Donna Carrick http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/ en Copyright 2010 Sun, 04 Jul 2010 12:26:35 -0500 http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/ http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss Two Good Hands ~ Volume 16: Something In The Air, Donna Carrick Anger and hatred, If left unchecked, Can easily fill the landscape of the mind. Fear any thought that consumes the heart while it sickens the soul. Better to let the guilty walk unpunished Than to punish oneself With poisonous obsession. 16 -- Something In The Air Inspector Jack Brown handed his boarding pass to the attendant and made his way down the aisle, easily tossing his one carry-on bag into the overhead compartment. In a few hours he would be in Boston, where Professor of Psychology Rhonda Copps had recently been murdered. It was official – they were calling it murder. There were now two ‘mysteries’ that could be directly linked to the author Leda Maguire within a relatively short period of time. Jack moved his knees to allow a woman and her son to clamber into the seats next to him. His long legs required an aisle seat, so he could occasionally stretch them. He made himself comfortable, thankful the woman had allowed her son to have the window seat. He liked children, but didn’t relish the idea of being trapped next to an eight year old for the duration of the flight. Once they were in the air, Jack pulled the slender paperback from his jacket pocket. He was nearly finished reading about the gruesome events. The book was well written, and the author had taken pains to try to balance the bleak descriptions of bloody violence with passages of hope and faith in humanity. Still, the overall tale was one that would linger in sickening images for many years to come. He read the final chapters, finishing just as the lunch cart approached. Turning the book over, he studied the author’s photo once more. He’d been deeply impressed by the petite Leda Maguire. The self-composure and good grace she exuded were unusual in someone with her background. She’d been raised in an environment of drunken abuse and married a man who must have, in some way, reminded her of her own father. When her husband’s murderous rage robbed Leda of her entire family, he had stolen something even more vital from her. He had also robbed her of her faith – of any desire to connect in a human way. How could anyone regain sufficient trust after seeing the things Leda had seen? Jack wasn’t buying the book’s attempt at a message of hope. He shook his head. Leda was alone, except for her bodyguard and apparent friend Helen Strachan. He suspected she would remain unattached for the balance of her life. How could such a woman expect to love again? The nightmares alone would kill any hope of romance. Jack tucked the book back into his pocket. As much as he liked and respected Ms. Maguire, he had to admit there was a peculiar set of coincidences at play in her world. Ask any cop – most will tell you they really don’t care much for coincidences, cosmic or otherwise. ** Stacey Bigelow caught her reflection in the glass doors of the subway car. Her midnight blue pumps hurt her feet. She was nearly alone and there were plenty of empty seats, but she preferred to stand. She feared the elegant blue silk dress would crumple if she sat. Her short natural blonde hair fell in bouncy curls around her face. Despite the anxiety in her gut, she had to smile. After all, she was a girl. And she looked terrific. The dress and shoes alone were worth several nights’ work, not to mention the fine lace undergarments Masha had convinced her to buy. Stacey studied the result: she looked like a young woman of quality. Once this night was over, she would have the outfit cleaned. It would become the starting point for her new life – a life of nice clothes and decent work and self-respect. She got off at King and University and walked west rather than waiting for a streetcar. It wasn’t far, and she was early. Of course, she’d been warned about the consequences of being late. Five thousand dollars was a lot of money. Ten, actually. Five had already been paid directly to Masha, and the other five would go into Stacey’s elegant blue silk purse in the morning, once the last client was satisfied. “Stacey,” Mr. Hudson said, opening the door, “I’m glad you’re early. The others will be arriving soon. We’re expecting ten ladies. A few gentlemen are already upstairs.” Stacey’s eyes took in the fabulous downtown loft apartment. The old building had been fully restored on the inside, while maintaining its original exterior. A spiral staircase led up to a spacious lounge, where a handful of men in Armani had already begun to gather. “By the way, dear,” Mr. Hudson added, “the dress is perfect.” “Thank you,” she said. By six-thirty all of the girls and most of the thirty men had gathered in the banquet hall for dinner. Slinky jazz music set the mood, along with candlelight and fine wine. The men came in all ages, nationalities, shapes and sizes, but all were impeccably dressed for the occasion. The girls were turned out in a vast array of colours and fabrics, but were otherwise alike in size and shape. They were young and beautiful, with bodies that could stop a truck. Stacey found the table she’d been assigned to and willed her heart to slow its thumpity-thumping as the waiter poured white wine into her glass. She didn’t waste any effort in wondering whether the meal would be fish or foul. Only a fool would fail to understand what was really on the menu. The air was alive with barely restrained expectation. _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 17 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author. ThePennyDreadful-banner.jpgThe Penny Dreadful is a group of Serial Authors who came together through Twitter to present you with weekly installment of their stories. Hope you enjoy! THE FIRST EXCELLENCE IS NOW ON SMASHWORDS FOR THE LOW E-PRICE OF ONLY $3.99!!
