fuonlyknew

Tuesday is thrust into a web of secrets and danger that extends far beyond the sugary confines of the donut shop. As she delves deeper into the investigation, determined to unearth the truth, she finds herself entangled in a sinister plot that will shock her community. And possibly gain Davidson & Welsh a new client.

Filled with a blend of humor and suspense, “Cookin’ Up Murder” is sure to captivate readers who enjoy mysteries. It offers an engaging puzzle that will keep readers guessing until the satisfying reveal of the culprit.

“Neither snow nor hunky cops nor angry cats will keep intrepid P.I. Tuesday Welsh from the (sometimes tardy) commission of her appointed rounds, chiefly trying to figure out why the body she discovered shows up alive and kicking elsewhere. “Cookin’ Up Murder” offers a delightful demonstration of how small towns can cook up big problems, with an ever-resourceful (despite herself) heroine as your guide.” – Michael Mallory.

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I stepped out of the shower and suffered a chilly assault, sending a body shiver down my spine from my nipples to my toes. I quickly dried myself, swiftly slipping into my undies like a woman whose boyfriend’s wife just got home. Not that I would ever date a married man. A friend of mine discovered dating a married man wasn’t the best way to maintain a non-committed relationship. Especially if the man’s wife owned a gun.

Next. I stepped into a pair of black polyester slacks, grabbed a white, wrinkle-free, stain-resistant cotton blouse, and buttoned it. Unfortunately, I found I’d skipped a button and had to re-button it, this time starting from the bottom. Finally, I rescued my shoes from under the couch, where a gazillion dust bunnies attacked me. I toed on my shoes. When I glimpsed the clock, its hands pointed to eight-fifty-three. This meant I had a mere seven minutes to get to work. The office was at least ten minutes away.

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“Before I leave, I want you to promise that you’ll open the office on time,” demanded Harley Davidson, my business partner, last Wednesday night.

“Why wouldn’t I?” I replied, pretending I didn’t already know the answer.

Harley stands at five-foot-ten, his green eyes framed by well-groomed eyebrows. His eyes hold a mischievous glint as if he harbors something known only to him. He might tower over me with his tousled reddish-brown hair, but he never truly poses a formidable threat. With me, his bark is always worse than his bite.

“Beats me why you’re never on time,” he sniffed. “I bet if you were called to save someone from jumping off a building, you’d arrive after the coroner.”

“Why is it a man jumping and not a woman?” I quipped, my eyes shooting daggers at him.

He scowled, thinking I wasn’t taking his last-minute to-do list seriously.

Harley Davidson and I have been business partners for three years at  Davidson & Welsh Investigations. The decision to partner with him was an easy one. He possessed an unwavering sense of integrity, even when faced with tough choices. He is serious about business but has a  quick wit that can help calm clients down.

But,  I don’t like to-do lists.

So, I added, “And why was I the one called?”  I couldn’t help being flippant because I wasn’t the one getting to go to Los Angeles.

“Ahhhhh,” he screamed, his hands gripping his hair like a man driven to madness.

I can cause that reaction sometimes.

“Okay, okay,” I quickly backed off and backed up, giving him some space. He clearly wasn’t in a joking mood. So, raising my right hand, I solemnly vowed, “I swear that the office will be unlocked, and the lights turned on ten minutes early every day.” I crossed my heart, but without hoping to die. A girl can only go so far.

“Hands,” he demanded.

I extended both of my hands, all fingers uncrossed, as a gesture of goodwill.

“Just be on time. That will be miracle enough,” he stated firmly, staring at me. But there was an upward curve on his lips.  “On time and no Amazon shopping during office hours. I should get back by Saturday night.”

“But…”

“Find new clients.”

“But…” I tried to protest again. No Amazon shopping? Christmas was on Monday!

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I meant to be on time.

Only, it was going to be a close call this morning.

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I scraped my Toyota Corolla’s windshield.  Some ice, but not bad. I started the engine, and stepped on the gas pedal, causing the front tires to spin a bit before finding traction. If I hurried, I’d be close to keeping my promise.

