My Christmas Gift to you: Chapter 1 of Pre-Meditated Murder

Merry Christmas, everyone!  Without further ado, I present to you the first chapter of Pre-Meditated Murder.  It officially releases on January 8, but it is available for pre--order now! Let me know what you think!

 

CHAPTER 1:

 

I slipped through the restroom door, leaned my back against the counter, and tried—unsuccessfully—to slow the pounding in my chest.

Dad’s voice echoed inside my head. Take it easy now, Kate-Girl. Remember what Rene told you. You have to act like everything’s normal. You don’t want to ruin tonight for Michael.

Almost three years after his death, Dad was still right. Tonight wasn’t about me. At least not just about me. It was Michael’s night, too. Or it would be, provided I didn’t die of heart failure.

Public restroom or not, I could think of worse places to die. The floor’s shiny black marble was spotless. A trio of lavender-scented candles cast dancing light beams across the matching countertop. The purple blooms of a phalaenopsis orchid cascaded from a dark green plant in the corner. The place even sounded inviting, thanks to soothing classical music floating through hidden speakers.

Normally, I would have been enchanted by the room’s painstaking ornamentation. Not today. Today, I was too busy trying not to hyperventilate to revel.

My adrenaline-laced anticipation surprised me, especially since I’d spent almost a year avoiding the very conversation Michael and I were about to have. Then again, maybe I was worked up because I’d been avoiding it for so long. Until recently, I’d had no idea how important our future was to me.

Maybe a relaxing breath practice would help me calm down. I closed my eyes and inhaled, mentally coaching myself as I would one of my yoga students. Inhale and slowly count to four. One, two, three, four. Exhale, one, two …

A few cycles later, my heartbeat slowed. The chattering of my monkey mind subsided. My hands were still trembling too hard to touch up my makeup, so I picked stray dog hairs off the black cocktail dress I’d borrowed for the evening and ran a comb through my shoulder-length hair. I smiled to make sure lipstick hadn’t coated my teeth, pinched my cheeks to give them some color, and headed back to join Michael at our table.

Every part of SkyCity, the Seattle Space Needle’s upscale restaurant, had been designed to seduce multiple senses. The heels of my three-inch stilettos sank into the lobby’s lush oriental carpet. Notes from a baby grand piano caressed my eardrums. Swirls of color burst from a Chihuly painting, exploding the piano’s overture on canvas. A kaleidoscope of scents arranged and rearranged themselves in my nostrils, creating a fluid collage: garlicky pasta Alfredo, musky perfume, the sweet floral bouquet of deep red roses.

For most Seattleites, dinner at SkyCity was reserved for special occasions. For practically broke small business owners like Michael and me, the experience might be once in a lifetime. But man, was it worth it. SkyCity served more than delicious food. It provided unparalleled atmosphere and a rotating, panoramic view of the entire city.

Any other evening, I would have been glued to my seat for every one of the forty-seven minutes it took for the restaurant to complete a full rotation. Any other evening, I would have been transfixed by the view: toy-like rooftops, tiny ferries, the stark lines of the Olympic Mountains. Any other evening, I would have been drunk on the surroundings before I took my first sip of champagne.

This evening, however, I’d barely noticed any of it. I hadn’t even tasted the pasta I’d picked at for dinner. I was too preoccupied. Waiting. Waiting for Michael to stop pretending that we were here to celebrate my thirty-fourth birthday. Waiting for him to pull out the jewelry bag that Rene had spotted him carrying two days ago. Waiting for him to ask me to marry him.

Michael stood and pulled out my chair, grinning. “You were gone for an awfully long time. I was about to send in a search party.”

“Sorry about that.”

I glanced at him over my wine glass as he nodded discreetly to our waiter. On a bad day, Michael was pretty darned handsome, and today was far from a bad day. His sexy, blue-green eyes sparkled. The tailored suit he wore accented his broad shoulders and six-foot-tall frame. Curly brown hair brushed delightfully above his ear lobes, as if daring me to nibble them. Unmentionable body parts tingled. If Michael didn’t hurry up and give me that ring soon, I might consummate our engagement before the proposal.

I grinned. Now wouldn’t that give new meaning to SkyCity’s 360-degree view.

“Care to let me in on the joke?” Michael asked.