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My encounters with true joy Have always resulted from simple things: Drinking coffee to the sound of birdsong; Sunshine dancing on ice-covered branches; Clean air filling my lungs; Knowing my words are reaching a friend. 15 -- The Nature of Joy “People often ask me,” Leda wrote, “how I stay so positive. They can’t help questioning my attitude, as if no one could possibly rise above the sorrows I’ve endured. “They are right, of course. Time doesn’t heal this kind of grief. “The best one can hope for is to set aside the pain and get on with life. How? By paying attention to the smell of fresh-cut grass, the music of the poplars moving in the breeze, the warm comfort of a friend’s voice.” The shrill whistle of the kettle broke her stream of consciousness. Fifteen-year-old Darren Bigelow was making breakfast, a task he seemed to enjoy. Leda Maguire pulled on her terry robe and brushed her hair before joining him in the kitchen. They ate quietly, lost in thought. Afterwards, she carried the dishes to the kitchen. The day he’d arrived Darren had asked her why she didn’t have a dishwasher. She’d replied ‘I do’, holding her hands up with a smile. The truth was she enjoyed the sound and feel of the soapy water. There were many domestic chores she disliked – resenting the time they stole from her writing – but washing dishes was not one of them. Sometimes, if the suds rose just so, she would even find herself singing while she worked. “You look nice,” she said, studying Darren’s new sweater and jeans at the doorway. “Thanks. You, too.” “Are you sure this is what you want?” “Uh-huh. What about you?” “Me, I’ve been alone too long. Besides,” she added, “you don’t seem to eat much, or take up much space.” They both laughed at that one. Darren stood nearly six-foot-two and his teenaged appetite was a thing of awesome beauty. Leda’s shopping budget had more than tripled since he’d moved into the spare bedroom a week ago. “I’ll get a part-time job to help out,” he said. “Let’s take it one day at a time. We don’t even know whether this is going to be approved.” “I’m never going back,” he said. “Never,” she agreed. *** Stacey Bigelow slid the money into her pocket and kissed her new friend on the cheek. She hadn’t heard his name over the throbbing loud music, but it didn’t really matter. She wasn’t likely to see him again. He wasn’t bad looking, especially when he smiled. She had been known to hook up with less appealing dates. Why, then, this sudden feeling of disgust? She did her best to hide it, holding his hand as they left the club. After all, money was money. It was only much later, when he was gone and she lay staring at the corner of the nightstand, that she understood her change in attitude. Damn it, Darren, she thought, why did you have to come here? I wasn’t ready for you. She did a mental tally of her secret savings. It was growing but was still not where it needed to be to secure the apartment she had her eye on. She figured she needed to cover the first and last month’s rent as well as living expenses for at least six months, in case it took her awhile to find the right job. Once she landed the dream job, she’d be in a position to support herself and Darren. Her little brother had jumped the gun and thrown her fantasy into a harsh new light. She’d seen herself through his eyes, and the picture wasn’t a pretty one. “Stacey,” Masha called from below, “can you come downstairs? There’s someone here to see you.” Stacey lifted herself slowly from the bed. Depression had a way of catching her off guard, when she wasn’t paying attention. She shook her head, trying to find her smile, but it was out of reach. She got dressed, ran a comb through her hair and joined Masha in the kitchen. She was curious, after all, to find out who the visitor was. If it had been one of her dates, Masha would have sent him upstairs. But who else could it be at this time of night? “Stacey,” Masha said, setting a plate of cookies on the table, “this is Mr. Hudson. He has a proposition to offer you.” “Nice to meet you,” Stacey said, not offering her hand. She reached instead for a cookie, waiting to hear what Mr. Hudson had to say. He looked her up and down, wrinkling his nose at the faint odour that clung to her. She hadn’t had time for a bath after what’s-his-name left. Refusing to meet his cold stare, Stacey studied the cookie. “I thought you said she was cheerful,” he finally said to Masha. “She's tired, Roy. Believe me, Stacey is one of the brightest girls I know.” Mr. Hudson touched Stacey’s chin and turned her face toward his. “Why is she so angry?” he asked. “I’m right here,” Stacey said. “Who are you, and what do you want?” “That’s better,” he said. “Good to know you can speak. You’re right, Masha, she does have a nice voice. One night’s work. She has to be on time and she doesn’t leave till noon the next day. Ten thousand dollars. No drinking, no drugs, no swearing. My guys are not looking for a night in the gutter.” Stacey digested the offer. She could only guess there must be a number of men involved, in order for that amount of money to change hands. Five thousand was a jackpot – along with her savings, it would allow her to move into her dream apartment. She would be able to take care of Darren the way a big sister should. She’d finally leave ‘the life’ and have a chance at a real job. Somehow, though, the prospect failed to make her happy. She closed her eyes, searching inward for a spark of enthusiasm, but discovered only a renewed sense of disgust. She stood to leave. “Stacey,” Masha said, “sit down.” The landlady didn’t raise her voice, but her words were nonetheless a command. “She’ll do it,” Masha said to Mr. Hudson. “We’ll want five thousand up front, payable to me. The other five goes directly to Stacey, in cash. Also, she needs a suitable dress. You’ll have to give her extra money for that.” Mr. Hudson reached for his wallet and tossed a roll of bills onto the table in front of Stacey. “Make it blue,” he said, “to match your eyes.” _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 16 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author. ThePennyDreadful-banner.jpgThe Penny Dreadful is a group of Serial Authors who came together through Twitter to present you with weekly installment of their stories. Hope you enjoy! THE FIRST EXCELLENCE IS NOW ON SMASHWORDS FOR THE LOW E-PRICE OF ONLY $3.99!!
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]]> http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/05/carrick_publishing_books.html http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/05/carrick_publishing_books.html A: Carrick Publishing ~ Order Books adoption Banda Aceh Boxing Day disaster Chinese adoption family fiction humor Indonesia International intrigue lifestyle mystery Phuket political short stories Sumatra suspense tsunami Sun, 09 May 2010 10:52:05 -0500 Two Good Hands ~ Volume 14: The Boston Connection, Donna Carrick After he left me there It was a few short steps to reach the telephone; A negligible effort to dial three digits; But a monumental one to speak the words. And so I reported the end of my life. 14 -- The Boston Connection Minx Lowry shredded the plastic lid from her coffee cup. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “If Robbie was focused on this woman – this writer – then he would fly off to hear her speak. He’s done that sort of thing before.” “We confirmed Leda Maguire was in Boston the day after Robert… died.” Inspector Jack Brown opted against using the harsher word, murdered. Minx was a person of interest, but Jack no longer took her seriously as a suspect. She was younger than her brother had been, twenty-seven, and good-looking. Unpretentious, despite her wealth and education. It wasn’t her looks, though, that convinced Jack of her innocence. It was the way she did her best to restrain her grief, not leaning on her personal sense of loss and outrage. In Jack’s experience, strong emotions could be worn as a mask. It was much more difficult to keep them in check, to understate one’s feelings. Jack had already ascertained from the victim’s friends and family that Minx was close to her brother. She was the one who’d arranged for him to have his own modest apartment, away from the scrutiny of well meaning relatives. She’d checked up on him, ensuring he was caring for himself. More than that, she’d made him a welcome part of her own life – introduced him to her friends, met him for dinner every Thursday. A lesser woman would be overcome, but not Minx. She told Jack what she could in a clear voice, determined to help him find her brother’s killer. After she left, he carried his notepad into the main office. The desk sergeant, Matt Cummings, looked up from his video game and minimized the screen on his computer. “Any news on the Boston connection?” Jack said. “Oh, yeah. You’re gonna love this, Jack.” Cummings paused for effect, the corners of his mouth twitching. He waited for a prompt from the Inspector. When it didn’t come, he continued. “I called the University where Maguire gave her presentation. Tried to reach the Professor who hired her: lady by the name of Rhonda Copps. Strange coincidence, though. Seems the professor passed away yesterday. A sudden death.” ‘Sudden death’ was slang for murder or suicide, any death other than one from natural causes. “Accident?” Jack asked. “They haven’t called it yet, officially. Unofficially, my contact says it’s an ‘apparent suicide’, more likely a mystery. It was an overdose of morphine.” Jack tucked his notebook into his jacket pocket. “Is your guy reliable?” “Good as gold.” Another mystery, Jack thought. Was it even possible? Coincidences were rare in his line of work. If it was foul play, it was the second murder in the past few weeks that could be directly linked to the author Leda Maguire. “Ok,” he said, “let’s call it a ‘mystery’. Call your Boston guy and tell him about our victim. Then get his boss on the line for me. I’m overdue for a field trip.” _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 14 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author. ThePennyDreadful-banner.jpgThe Penny Dreadful is a group of Serial Authors who came together through Twitter to present you with weekly installment of their stories. Hope you enjoy! THE FIRST EXCELLENCE IS NOW ON SMASHWORDS FOR THE LOW E-PRICE OF ONLY $3.99!!