Feeling good about keeping my promise to Harley, I then spotted the Mr. Yummy’s shop. A caricature of a large-bellied baker placed on the roofline, wearing a tall white hat and holding a tray filled with frosted donuts is hard to miss. On impulse, I turned into the parking lot, thinking, yummy, breakfast. “In and out fast,” I promised myself.

Getting out of the car, my stomach growled, craving a maple bar. I rushed to the front door. Pushed. But the door wouldn’t budge. I checked the neon sign in the upper part of the large front window, OPEN. Cupping my hands to prevent reflection, I peered into the store. The lights were on. Yet, squinting, I realized the display cases were empty of donuts. Sold out? Not likely.

With each passing minute, my lateness became more pressing, so I headed back to the car. Suddenly, I caught a whiff of something. Something’s on fire. Following my nose, I made my way around the shop to the back door, which was slightly ajar. Cautiously, I stuck my head inside and called out, “Anyone here?”

This wasn’t my first time at Mr. Yummy’s. In fact, I was a frequent customer and had gotten to know the owner, Eric Kenny. Upon entering the sweltering bakery, a repugnant stench made my nose itch and overwhelmed the fragrance of swizzling donuts.

Pallets stacked with cans of oil and cartons of Mr. Yummy’s mixes blocked a clear view. Moving further into the room, I saw a work counter with dough mounds covered in flour, rising. Just beyond there, a small collection of racks displaying donuts, waiting to be glazed.

“Hello? The front door is locked even though the sign says open,” I announced, thinking the owner wasn’t aware of the fact.

Then, I saw him. His arms were hugging a large stainless-steel tub, desperately trying to stop it from falling.

“Mr. Kenny?” I shouted, rushing over to him. His head floated on a vat of oil. His one visible eye, scorched yellow, had popped and stared straight at me.

“Eric!” I grabbed his shoulders and pulled back hard, hauling his head out of the vat. I continued pulling, bringing his body almost into a stand, where we both teetered.

“I can’t hold you,” I shouted, as if his injury caused deafness.  For a moment he seemed to know someone was trying to help him. He stood. If I had been thinking clearly, I’d have recognized this was an anomaly, a slight moment when laws of physics hold before gravity takes over. But I wasn’t thinking. I was yelling, “You’re going to be okay,” trying to keep him standing. However, I couldn’t hold him. He was much too heavy. His body toppled to the floor, taking me down with him.

My encouragement changed to, “Help!”

The smell of his charred flesh invaded my nostrils, causing my stomach to churn. I gagged, pushed, and wiggled to free myself from underneath him. Finally, I yelled, innocently, but stupidly, “Get off me.”

Call it pure, straight-up terror.

I struggled to breathe, each breath triggering me to gag.

Holding my breath, I wiggled, scooted, pushed– wriggled, scooted, and pushed some more, desperately trying to escape. But my 110-pound—possibly 120-pound body—couldn’t match his solid 200 pounds. However, somehow, I slid beneath his shoulder and arm, relieving the heavier weight of his chest and stomach. I crawled out from under him. Then I saw his white chef’s hat lying underneath the tub. And something else–donut dough?

I rushed to the sink and vomited.

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PARENTING ON A WRITER’S SCHEDULE

I could have said: Finding time to write when parenting. But parenting is a lifelong duty. Just because babies turn into toddlers, who then turn into kiddos and eventually grow up and fly off on their own, doesn’t mean parents finish parenting. Because, then, comes the furry babies. There is nothing better than having a baby in the house.

But where do I find time for myself in all of this? And for me, that means writing. Whether journaling, blogging, writing short stories or novels, finding the time to center yourself and connect to your creative self is important. Just as important as brushing your teeth, cleaning your house, paying the bills, or taking that furry baby out for a walk.

The best way I have found to do this is to get up early. Calculating my house’s wake time, I set my clock for two hours earlier. I then make a list of the “life necessities” I need to get done for the day, and I put this list in my LIFE box for later. Everyone should have a LIFE box. A special box you have created for problems you want to let go of, worries you can’t control, or things that need to be done when there is time. Feel free to be creative with these lists so that when you open your LIFE box, you can pull out the list you want to face for the day. Post-it notes are great for this. Color-code your LIFE. BLUE for Worries. PINK for Do Today, YELLOW for When You Get Extra Time, and don’t forget a Wish post, PURPLE. Once the post goes into the LIFE box, I don’t touch it again until LIFE awakens.