“Sorry. Nothing. I was just thinking about how happy I am.”

As if on cue, a line of wait staff approached our table. One carried a huge ice cream concoction enveloped in a thick dry-ice fog. Another brandished a bottle of my favorite bubbly and two crystal champagne flutes. The rest surrounded our table in a black-and-white semicircle. Conversations around us grew muted as people stopped eating to watch the theatrics. I felt my face redden. Leave it to Michael to embarrass me with a grand gesture.

Michael grinned like a madman; a cork popped through the air; the entire restaurant burst into song.
“Happy birthday to you …”

Huh?

Ten seconds later, I blew out the candle and watched as the wait staff disappeared. The other diners resumed their conversations.

I surreptitiously picked through the ice cream, hoping to find buried treasure. Nothing but frozen dairy products and chunks of rich dark chocolate. No diamond lurked in the bottom of my champagne glass, either. My unmentionables stopped tingling, replaced by an awkward unease. Could Rene have been wrong?

Michael leaned across the table and clinked his glass against mine. “Happy birthday, Kate. I hope you’ve enjoyed it.”

The smile I flashed back felt so stiff, it could have been molded from plastic. “Tonight has been wonderful, Michael, truly. The flowers, the dinner, the champagne …” My voice trembled. “Everything.”

Michael frowned, confused. “What is it? Don’t like the dessert? The reviews said it wasn’t too rich, so I asked for extra dark chocolate.”

“It’s delicious, Michael.” I lifted the spoon to my mouth, but pasta with garlic sauce threatened to leap for my throat. I laid the spoon back on the table.

“It was that damned birthday song, wasn’t it?” Michael grumbled. “I should have known better. I know how you hate it when people make a fuss over you. I just thought … well, I thought it would be fun.”

“It was fun,” I assured him. “And the dessert is awesome. It looks like an erupting volcano.” Tears burned the back of my eyes. If I didn’t get out of this restaurant soon, I might erupt right alongside it. I looked pointedly at my watch and waved to get the waiter’s attention. “It’s almost eight. We should leave soon to pick up Bella.”

“Already?” Michael didn’t hide his disappointment.

“The twins have been fussy lately. I promised Rene we wouldn’t be out late.”

I lied. My German shepherd, Bella, suffered from significant separation anxiety, so I never left her alone for more than an hour or two. Michael already knew that Rene was dog-sitting tonight. What he didn’t know was that Bella’s visit was supposed to be a sleepover. Rene had insisted, claiming that my engagement night would be significantly more romantic without a furry, hundred-pound bed hog.

Make that supposed engagement night.

Michael didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue. “Before we go, I have something for you.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, foil-wrapped box stamped Trinity Jewelers.

In that moment, the entire world seemed to freeze. I would have sworn that the Space Needle stopped spinning. I was so excited—so relieved—that I didn’t grasp the significance of the box’s flat, three-inch-square shape.

Michael slid it across the table. “Go on, open it.”

My hands trembled again, but I managed to unwrap the paper, ease the top off the box, and gaze down at—

A necklace?

A simple gold heart suspended on a delicate chain. A locket.

Michael reached across the table and opened it. Two tiny pictures were nestled inside. On the left, a grinning Michael. On the right, Bella. “I know you don’t wear much jewelry,” he said, “but I wanted to give you something special. This way Bella and I will always be close to your heart.”

The necklace was gorgeous. Breathtaking, really. Michael had obviously put a lot of thought into the gift. Normally, I would have been stunned—in a good way.

But tonight wasn’t supposed to be normal.

The tears threatening my eyes spilled down my cheeks. “It’s exquisite.”

Michael dropped the necklace back into the box and took my hand. “Kate, honey, what’s wrong? You’ve been acting weird all night. I’m starting to get worried.”

“Nothing. It’s just that …” I swallowed. “I thought you were giving me a ring.”

At first Michael looked confused. “A ring? In a necklace box?” Then his face turned ashen. “Oh.”

Disappointment flashed to embarrassment, which I covered up by pretending to be angry. “Oh? That’s all you have to say? Oh?”

Michael opened his mouth, then closed it again without speaking.

The silence between us echoed like a shot to the gut, but it felt significantly more painful. The waiter eased next to Michael, slid the bill onto the table, and scurried away.