You can order your signed copies of The First Excellence and "Two Scoops" Is Just Right directly from the authors, and receive a FREE copy of The Noon God! 1stExcFrntCoverWebSmallest2.JPG ***SEE PAYPAL OPTIONS BELOW!***
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Be sure to indicate which book you are ordering as well as quantities: ***For your convenience, both books are also available at Amazon.com as well as at {Indie}Pendent Books: Order The First Excellence from {Indie}Pendent Books for a great low price! Check out the Best-Seller status and terrific review! Order The First Excellence from Amazon Order "Two Scoops" Is Just Right from Amazon ]]> http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/05/two_good_hands_volume_14_the_b.html http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/05/two_good_hands_volume_14_the_b.html Two Good Hands ~ a Leda and Strachan mystery series Sun, 02 May 2010 12:05:25 -0500 Two Good Hands ~ Volume 13: Tiny Pieces Part II, Donna Carrick And so, desperate to understand The nature of change, I placed the pieces of my soul Under a glass. If any clue was hidden in those fragments To tell me how I got from ‘there’ to ‘here’, I couldn’t find it. 13 -- Tiny Pieces: Part II Rhonda slammed the receiver onto its hook. There was no point leaving another message. She’d been careful to use only public phones, in case her calls were being monitored by that bitch, Sandy Burrows. After more than a dozen messages, Hamish remained unreachable. There was only one plausible explanation: Hamish must not be getting the messages. No doubt his trashy little voodoo wife was deleting them as soon as they came in. The Professor was no fool. She’d underestimated her opponent from the start. Sandy was not the doormat Rhonda had imagined her to be. She was an alley-cat who would do anything to protect her turf. She’d made that clear to Rhonda the day they’d met at the hospital. At first Rhonda Copps had been too intimidated to telephone Hamish directly. She’d tried reaching him through mutual friends on the faculty, but no one had heard from him. Finally her anger overcame her fear. She began to call Hamish directly, and even called Sandy, hoping to arrange a meeting. Sandy, though, was having none of it. She accused Rhonda of pushing Hamish to attempt suicide, and even read his so-called “confession letter” to her over the phone. When Rhonda questioned her on where she’d found the letter, Sandy revealed it had been given to her by none other than the writer Leda Maguire and her bodyguard Helen Strachan. Those meddling fools! They were the reason Rhonda couldn’t be with Hamish. They were the ones who interfered with his possessive wife. They came to Boston for a couple of days, and in the process they destroyed Rhonda’s life! She stared at the lobby payphone. Would it do any good to try to reach Leda Maguire again? After her first frustrating conversation with that stupid woman who called herself a literary agent, she’d left countless messages demanding Maggie Landers call her back. She’d tried every approach, from firm to persuasive, even threatening to cancel the huge order she’d placed on behalf of the University for copies of Two Good Hands. Rhonda wasn’t sure what she’d say when she did finally reach Maguire. Maybe she could somehow appeal to the writer’s sympathy to help her get in touch with Hamish. She picked up the phone, then slammed it down again. The streets were still asleep, with only a few early risers passing in cars or jogging in the relatively clean morning air. The building’s main entrance was dimly lit, as were the hallways. At this hour – 6:00 am – there were no other faculty members to deal with. Nor were there any young people – the sorry lot who called themselves ‘students’ couldn’t make it to a class before 10:00 am. They’d make it this morning, though. The Professor had arranged an early morning lecture at 8:30 – attendance was mandatory and was worth three points. Rhonda expected an excellent turnout. She left off staring at the payphone and headed towards her office. She had a special treat in store for the class. She planned to have them split into teams, where each group would assign a ‘leader’ and a ‘secretary’. The leader would attempt to discover specific weaknesses displayed by each individual that might be indicative of a “victim” profile, and the secretary would make notes of all findings. Professor Copps opened the door to her office and reached for the light switch. She was unaware of the movement until a cloth covered her face. Too late she realised the danger – too late to let out so much as a cry for help. She fell, knocking over the coat rack with a clatter. No matter, the building’s caretaker was not within hearing range. Her attacker dragged her to the leather chair behind her desk and propped her up, careful not to let Rhonda slide to the floor. A small bag was emptied onto the desk. Its contents included a vial, a syringe and a suicide note in the professor’s own hand. It read: Few people truly understand the dark forces that move us. Without this understanding, we are quite alone. _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 14 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author. ThePennyDreadful-banner.jpgThe Penny Dreadful is a group of Serial Authors who came together through Twitter to present you with weekly installment of their stories. Hope you enjoy! THE FIRST EXCELLENCE IS NOW ON SMASHWORDS FOR THE LOW E-PRICE OF ONLY $3.99!!
