after that?”

Wesley nodded, the movements of his head a little sloppy. “We were so close to filling the position. We have two interviews scheduled: Paul Cashman on Monday; he’s our intern who’s finishing up at Yale this spring.” He glanced at his watch and pressed his palm to his eyes. “And Ellen Dark’s on her way down from New Hampshire, if she isn’t already here. She’s spending the weekend in Madison. She wants to check out the area. The committee is going to interview her Sunday night.” He spread his delicate but grubby hands wide, a beseeching look on his face. “Both highly qualified, of course. If we put this off any longer, we’ll lose them and have to start from scratch. We simply can’t go on without another minister.”

Meigs was right—Wesley did appear to be losing his mind. “We could always hire someone temporarily—”

“No!” he yelped. “Don’t you understand? We’ve already done the work!”

I patted his arm, cooing softly until he settled down.

“I found her,” he whimpered. “When I got to her house, she was almost—dead.” His hand wandered to his chest, plucking at his wool scarf. His eyes welled with tears. “Will you do it? Join the committee, I mean?” He began to cough, a sharp bark, thick with phlegm. Meigs handed him a small box of tissues from the counter and rolled his stool back a few inches.

“When you arrived, she looked sick?”

“I already told you,” Wesley snapped. He took a ragged breath. “I’m sorry. She was so pale. And her breathing was labored and her skin was clammy.” His eyes bulged as he coughed again. “It looked like a heart attack.”

“Did you try CPR?” I asked.

He stared blankly. “Nothing I could do was going to bring her back. Nothing.” With his hands to his mouth, the last words were mumbled. “So I called 911.” His head wobbled, as if the weight was too much for his neck. “I learned CPR twenty-five years ago—never took a refresher. I was afraid to hurt her.”

“Did you see anyone on the way in or out of her apartment?” Meigs asked.

Wesley shrugged his shoulders. “No. Will you—” he looked at me and hacked helplessly—”join the committee?”

“Of course I’ll help.”

Meigs frowned and tipped his head toward the hall. I excused myself and followed him out.

“I think he’s suffering from a version of post-traumatic shock,” I said to Meigs, who was leaning against the wall. “He’s not thinking straight.”

He raised his eyebrows, one a quarter-inch higher than the other.

“He wants to appoint me to the vacant slot on the search committee. Why would he be so worried about that at a time like this?”

Meigs straightened, spreading his hands. “Spell it out.”

“Lacy Bailes chaired the group that was choosing a new assistant minister.” I bit my lip, organizing my thoughts; he’d want to know everything. “Because we had an intern coming on board, we skipped the interim minister step this time.”

He scratched his head and shrugged. “I’m Catholic,” he said. “By upbringing anyway. We don’t choose our priests; they’re sent from on high. You’ll have to explain the procedure.”

I sighed. “When a minister leaves, the church is supposed to choose an interim pastor. This guy—or woman—helps the congregation mourn the old minister and make an emotional attachment to the new leader.”

Meigs shook his head. “Greek to me.””

“Put it this way, the interim pastor is sort of like a foster parent. Churches that don’t follow the protocol run the risk of ending up with an attachment disorder.” I was beginning to sound like a pamphlet from the church’s central office.

“So let me get this straight,” Meigs said, yawning and pulling on his left ear, “you were supposed to hire someone to help you recover from your previous minister?”

“Not only this particular minister,” I said impatiently. Right now it seemed like a stupid process and impossible to explain. “It’s a specialty—clergy who go from church to church for short periods of transition. We call them interim pastors.”

“Sounds to me like it’s the interim ministers who have attachment disorders,” said Meigs.

I stared at him, then glanced at my watch. “One-thirty in the morning and you’re a comedian. I’d like to know why my pastor went to this woman’s home for a meeting on a Friday night.”

“We’d both like to know that,” Meigs said briskly. “And then an hour later she turns up dead. What can you tell me about Ms. Bailes?”

I sucked in a breath. Funny how you can see someone every Sunday, even talk with them in coffee hour, and still hardly know them at all. But I liked her. My eyes teared up. And I’d given Wesley my only Kleenex.

“She was single. She works—worked—for an insurance company in Hartford.” What if I’d known her better, taken more time? STOP! I wasn’t going down that road with Lacy: it’d brought nothing but agony with my dead neighbor. A tear started down my cheek. “I’m so tired. I can’t really think.”

Meigs frowned. “Fine, we’ll talk in the morning. Meanwhile, do you think the Reverend’s gone bonkers?”

I blotted my face with my sleeve and cracked a small smile. “You won’t find that diagnosis in the DSM –V. But probably not a bad idea to keep him for observation overnight and get an official psychiatric consult.”

“And not a terrible idea to have you sit on that committee,” said Meigs. “Just don’t start thinking you’re on the case. Or the clock.” He pressed on before I could cut him off. “You’re a damn good observer and your minister seems to trust you. And I have a feeling there are going to be gnarly confidentiality issues before we’re through. Think it over. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

He wheeled back into the exam room. I was dismissed. “Can I say good night to the reverend?” The door clicked shut behind him.

“What do you think happened to Lacy?” I called. My voice echoed in the empty corridor.

Outside, the wind had picked up from merely sharp to biting. I minced back over the icy blacktop to my car, feeling a dull ache in my hip. I drove slowly home, passing the church on the way. Spotlights illuminated green wreaths with red bows on massive wooden doors, and candles gleamed through the wavy window glass, projecting an aura of peace and beauty.

Wouldn’t that be shot to hell by morning?

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