“I’m sorry, Kate,” Michael said. “Really, I am. I didn’t mean to disappoint you. But what made you think I was proposing tonight?”

I stared at the tablecloth, wishing I could disappear underneath it. “Rene went shopping for the twins at Westlake Center on Thursday.”

Michael groaned and rubbed the crease between his eyebrows.

I pointed at the box. “She saw you walk out of Trinity’s carrying this. We both assumed—” My voice cracked.

The restaurant’s energy—or at least my experience of it—shifted. The room grew quiet. Sympathetic eyes burned the back of my neck. The dry-ice fog surrounding my uneaten dessert threatened to suffocate me. I gripped the seat of my chair with both hands, willing myself not to bolt.

“Kate, I will propose to you someday, I promise. But not tonight. I can’t.”

“Can’t?”

Michael refused to look at me.

Deep inside my gut, I knew that I shouldn’t keep pressing. If I kept pressing, Michael’s explanation might change our relationship forever.

I pressed anyway.

“Michael, what aren’t you telling me?”

His jaw trembled. “You know I love you, right?”

I did.

I loved Michael, too. More than I’d ever loved anyone, except maybe Bella. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to say the words back. “Out with it, already.”

Michael stared at the floor for what felt like an eternity. When he looked up again, his eyes were wet.
“I’m sorry, Kate. I’m already married.”

Tracy



All four books in the Downward Dog Mystery Series are available at booksellers everywhere!

Happy Holidays from all of the Midnight Ink mystery authors who post regularly--or irregularly--at Inkspot! No matter what winter holiday you celebrate, be it Christmas,

Hanukkah,

Kwanzaa or something else,

we hope you are spending it with people you love and who love you, and that you are happy and safe and at peace.

We Midnight Ink bloggers are taking the week off. We'll return on Monday, December 31st, New Year's Eve, with a post by the ever funny Deborah Sharp!

Virginia and I Believe

by Shannon Baker

Why yes, as a matter of fact, I do believe in Santa Claus. I apologize to all my Jewish friends who are sick of Christmas stories and all the miracles and tales as sweet as my grandmother’s fudge. (I just made a batch of that to celebrate the season.) 

A long time ago in a country far, far away, I was a young mother in western Nebraska. To say our area was rural would be like calling M&Ms Christmas candy. (See, reference to Grandma Baker’s fudge for real Christmas candy.) We lived in the land where towns with the population of 2-300 people sat 30 miles apart on a long, straight highway, because that’s how long a coal train could run before it needed more water.

 It so happened that this particular Christmas was a cusp year. That means my oldest daughter was nearing the age of suspicion. This might be her last time believing in Santa. Ever. Once you stopped accepting the existence of the Man in Red, cynicism and the drudgery of a normal life followed. Back then we didn't know the term for people who didn't believe in Santa anymore, now we know they are Muggles.

My daughter decided this year, Santa must bring her the girl gift of the season, the P.J. Sparkles doll. My daughters never played with dolls and I knew a hard plastic doll with shiny blonde hair whose scratchy pink dress lit up with flashing lights wouldn’t change her mind. (Not playing with dolls might be because they learned mothering skills from me. Being a mother probably didn’t sound like all that much fun to them. It’s past your bedtime. Go to sleep.)

But if Santa must bring P.J. Sparkles, then that’s what he’d do. I started shopping early, visiting the K-Marts and Alcos in the “bigger” towns within a two-hour drive of us. No go. I got on the phone (remember, this was way before Cyber Monday and stores didn’t offer on-line shopping even if my dial up connection would tolerate it.) I called Cheyenne, Rapid City, Omaha. Toys-R-Us, Target, Wal-Mart. Everywhere. No P.J. Sparkles. 

Christmas eve dawned and I knew that in 24 hours my daughter would be scarred by the realization there was no Santa. It was too soon for her to grow up and join the rest of us, letting go of belief.

Dejected, I went about my busy day at our feed store.

Then a friend called. “What was the name of that doll you couldn’t find?”

“P.J. fricking Sparkles.” Only maybe I didn’t use such nice vocabulary.

“You’re never going to believe this but I found one.”

I nearly dropped the Christmas fudge I’d made from Grandma Baker’s recipe. “What? Where? No way!”