Funny note: Sometimes, I have to clean out my LIFE box, and when I do, I end up throwing away so many notes. Worry I had that became irrelevant or solved itself without my help. Go figure. Finding out I over PINKed my LIFE box. Instead of twenty pink Post-its, my sanity can really only handle ten. I usually ignore the YELLOW, but I always feel good putting this note in my box, thinking I might get to it one day. And PURPLE. Sometimes, I wish for things, and in time, I find taking my furry on a walk is just as good.

I would love to hear about your LIFE box or your suggestion on scheduling LIFE for your writing. Contact me here or email me at dj@djadamson.com.

Also, the first five people who do comment on this post will receive a FREE Digital of my newest book, COOKIN’ UP MURDER.

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D. J. Adamson is an accomplished author known for her captivating storytelling and engaging characters. She has established herself as a prominent figure in the world of mystery and suspense fiction. Her work draws inspiration from classic detective novels and contemporary thrillers. Adamson’s literary journey began at a young age, and she continued the journey through her life, recently embarking on her work with novels and her exceptional ability to create immersive worlds and multifaceted characters. She developed her own unique style that combines elements of suspense, intrigue and psychological depth. Beyond her novels, Adamson has contributed to various literary journals and anthologies, sharing her insights and expertise with fellow writers and enthusiasts. Her work has gained a loyal following and her novels praised for their intricate plotting and masterful storytelling. When not immersed in the world of writing, Adamson enjoys the Central CA coast, traveling, and the outdoors. She also engages with her readers through various platforms, fostering a strong connection and appreciation for the support she receives from her dedicated fan base. Readers can connect with her through her website at www.djadamson.com.

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Duke’s baritone bark rang in my ears. Sirens screeched. I jerked upright. The neon lights on my bedside clock pulsed four fifty-two. Heart hammering, I emerged from the warm cocoon of blankets atop my four-poster bed. The jolt of cold tile on my feet lifted a portion of the fog created by last night’s

third glass of wine.

“What’s the matter, boy?” Red lights beaconed through the front bay windows. My sixth sense kicked in, and the hairs on my arm responded. I grabbed Duke’s leather collar and edged past his ninety-pound muscled body to peer through the beveled glass of my front door.

My stomach dropped. Police cars swarmed my neighbor’s house.

My neighbor, Peg, and I had become fast friends shortly after I moved here. Just six hours ago, we’d polished off her stash of merlot. The good stuff … that she’d bought at a charity auction … for three times the normal price.

I couldn’t imagine why every emergency crew in Charleston was parked in front of her home. I ran my fingers through my hair in disbelief. “What the hell is going on?”

After slipping into my robe, I left Duke inside and marched toward the red lights and swarm of emergency personnel. Each step felt heavy, and leaden. My gut clenched tighter, and tighter, and I wiped beads of perspiration off the back of my neck. The yellow tape stretched across the sidewalk leading to her front door screamed “crime scene.” Streetlamps glowed in the morning mist, and the combination of pulsating red and orange lights gave off an eerie glow. Neighbors trickled from their homes and formed a small crowd. I scanned the faces but couldn’t find Peg. Picking up the pace, I headed toward Cassie, the sixty-year-old widow, who lived next door to Peg.

“Cassie, what happened? Where’s Peg?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head.

My legs trembled, and I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. “What happened?” I repeated. “Why are the cops here?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice rose a few decibels. “Last night I thought I heard a loud pop, like a firecracker, but I’m not sure. I fell asleep with the television on. Went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Turned off the television and crawled back in bed. The next thing I heard was the sirens.”

“What time was that?” The most likely neighbors to have any information were Cassie and Lou, Peg’s other neighbor and business partner. Peg and Lou owned an interior design firm.

“Around two,” she replied.

I’m not popular with most of the Charleston police force, and that was an understatement. I challenged their good ole’ boy club. Even though I owned a Labrador, I operated more like a bulldog. What most of them resented, second to my track record, was my ability to navigate through the Charleston elite. I relied on Peg’s friends and connections often.