You can order your signed copies of The First Excellence and "Two Scoops" Is Just Right directly from the authors, and receive a FREE copy of The Noon God! 1stExcFrntCoverWebSmallest2.JPG ***SEE PAYPAL OPTIONS BELOW!***
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Be sure to indicate which book you are ordering as well as quantities: ***For your convenience, both books are also available at Amazon.com as well as at {Indie}Pendent Books: Order The First Excellence from {Indie}Pendent Books for a great low price! Check out the Best-Seller status and terrific review! Order The First Excellence from Amazon Order "Two Scoops" Is Just Right from Amazon ]]> http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/04/two_good_hands_volume_13_tiny.html http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/04/two_good_hands_volume_13_tiny.html Two Good Hands ~ a Leda and Strachan mystery series Boston crime drama fiction Leda And Strachan murder mystery suspense Toronto Two Good Hands Sat, 24 Apr 2010 12:15:08 -0500 Two Good Hands ~ Volume 12: By Any Other Name, Donna Carrick Under the guiding hands of time Change inevitably comes. Sometimes it eases its way into our lives, Other times it erupts volcanic. Either way, It makes its presence known. 12 -- By Any Other Name Stacey tried to remember his name. What was it? – Stan? – Norm? Did it matter? She fought back the tangled sheet and climbed out of bed to meet him at the door. “Take it easy, honey,” she said. She was taller than he was, which made her feel maternal as she leaned in for a kiss. “I’ll call you next week,” he said. Dan – that was it! “See you then, Dan.” She closed the door behind him, setting the chain-lock before falling back into bed. She barely heard his steps on the stairs or the thud of the front door closing. Masha, though, was another matter. Her persistent landlady would not be ignored. “Stacey!” Stacey wrapped the pillow around her ears. It was no use. “Stacey, come down for tea.” She reached into her nightstand for the money. Two hundred dollars. Stan/Norm/Dan might not be a wealthy man, but at least he wasn’t cheap. He hadn’t tried to nickel and dime her to death like most of the working class guys she dated. He’d paid her in twenties. She took one from the roll and pulled a ten from her purse. Thirty dollars – that should shut the old cow up. She tucked the rest into an opening in the lining of her purse, just in case Masha went snooping before she could make it to the bank. Masha was strict about the house rules. No falling-down drunks – do them in the alley, ladies; don’t bring them home. No discounts – stick to the hundred-dollar price. It’s a bargain for clean girls. The skanks down on Jarvis charge one-fifty. And, most importantly, no holding back. Masha didn’t charge much in rent – a token amount for groceries was all – but she was firm about her thirty-per-cent fee. Stacey didn’t know whether the other ‘tenants’ ever held back. Frankly, she didn’t have the nerve to ask any of them. Masha had thrown one fellow out in the middle of the night last December for holding back ten bucks from her fee. It was the principal of the thing, she’d said. You had to be able to trust the people you lived with. From the start, Stacey’d made a practice of charging anywhere from one-fifty to two hundred. She was a good-looking girl and could usually get away with it, even though most guys did try to talk her down. The one thing she’d learned from Masha was how to stand her ground. She never gave a discount, and she never reported more than a hundred to her landlady. “Coming, Masha,” she hollered down the stairs. “Just let me clean up.” Before she could make her way to the communal bathroom on the second floor, the Unit B doorbell rang. Stacey ran back to her room and threw on the clothes that were piled on her chair. If it was one of her fellows, Masha might send him up to Clara’s room. She had a habit of doing that. Stacey had to look out for her own interests. She wasn’t hooking for the good of her health. She was saving up for her own place – for a new life. She’d pop downstairs to see who it was, and if it was one of her guys, she’d tell him to come back in twenty minutes, after her bath. *** Darren Bigelow rode to Toronto in Leda’s Honda. He didn’t say much, answering questions in monosyllables until Leda gave up and lapsed into silence. Helen Strachan followed in her Jeep. She stuck close to the Honda on the back roads that ran parallel to Highway 400. Darren’s silence was comfortable for Leda Maguire. Just the same, it was a relief when they hit Newmarket and were within a few minutes of the city proper. A quick jaunt down the 404 led them to the Don Valley Parkway. Traffic was steady – within twenty minutes they were in the downtown core. “Have you ever been there?” Leda asked. “No. Stacey emailed me the address, but then I never heard from her again.” “So you’re not even sure if she’s still there? What’s the plan if we don’t find her?” Darren shook his head. Like many young people, he seemed incapable of looking that far ahead. He muttered something that sounded like “dunno” and settled back to his survey of the passing buildings. Leda made sure Helen’s Jeep was still visible in the rear view mirror before signalling a right turn off Davenport. Stacey Bigelow’s last known address was a few blocks north of the main street, in a working class neighbourhood that had once been elegant. It was originally designed and constructed by the same immigrant workers who built much of the city north of Bloor Street. The houses were a mix of detached and semi-detached, with narrow, brightly painted fronts, large porches and surprisingly roomy backyards that extended behind the structures. Most were three storeys above ground, with the occasional two-storey home thrown in. They were meant to house single families, and had been built using top grade materials leftover from other projects. Leda knew the houses were surprising on the insides, many having been decorated in marble and fine woods. Most, though, had been converted in recent years to multiple family dwellings. Number 244 was no exception. It was a three storey semi-detached, connected to its neighbour, number 246. The sprawling shared porch was divided in half by a plywood screen. 244 had three doorbells labelled A, B and C, indicating it had been split into three distinct living units. Stacey’s address was 244B, so Darren pushed that button. A moment passed. He rang the bell again. “It’s three o’clock on a Monday,” Leda said. “Your sister might be at work.” Darren knocked before ringing the other two bells. The doorknob, when he tried it, was firmly locked. They were about to leave when the door opened. “Yes?” A dark-haired woman in an African dress and a necklace of polished stones peered at them. “What can I do for you?” Her accent was mildly Eastern European, but Leda couldn’t place it. “We’re looking for Stacey Bigelow,” Leda said. “Who is it, Masha?” a woman’s voice called from upstairs. The owner of the voice appeared in the doorway. She was taller than Masha, and thin to the point of concern, although her face still had a youthful softness. Other than being generally unkempt, she was a pretty girl. “Hi, Stacey,” Darren said. “Darren!” Stacey pushed past Masha and threw her arms around her brother’s neck. “How did you get here?” A mass of short, loose curls stuck out at every angle. As tall as her brother, she gave the impression of having just woken. Helen joined the group on the porch and introductions were made. “I don’t have a proper living room,” Stacey said, “or I’d invite you in.” “Nonsense,” Masha said, pulling the door open widely. “Come into my kitchen. We’re all one family here.” “Thank you, Masha.” They followed the landlady into the kitchen, which was cluttered with the sort of knick-knacks one would expect in a fortune-teller’s den. The room was otherwise clean and featured gleaming marble countertops. “We can’t stay long,” Helen said. “Let me make tea,” Masha said. “Or would you prefer coffee?” “Tea is fine,” Leda said. “Thank you.” Darren took a seat near Leda, not saying much, but studying his sister. Stacey’s initial