But she had found her. The little dickens sat in Lucy’s Jumble Shop, the next town over. Thirty miles away, tucked on the top shelf in the dark southwest corner of the dusty shop that carried everything from needles, shirts, Tupperware, pans, sheets, winter boots, ropes, spurs, and heaven only knows what, the last P.J. Sparkles in the civilized world waited for me to claim her.

Why would Lucy stock the hottest toy of the season and hide her in the back, when Lucy hadn’t added any new inventory since Jimmy Carter’s administration?

Because Santa put her there for me. 

Turns out, my daughter had already given up on Santa but didn’t want me to know. She looked at P.J. Sparkles for about five minutes and that’s all the attention P.J. got until I gave her to the rummage sale two years later, still looking sharp in her pink, scratchy dress.

But me? I believe. 

I will always believe.

The Tea Set

This fall I was asked to lead a workshop at a women's weekend spiritual retreat. Since I don't bead, meditate, or do sacred dancing, but I do know how to string words together, I decided to teach a class on writing the spiritual devotional. I'd never written one, but I studied a bunch and realized they followed a fairly standard pattern of a verse or quote, followed by a short personal story, and finally a few questions or take-away points as the conclusion.

I wasn't sure how the whole thing would go over. Would the women want to write? If they did, would they enjoy it? Would anyone be brave enough to share their work with others? After giving a brief introduction, I read a few examples, handed them pencils and notebooks, and sat back to watch.

My "students" turned out to be star pupils, diligently writing their devotionals and then offering to read them as well. I wish I could convey how moving they were! Many brought us to tears, but all of them brought us closer together. Someone volunteered to compile the pages into a little booklet. Once again, the power of the written word had triumphed.

My devotional is appropriate to the season, and so I share it with you here. Happy Holidays!

Apply your heart to instruction and your ears to words of knowledge. Proverbs 23:12.

Before my daughter's second Christmas, I purchased a little tea set at a local store. I could hardly wait to see her open it, help her set up the flowered cups and saucers, and show her and her doll how to pour "tea." It was still in the back of the car when my mother called and told me she'd found a wonderful gift for Lexi --- a tea set.

I groaned and headed back to the store. On the way I passed my church, a steepled white Congregational in the center of town. Pull in, a small voice told me. And so I did.

The parking lot was quiet. I glanced to the side door of the building and saw a lone woman shivering in the December cold. I put down my window and asked her if she needed help.

"Yes," she said. "I heard there were some toys here?"

I took her into the building where we found the small pile of donated toys. She looked through them and sighed, shaking her head. Impulsively I asked her what she wanted. "I have a little girl at home," she said. "I was hoping for a tea set."

When I handed her the box from the back of my car, a look of surprised joy spread across her face. It was the best Christmas gift I have ever received.

Lord, the whispers of your Spirit work through me. During this busy season, help me to listen.

I'm not crying--my eyes are tired. Really.

What a perfect Christmas card photo this would be: Rudolph-themed stuffed animals, ornaments from several generations decorating the tree, adorable cat nestled in the tree skirt… wait. The cat definitely has a look which says: “Back away from me now and I won’t sharpen my claws on your camera.” That look is why I’ve never tried to dress up my cats in adorable holiday-themed sweaters and hats. I prefer to keep my skin intact.

It will surprise no one that I’m not a “fluffy bunny sweetness and light” person. Yet at Christmas this strange hidden side of me appears, causing me to watch cute holiday cartoons. I have been known get all sniffly at certain holiday movies. I even sport a pair of reindeer antlers complete with lights.

Since I still have to function as a normal human, I’ll cut myself off before the sentiment incapacitates me. For instance, I haven’t watched It’s a Wonderful Life in about ten years, because I blubber like an idiot at the same scene every time. Every time! You know the one: Where George Bailey runs back onto the bridge after seeing how Mary’s life turned out. He starts praying “I want to live again” and it starts to snow, signaling us that everything’s back to normal. I could keep the Kleenex company in business on that movie alone.

I even used to cry at the end of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. We haven’t yet watched it this year, so I can’t say for sure I’ve become a hardened character regarding the moment the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes.

So—tell me I’m not alone here! What holiday screenwriting is so brilliant that it makes you cry every time? What favorite book is so well written that you love it but won’t reread it unless you’re alone in the house and have a stack of tissues ready? I’ve listed my major two, and I’ll add the movie Scrooged. Guess which places. Yep. The scene where the adult Bill Murray sees his mother and the scene at the end where he asks Karen Allen to come back to him.