I dreaded trying to drag information out of the cops.

Matt walked up adjusting his holster. The ginger-colored cowlick he sported on top of his head made him look like he’d just rolled out of bed. Matt was one of the few members of the Charleston police force who was actually friendly toward me. Peg had nicknamed him Howdy Doody.

“Howdy, Liz.”

“What happened, Matt? Where’s Peg?”

Matt gazed at the ground. “I’m sorry, Liz. She’s dead.”

That was the last thing I remembered before my world went black.

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Carmel Conundrum

A Liz Adams Mystery Book 2

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Stolen identities, a cult, a kidnapping, an attempted murder, and a budding romance . . .

Join Private Investigator Liz Adams, and her lie-detecting Labrador, Duke, in the scenic town of Carmel By-the-Sea, as the pair investigate the mystery of stolen identities. Complications arise when Liz becomes romantically entangled with her hot new client, Brad.

Enter Apollo, a charismatic cult leader, whose mission to save the homeless has a dark twist. Why does he continue to trespass on Liz’s property? She’s compelled to uncover the answer.

Tensions mount, as the stakes become a matter of life and death. Will Liz and Duke solve both mysteries before the damage is irreparable?

Travel with Liz from Charleston, SC to Carmel, CA, and back to discover the astounding truth.

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My heart fluttered when Brad grabbed my hand and led me to a dirt trail.

“It’s about half a mile to the coastline. The path is a little rough. You’ll be glad you wore those shoes.”

My hiking boots were brand new and weren’t my usual fashion statement, but I was grateful for them as we navigated the rugged terrain. Duke marked his territory along the way. Suddenly, Brad put his arm in front of me, halting my progress.

“Shh,” he whispered and pointed ahead.

When I spotted the mountain lion perched on a rock fifty yards down the path, my heart hammered in my ears. My whole body tensed. I yanked the leash tighter to my body and hoped that Duke didn’t spot the animal as his nose twitched at the smell in the breeze. Brad pulled the air horn out of his pocket and prepared to sound it if needed. The tawny feline’s paws were huge. I held my breath, trying to make as little noise as possible. As soon as the creature spotted us, Brad sounded the horn and the animal’s muscular body darted off into the trees. Duke barked, and I took in a deep gulp of air while gripping the leash tighter so Duke wouldn’t chase the big cat.

“That’s lucky.”

After I’d released my breath, I said, “Lucky?”

“Yeah, you got to see a mountain lion. How cool is that? Probably a male. He was a decent size.”

“Let’s go back.” I was glad that I relieved my bladder before we left the house. Duke sensed my unease and whined.

Trust me. That mountain lion is long gone. He’s way more scared of us.” Brad grabbed my hand. “Come on. You have to see your beach.”

His enthusiasm was contagious, and I reluctantly followed him down the path while hanging on to his hand. My heart rate slowed as I diligently searched the brush for any lingering cats. Once I’d calmed down, I had to agree with Brad. Seeing the creature was definitely cool.

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Liz’s Caesar Salad

Ingredients:

Romaine lettuce, washed and torn into bite-size pieces

Parmesan cheese

Garlic croutons

Fresh ground pepper

Dressing (Liz credits her neighbor Linda with the recipe):

3 tablespoons ranch dip (Liz uses Marzetti brand)

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce

Salt and pepper to taste

Combine ingredients for dressing in a small bowl. Slowly add water until the dressing reaches desired consistency (Liz adds very little water). Toss lettuce with dressing and place on salad plates. Garnish with cheese, croutons, and fresh pepper.

Enjoy!

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Stacy writes mysteries, children’s stories, short stories, and poetry. Her mission is to deliver a delightful story to readers of all ages while benefiting a larger community. She donates a portion of the proceeds from the sales of her books to causes that support wildlife conservation, and the homeless, both people and pets.

As well as writing, Stacy is passionate about her faith, family, Labradors, the causes that she supports, the beach, art, and reading books.

She and her husband live in Houston, Texas, with a totally spoiled Labrador retriever, Eve.

You can find Stacy’s website at www.storystacy.com

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Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

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