enthusiasm at seeing him had been replaced by an undercurrent of anxiety. She avoided eye contact, seeming embarrassed. “You didn’t tell me you were coming,” she said. “I sent you an email.” “My computer died awhile ago. I have to replace it.” “I’m not going back,” Darren said. “Where will you stay?” “I could crash on your couch.” “I don’t have a couch,” Stacey said. “Then on your floor. Just till I find a place.” “What about school?” Masha lifted the steaming pot and poured water over five cups. “I have an extra room,” the landlady said, “on the third floor. It would be nice to have a man in the house.” Stacey’s eyes widened. She quickly recovered and shook her head. “Thank you, Masha,” she said, “but it wouldn’t work out. Darren can’t stay here. It’s too crowded and noisy. He wouldn’t be able to study.” “I need to talk to you, Stacey,” Darren said. “Can we go to your room?” “My room is a mess. We can talk on the porch.” Darren followed his sister. She grabbed a jacket from a peg in the foyer and slipped on a pair of weather beaten shoes. The snow was gone, but the city air was still cool. “What’s going on, Sis?” he said. “You know I have no place else to go. Let me stay for a night or two.” “What happened?” “You know what it was like. It got worse after you left. I couldn’t take it anymore.” “What about Aunt Sue? Couldn’t you move in with her till you finished school?” “And have him pounding on her door every night? No thanks. I couldn’t put her through that. Besides, I missed you.” “I missed you, too, Darren. I’m glad you came. But it’s not going to work. Trust me, you can’t stay here.” “Thanks a lot. I guess it’s true what they say: strangers will always help you more than your own flesh and blood will.” “Don’t be like that, Darren. I can’t explain right now. We’ll talk again later. We can meet someplace. I’ll give you my number.” “Don’t bother.” “Where will you stay tonight?” “Like you give a damn.” Darren stomped off the porch, leaning with arms crossed against Leda’s Honda. “Tell my friends,” he said, “we can leave anytime.” _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 13 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author. ThePennyDreadful-banner.jpgThe Penny Dreadful is a group of Serial Authors who came together through Twitter to present you with weekly installment of their stories. Hope you enjoy! THE FIRST EXCELLENCE IS NOW ON SMASHWORDS FOR THE LOW E-PRICE OF ONLY $3.99!!
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Forty days and forty nights, and at the end My eyes opened to see, unbelievably, The sun still shone, unaware of my darkness. 11 - Tiny Pieces Inspector Jack Brown closed the book and placed it on the table. He’d taken Highway 400 back to the city. Although he was hungry, he didn’t stop along the way. Jess was the first to admit she wasn’t known for her cooking. Still, when he looked across the dinner table he wanted to see her face. “A sad woman,” Jess said, pointing at the book. “Um-hmm.” Jack studied Leda Maguire’s photo on the cover. Although the smile was self-assured, it didn’t carry to the eyes. In his experience, the eyes were a dead giveaway. “I remember the case,” Jess said. “She looked quite different.” “She was just a girl then, as I recall.” “She looked traumatised in all the photos. I remember wondering how she would live through it. I should have known. 21st Century therapy: Lose your family, write a book.” “She seems like a nice lady." “Do you think she was involved in Lowry’s death?” “I don’t know,” Jack said. “She seemed surprised, but she keeps her emotions under wrap. Also, there’s that bit about the lost photo of Lowry.” “Her agent took it with her iPhone?” “That’s right. Maggie Landers said it was a clear shot of our victim. When I asked to see it, Leda couldn’t produce it. She claimed it was inadvertently deleted from the file. I took the phone into evidence. We'll see if the lab can restore the photo.” “What does her bodyguard say? She must be out of a job, now that Lowry’s dead.” “Helen Strachan… I know her. She didn’t remember me, but we met at a conference a couple of years ago. She’s got a good reputation. Bit of a ball-breaker, though.” Jess smiled. “You mean she didn’t offer to bake you a cake?” “Not hardly! Good looking girl, but tall, one of those muscle-bound women, with biceps out to here. I wouldn’t want to piss her off.” “Strong enough to take a man down with a single blow to the head?” “Oh, yeah.” Jack lifted the book in his hand and turned it over. Two Good Hands…a great title. He’d skimmed some pages before supper, just enough to gather a few tiny pieces of the author’s soul. He planned to read the rest that evening, while Jess was watching her shows. He checked the inscription one more time: For Jack and Jessica Brown, from Leda Maguire. The writer's hand was firm, letters well-sculpted and leaning forward at a uniform angle, with only the slightest flourish. The hand of a self-assured woman who had nothing to hide…. He measured the spine one more time – exactly 2.2 centimetres – a perfect match for the three books that were missing from Robert Lowry’s shelf. *** Rhonda Copps put the phone down none too gently and stepped into the bathroom. She studied her face in the mirror. Even without makeup, she was a good-looking woman. She felt a familiar rage rising in her gut. Measuring it, she walked into the living room. Her eyes scanned the area, looking for something – anything – that she wouldn’t miss. Finally she spotted a glass-encased scented red pillar, the same candle she’d lit the last time she and Hamish were together. She lifted the ornament and held it for a moment, letting her fury build to a climax before striking the glass against the table’s surface. It shattered, leaving no mark on the smooth black surface. Rhonda studied the palm of her hand, unsure why it was bleeding. She felt no pain, only the frustration of anger poorly spent. The red pillar candle remained in one piece, lying in a puddle of sparkling shards. Calming herself, she covered the wound on her right hand before blood could drop onto her ivory-coloured carpet. In the bathroom, she ran water over the wound and cleansed it with alcohol. When it was properly bandaged, she fetched her vacuum cleaner from the closet. She gathered the larger chunks of glass, using the machine to clean up the tiny pieces. *** Maggie Landers made a note in her planner. She wouldn’t mention the phone call to Leda. Her client had enough on her plate, with the death of Robert Lowry. Maggie had her own opinion on that subject. Lowry had been a creep, a full-time stalker, moving from one victim to the next. He’d gotten exactly what he deserved. Still, she knew his death was going to upset her friend. Leda had a good heart, despite everything she’d been through. She thought the best of people, even when it was clear they intended to use her. Leda had that golden trait that is so rare: she walked through life with blinders on, constantly giving away pieces of herself to anyone in need and never asking for anything in return. Maggie Landers bore no such illusions regarding the human capacity for malice. She shook her head and looked at the phone. Why was Rhonda Copps so anxious to speak with Leda? Why wouldn’t she leave a message for the author with Maggie, like everyone else did? It was bad enough Maggie had revealed Leda’s whereabouts to the Inspector. That was a police matter – she’d had no choice. When it came to anyone else, though, Maggie knew better than to give out her client’s contact information. The only thing Leda had ever asked of Maggie was that she respect her privacy. She intended to do just that. Rhonda had been persistent, demanding to know how she could reach Leda directly. When she’d told her she was not at liberty to divulge any information regarding her client, the professor had slammed down the phone without another word. Maggie didn’t know what game Professor Copps was playing, but she was messing with the wrong crazy literary agent. Maggie had a policy of her own. She didn’t take crap from anyone. _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 12 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.