As for books: One of my “needs Kleenex” reads is Patricia Wentworth’s Nothing Venture. The other one is The Brother’s Keeper by Tracy Groot, at whose keyboard I grovel. I've memorized whole passages from these books without even trying. The former pushes all my "romantic gal" buttons. Trust me on the latter: My groveling is well deserved.

Okay, it’s your turn. I’ve got plenty of boxes of tissues ready. Let the blubbering begin!

Happy Holidays!!

It’s that time of year again. Carols on the airwaves. Snow blanketing the ground. Ad circulars cramming the mailbox. Bell ringing at the malls. Lights and sparkle almost everywhere.

It’s no mystery why my first novel is set in December. Christmas is my favorite time of year. In our region, Mother Nature set the stage perfectly by dumping nine inches of snow on December 5th.

Our family holiday traditions started the weekend after Thanksgiving with the trimming of the tree (clear lights only), the assembly of Santa’s Express (all aboard!!), the arrangement of the Dickens Village, the draping of the mantel, and the wreathing of the house. We got out the collections we add to each year: my daughter’s snowmen and my son’s nutcrackers. Then we wandered over to George Eastman’s house for the annual gingerbread, Christmas tree, and wreath display before stopping at the local chocolate shop for turtles and sponge candy.


A week later we assembled our own gingerbread village. Somehow Grandpa turned the bakery into an outhouse. Gotta watch him every minute!


We made candy and cake bon bons; some for gifts, others, well, they’re inexplicably missing already. Then we made cutouts. Grandpa finally comprehends sugar cookies are merely vehicles—showcases, in fact—for frosting.

We became angels for two children we’ll likely never meet and spent hours trying to select the right clothes and toys for them. Can pink and purple be wrong for little girls?

A few Christmas cards are going out this weekend. They were going to include a family portrait. Of course, it helps to schedule a sitting. Instead, they’re glittery snowmen. The snowmen are better looking anyway.

After hosting Thanksgiving for both sides of our family for the twentieth year, we’re looking forward to Christmas Eve at my brother’s and Christmas dinner at my in-laws. We’d love to avoid the stomach flu that plagued us last year.

A couple things are missing this holiday season that can never be replaced. This is our eighth Christmas without my mom, and she is forever going to be missed. And we’re missing young children who believe—which sadly means we’re missing some of the Christmas magic.

We have yet to establish a New Year’s Eve tradition. Some years we party. Others, we go to the movies. Sometimes we just stay home.

So, any special holiday traditions you’d like to share?

Kinderbooks

Used to be when an invitation to a baby shower appeared in the mailbox -- or the inbox -- I'd hie me to the Babies R Us and indulge in tiny socks and stuffed animals and the inevitable pack of onesies for the expectant mother-to-be. Or rather, her progeny. I don't have children, so these infrequent forays were kind of fun, though my selections were safe to the point of blandness because I had little idea of what new mothers and their babies really needed.

Then I was called upon to actually organize a baby shower for a colleague at work. Ugh. So not my thing.

Luckily, this woman was down-to-earth, smart and not given to cute games or silly party themes. What would I want if I were in her practical shoes? Well, that was easy: books.

Everyone who attended the shindig brought brightly wrapped, rectangular packages, and we piled them high on a table. She had a blast opening them, and her new baby was well supplied with reading material until at least the age of five. They ranged from cushy pillow books the infant could sleep with to chapter books Mom and Dad could read to an older child. Many were classics: Mitten the Kitten, Dr. Seuss, Raggedy Ann and Andy, Goodnight Moon (okay that's a relatively recent "classic"), Maurice Sendak.

Since then I always give books when a wee one is on the way, and if I'm visiting a household with children, there's inevitably a book for them in my suitcase. Last Thanksgiving I gave my two-year-old cousin, Peyton, Skippyjon Jones. I was then called upon to read it to him. Conversations around the house stopped and family drifted into the living room where we sat. I admit I may have gotten a little carried away, with my wild gesticulations and bad Mexican accent, but the big grin on Peyton's face was well worth the embarrassment.

Recently, I visited a friend in Nashville who has a ten-year-old son. Artemis Fowl for him this time around. His parents have read to him every night since he was old enough to listen, and now, in addition to baseball and soccer and football and science camp, he reads whenever he can. He's gone through all the Harry Potter books, the Chronicles of Narnia, most of the Hardy Boys mysteries, Michael Chabon's Summerland, and a host of others.

Of course, I also give books to adults. Lots of them. I've been knows to check off my entire Christmas list at the local indie bookstore -- these days it's The Readers Cove. And it's getting to be that time of year again ...

Who do you give books to? And how do you encourage children to read?

Storytelling

By Cricket McRae

This time of year always feels frantic to me, and this December is no exception. My deadline for the third book in the Sophie Reynolds Homecrafting Series is looming, I’m editing another manuscript, and the marketing for the first book in the series, Lye in Wait, fills hours every day. Still, keeping my head above water would be manageable if it weren’t for all this holiday business.

The problem is that Christmas can get so out of hand. This year, out of desperation, I put my foot down. One day for shopping (it was a very long day, but still). Only three kinds of cookies (okay, two kinds, plus peanut butter fudge). We aren’t throwing a party this year, and only attending three. And the decorating: I gave myself four hours. No outside lights…and no tree.

So it’s festive, but pretty simple around our house. It feels good. It’ll take less time to undo come January. And that’s less time away from my desk, all over again.

However, believe it or not, I’m not just griping about how Christmas is interfering with my precious writing schedule. I am doing that, of course. But not just that. Because when I was power pawing through the bins of ribbon and lights and various geegaws that only see the light of day once a year, if that, I found this:

I don’t even know what it’s called. Ever since I received it as a Christmas present when I was eight years old, I’ve called it the candle-twirly thingie. My parents knew what I meant. The heat from the candles (I could only find one) rises and turns the windmill, and the little scenario turns round and round. Two of the windmill spokes have broken over the years. But I’ve hauled it around with me for thirty-five (gulp) years.

See, when I was a little kid, my Dad would tell me stories. Mom and I always said he should write them down, but he never did. These stories featured a little boy and a little girl and their adventures with a witch who lived in the woods. The witch was named Dame Dustinschniffin, and she had a cat named Hapsel. Every time Dame Dustinschniffen sneezed, which she did with great frequency due to terrible allergies combined with an almost OCD tendency to clean, her cat Hapsel changed colors.

That was the very simple structure in which dozens of tales were developed, first by my father alone, and then I joined in and helped to make up the stories. “What if…” he’d say, and off we’d go. “And then…and then…” It encouraged my imagination, but I had to keep to the rules of the world we’d created. The characters stayed the same, but they had understandable arcs as they learned new things in the course of their adventures.

It was my first series, and I loved it.

As for the candle-twirly thing in the picture. Christmas morning, eight-year-old me hurried out to the tree in my jammies, only to find this contraption. I had no idea how it functioned, but I immediately recognized the characters from our stories. My reaction was to demand where my parents had found such a thing.

Santa, I was told, with a grin and wink. It was very irritating. I was sure no one but my parents and I knew about Dame Dustinschniffen et al, and Santa was a myth. I bugged them for days. Did you have someone make it? Was it something you found that just happened to fit the characters? Did you make it yourself? Have you had it for a long time and made up the characters to fit the thingie?

To this day, they won’t tell me. I still wonder, and I still don’t have a clue. It’s a mystery.

Turns out I love mysteries, too.

No Toys for Tots is a Crime!

When author and publisher Tony Burton approached me earlier this year about participating in a holiday-themed anthology, he had a hook I couldn’t resist – all the profits from the anthology would be donated to TOYS FOR TOTS. I think it took me just a bit more than a nano-second to say yes and join 14 other authors in donating my time and a short story for this wonderful and favorite cause.

My contribution to the recently released Carols and Crimes, Gifts and Grifters is "Ho Ho Homicide," an Odelia Grey short story. Other stories include those by award-winning authors Thomas H. Cook, Chris Grabenstein, and Earl Staggs.

This anthology is the perfect gift for the crime fiction lovers on your list and, remember, every book sold translates into a toy for a tot.

Carols and Crimes, Gifts and Grifters can be purchased from Amazon.com or directly from Wolfmont Publishing.