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Be sure to indicate which book you are ordering as well as quantities: ***For your convenience, both books are also available at Amazon.com: Order The First Excellence from Amazon Order "Two Scoops" Is Just Right from Amazon ]]> http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/04/tw_good_hands_volume_11_tiny_p.html http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/04/tw_good_hands_volume_11_tiny_p.html Two Good Hands ~ a Leda and Strachan mystery series Sun, 11 Apr 2010 11:24:30 -0500 Two Good Hands ~ Volume 10: What Remains Unseen, by Donna Carrick Hiding in the shadows Of dawn’s half-sketched canvas… A reflected glimmer, a fleeting hope, Then gone again – Love’s fickle offerings. 10 -- What Remains Unseen Darren Bigelow led the way into the store. Wye Meadows was one of those villages you see on post-cards, with trendy white-lace trimmed houses and big yards. The town had so far resisted the lure of big-box shopping. According to the sign above the door, Lorne Grendel ran the general store. Leda recalled it had been in his family for years. “What do we need?” Helen asked, holding the door for Leda Maguire. “I thought we got everything yesterday.” “There’s always something I forget. Besides, I want to have a look around.” Leda watched Darren move through the aisles, surprised at how tall he was. At sixteen, he was almost the same height as Helen Strachan. The previous night’s hospital stay had restored his body, but his mind remained fractured. His statement to the police had given them little to go on. He’d remembered his name and the fact he’d been on his way to Toronto from New Brunswick. Just another Maritimer looking for a job, he’d hitched a ride with a couple of truckers on a lonely stretch of highway in the middle of the Gaspé Peninsula. He’d told the officers he was eighteen, which wasn’t true, but his height had carried the lie. He wasn’t carrying any identification. His attackers had relieved him of it when they’d left him to die in the County forest. It took Helen less than five minutes to extract at least a portion of the truth: that Darren was sixteen, not eighteen, and that he was running from an intolerable home situation, trying to find his sister in Toronto. He had no memory of the past few days, only confusing mental images that he could not describe. The doctor said amnesia was common in people who’d been drugged with Rohypnol. Memory would be slow to return, if indeed it came back at all. Against Helen’s better judgement, Leda immediately offered to give him a lift when they drove back to the city on Monday. Naturally, the youth had no place to stay for the weekend. Leda was about to suggest that he sleep on her couch, but Helen shook her head. “There must be a hotel in Midland,” she insisted. “We can pick him up when we’re ready to head back.” “There’s a B&B in Wye Meadows,” Leda said. “It’s closer. We’ll be able to check on him.” At first, Darren had refused to accept the offer of a room and a ride. When Helen pointed out the alternative was a phone call to the police, he agreed. In the store, Leda tried to reach a pack of bathroom tissue, but it threatened to tumble from its high shelf. The store owner reached past her, easily lifting the package. “Thank you,” she said. “Happy to help.” His voice was soft with a Canadian twang, as changeable as the northern climate. “Can I get you anything else?” “Just information,” Leda said. “There was a B&B in town. Is it still here?” “You mean Callie’s place. She took the sign down last fall when they painted the porch. Hasn’t put it back up yet. She’s still taking in guests, though. It’s on this side of the school, three houses down. Tell her Lorne sent you.” “Thank you, Lorne.” “Staying long?” He glanced at her companions, including them in his smile. “The room is for the young man,” she said. “I’ve got a place outside of town.” “Then I’ll be seeing you around.” “You will,” Leda returned his smile. This was what she’d come to the North country for – simple folks with friendly manners. A quiet lifestyle in pleasant surroundings. She could get used to it. She passed a ten-dollar-bill over the counter. “If you need a place to eat,” he said, “my cousin’s got a decent diner just on the edge of town, west of here. Her specialty’s the all day breakfast, but she does a nice dinner menu, too.” “Thanks again,” Leda said, following Helen through the doorway. Darren was already waiting beside the car. “What do you think?” Helen said. “Want to eat out tonight?” Leda nodded. “Did I mention,” she said, “that I’m a lousy cook?” *** Lorne closed the cash register and watched Leda’s Honda pull away. He wished he’d had the nerve to ask her first name, but he already knew she was a Maguire. Wye Meadows was too small a place for keeping secrets. Besides, Lorne had known her aunt. Although he couldn’t remember the old lady’s name, he had a vague memory of a skinny girl who had a thing for candy necklaces. A door opened at the back of the store. “Who the hell are you talking to now?” “No one, Mom. It was just a customer.” “Local?” “No,” he lied. “Well, quit your jabbering and get your ass upstairs. I told you a dozen times that toilet isn’t working right. Just for a change, do you think you can do one simple thing I ask?” “Yes, Mom,” he said. He knew better than to argue. Half the time she didn’t remember who he was, and the other half she spent berating him. If he stopped to discuss it with her, the conversation was bound to end in name-calling. The doctor called it dementia, but he knew it went deeper than that. She’d been a bitter shrew for as long as he could remember. He shut the door, leaving her alone in the store. “You lazy bum!” she shouted after him. “You’re no better than your father!” *** Inspector Brown pulled into the hidden driveway on Concession 3 and parked beside the Jeep. Nice cabin, he thought, studying the spacious deck, the brickwork and the unfinished landscaping. He’d been told what to expect. The author’s agent, Maggie Landers, had described what she’d referred to as ‘Leda’s Folly’, the isolated retreat where her client intended to seclude herself. He rang the doorbell and knocked, but there was no indication of life inside the house. He tromped around the building, cupping his hands to peer through the one-way glass at the swimming pool. A wild turkey shrieked and scurried away, leaving a small pile of acorn shells at the base of a large boulder. Jack completed his tour of the building’s perimeter before returning to his car. His map assured him there were nearby towns, the closest of which was Wye Meadows to the north. He considered driving into town and killing an hour, eating and looking around, before trying again at Leda Maguire’s house. He’d anticipated the possibility she might not be home when he arrived. Still, calling beforehand would have alerted her – given her time to think about her answers. He preferred to question people off the cuff. Their behaviour when caught off guard was often as important as what they said. He had just climbed into his car when he heard a vehicle roll up behind him. Not wanting to alarm anyone, he held up his identification as he approached the Honda. Leda rolled down her window. “My name is Inspector Brown, Toronto Metro Police,” he said. “Are you Leda Maguire?” “I am,” she said, opening her door. On the other side of the car, Helen got out and walked around. “I was told you lived alone,” Jack said. “Who told you that?” Leda asked. “I got your address from your agent, Maggie Landers.” “This is my friend, Helen Strachan,” Leda said. “Strachan Security?” Jack asked. “That’s right,” Helen nodded. “Ms. Maguire employed me earlier this month to travel with her.” “Oh, yes,” Jack said. “Because of the fan who was stalking her.” “Did Maggie tell you that as well?” Leda said, inserting herself firmly into the conversation. Being smaller than the others and diminutive in stature, she was accustomed to being talked about as if she wasn’t there. Accustomed perhaps, but not accepting. “What was his name?” Jack asked. “You mean the stalker? I don’t remember,” Leda said. “Oh, wait – I think it was Robert. I don’t know his last name. What is this about?” “Lowry. The man’s name was Robert Lowry.” Jack tucked his ID badge into his coat pocket. “If you knew his name,” Leda said, “why did you ask?” “Perhaps we should go inside,” Jack said. “It’s cold out here.” _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME11 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.
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Be sure to indicate which book you are ordering as well as quantities: ***For your convenience, both books are also available at Amazon.com: Order The First Excellence from Amazon Order "Two Scoops" Is Just Right from Amazon ]]> http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/03/two_good_hands_volume_10_what.html http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/03/two_good_hands_volume_10_what.html Two Good Hands ~ a Leda and Strachan mystery series Sun, 28 Mar 2010 13:08:32 -0500 Two Good Hands ~ Volume 9: Sixty-Three Acres, by Donna Carrick I tried to imagine a place of refuge. One image came to mind: Trees…trees… A forest of them, standing sentinels, Promising me peace. 9 -- Sixty-Three Acres It was late afternoon when Leda’s Honda rolled up the drive to settle beside Helen’s Jeep. Evidence of winter’s final hurrah remained, especially in the shade at the forest’s edge. Today’s cold spell had come on top of a warm, drizzly stretch. It wouldn’t be long before spring took care of the rest of the snow. “Quite a place,” Helen Strachan said, stretching. Leda Maguire looked at the hidden clearing that held her new house. Nearly two acres of natural forest had been removed, creating a meadow that was not visible from the highway. A year ago, she’d used a bolt of orange ribbon to mark her favourite trees – the ones that would be spared. The rest had been uprooted by local contractors. The job of landscaping would begin in April. The property still boasted over sixty acres of forest, ideal for hiking along the old logging trails. “Thanks,” Leda said. She paused a moment, noting how the sunlight warmed the grey brick and picked up its strains of Laurentian blue. It had been necessary to clear the meadow, although in Leda’s fantasy the house had nestled quietly into the forest. Leaving the trees would have resulted in an unbearable black fly situation. As it was, Leda knew spring and early summer were going to be difficult. She’d had the contractors screen in the front porch and back deck. This time of year, shutters were rolled down to ward off the worst of winter. Because of the imposing tree line, the sun would set early. Leda and Helen unpacked quickly, carrying suitcases and bags of groceries into the closed porch. Helen followed Leda to the spacious marbled kitchen. “Wow!” she said. “I know,” Leda said. “It’s kind of criminal. Nearly thirty years old and I don’t even know how to cook. Now I’ll have to learn.” “It’s fabulous.” “They just installed the cupboards.” Leda opened a door, then another, inspecting the workmanship. The third door squeaked. “I can fix that,” Helen said. “You know what they say: ‘If it moves and it shouldn’t, duct tape. If it doesn’t move and it should, WD-40’.” “I’ll pick some up next time we’re in town.” “As it happens, I have WD-40 in the Jeep.” Leda laughed. “Do you also carry duct tape?” “Never leave home without it,” Helen said. “Come on,” Leda said. “Let’s look around.” Helen followed Leda from the kitchen down a few pine stairs into the chalet style living room. Red brickwork ran up the outside wall for two stories. Etched glass on both sides of the brick allowed natural light to flood the main area through frosted leafy swirls. A fireplace stood in the centre of the brick. To its left, the wall was lined with bookshelves waiting to be filled. To its right, a picture window allowed for a stunning view of the forest. “I was going for ‘Harry Potter meets Mr. Canoe-head’,” Leda said. “It’s great.” “Looks like a hotel lobby. Stylish but sterile.” “It just needs to be lived in,” Helen said. “All right, then. Let’s start messing it up.” Together they explored the loft that held Leda’s bedroom, office and bathroom. The bedroom was open, looking out over the main living area and fireplace. Several painted screens could be drawn to hide the room if necessary. There was only one staircase, which led directly into her bedroom. The office and bathroom were accessed through doors on the far side of the sleeping area. On the main floor to the right of the living room and tucked behind the kitchen was a spacious all-season dining room. In warm weather glass panels would slide open to allow for an outdoor feeling. On the left of the living area a hallway led to two guest rooms, only one of which was furnished. The hall then veered to the right. Leda pushed open a door and stepped onto a pool deck. The smell of salt filled the air. The water was heated greenhouse-style by sunlight that poured through a thick glass ceiling. “Now I know why you told me to bring my swim suit,” Helen said. “The pool was my one serious requirement. The one in my condo building is small, but if I go at odd hours I can usually get it to myself. I love the smell of chlorine, but the contractor told me salt water would be healthier and better for the environment.” “Now you’ll always get the pool to yourself.” “It’s one of my charming quirks. I don’t like to share. It has to do with personal space.” “Very charming. Do you want to have a swim now?” “You can if you like. I’ll wait till morning.” “Me, too,” Helen said. “You should be the first one in your pool.” Leda walked around the pool deck, checking the locks on the new windows. Security could easily become an obsession if she wasn’t careful. She would have to get her head around it, try to feel more comfortable. Helen pointed at one of the large windows and Leda looked up in time to see a pair of does step out of the forest. With the afternoon light disappearing, they felt safe coming into the open meadow to forage for last year’s dried grass and leaves. “Now I remember why I bought this place,” Leda said. They were just about to discover whether the television worked when Leda’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the call display. “It’s the hospital,” she said. *** Inspector Brown loosened his coat as he entered the big-box InkWells bookstore. The brisk walk across Bay and down to King left him wishing he’d passed up eating the hot dog. Starky was near the checkout counter with the manager and a clerk, both wearing the inky blue vests associated with store employees. He waved when he saw Jack Brown. “Inspector,” he said, “this is David Grossmann, the store manager. Both he and Wendy Scott were in the store the other day. They identified Robert Lowry.” “Mr. Grossmann, Miss Scott, I’m Inspector Brown.” Jack held out a photo of the late Mr. Lowry. “I take it you’ve seen this photo?” “Yes.” “And you remember this man as being a customer in your store?” “Absolutely,” David said. “What day was that?” “It was last Tuesday,” Wendy said. “Was he a regular customer?” Both the manager and the clerk shook their heads. “I don’t remember seeing him before,” the clerk said. It was a long-shot, but Jack had to ask. “What did he buy?” “He picked up a copy of that new self-help book,” Wendy said. “You know the one, by the woman whose family was killed in Toronto.” “Two Good Hands,” David said. “Yes, that’s the one.” Jack couldn't remember the author's name, but he certainly recalled the case. Three brutal murders in a quiet Toronto neighbourhood. The two adult victims were said to be ordinary, middle-aged folks. The boy was a newborn, less than three months old. He studied the store's aisles bloated with bestselling titles and over-run with customers. “You get a lot of people in here every day,” he said. “If you never saw Mr. Lowry before, how is it you remember him so well? How can you be sure what day he was here and what he purchased?” The store manager and the clerk exchanged a quick glance. “That’s easy,” Wendy said. The manager shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “There was an incident,” he said. *** “Is this Leda Maguire?” a young man’s voice said. “I got your number from the nurse.” “Yes, this is Leda.” “My name is Darren. I just wanted to thank you for saving my life.” _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME10 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.
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Be sure to indicate which book you are ordering as well as quantities: ***For your convenience, both books are also available at Amazon.com: Order The First Excellence from Amazon Order "Two Scoops" Is Just Right from Amazon ]]> http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/03/two_good_hands_volume_9_sixtyt.html http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/03/two_good_hands_volume_9_sixtyt.html Two Good Hands ~ a Leda and Strachan mystery series Sat, 20 Mar 2010 06:19:06 -0500 Two Good Hands ~ Volume 8: The Boy At The Side Of The Road, Donna Carrick Certain types of cancer Infect each generation, Despite our best defences. Let your guard down for a moment And the seed takes hold… 8 - The Boy At The Side Of the Road By the time they hit Barrie, Toronto’s murky urban sky had given way to that particularly stunning blue associated with the North. It was still cold, even colder than it had been in big city, but the sight of clean white snow and evergreens had a way of lifting Leda’s spirits. She opened the window a couple of inches and let the air fill her lungs. Helen followed in her Jeep. They could have easily fit their luggage into Leda’s Honda, but Helen had a meeting in Toronto on Monday, and Leda wasn’t sure how long she needed to stay, so it made more sense to bring two cars. North of Barrie the temperature took another dip. Leda shut the window, but refrained from turning up the heat. She hadn’t been to the new place in months. The work was essentially complete. The Midland decorator had called to say the new curtains she’d commissioned looked great, and the furniture had been delivered more than a week ago. It was time to pay the general contractor. Once that was done, Leda would bring in a local firm to re-work all the doors and install the security system. Her new house was on Concession 3, with no neighbours for a mile on either side. Given her obsessive fears, she didn’t know how she was going to find the courage to spend time alone there. It had always been her dream to build a retreat where she could feel close to nature and write in peace. Leda realised a year ago that she would have to make a choice: she could either admit to herself that her greatest desire was never going to be realised, or she could face her fears and find a way to make it happen. The house was about five miles southwest of Midland, near a small lakefront community called Wye Meadows. The village had a grocery store, an LCBO that sold liquor and beer, two schools and five churches. It was a quaint locale, one of those towns the tourists love to stop in. To cater to the summer folks there was a trendy ice cream parlour and one of the oldest houses had been converted into a “cottage collectables” shop. As always, when Leda slowed to turn off the main highway onto Concession 3, she was aware of a weight being lifted from her chest. As a child, she’d spent a couple of weeks every summer in her grandmother’s house on the edge of Wye Meadows. It was the only place where she’d felt truly safe. Nanny, as she’d called her grandmother, had died when Leda was in her early teens. It was just as well. At least she hadn’t had to live through the murder of her daughter and her great grandchild. Nanny had made no secret of her dislike for Leda’s father, who was never invited to stay in her house. Thanks to Nanny, Leda had nothing but happy memories of Wye Meadows. Leda glanced in her rear view mirror to make sure Helen had made the turn onto Concession 3. There were a few tree farms and a lot of county forest, but no houses along the way. If the contractors had kept their promises, the laneway leading to her drive would be well-cleared but difficult to spot. She kept her eyes on the right side of the road, concerned about missing the driveway. Something moved in her peripheral vision. She looked quickly to the left in time to see a person stagger out of the woods. He was young – perhaps fifteen or sixteen. When he tried to flag her down, his movements were erratic. She slowed and turned on her blinker to let Helen know she was pulling over. Had she been alone, she wouldn’t have considered stopping along an isolated stretch of highway for a stranger. But she wasn’t alone. Helen was with her, and Helen presented an imposing figure by most standards. Besides, the boy – and he was a boy, she could see that now – appeared to be injured. The side of his face was bruised and there were dark stains on his plaid jacket. In this weather, he should have been wearing a parka, but overcoat, hat, boots and gloves were all conspicuously missing. He did not approach their cars, but waved once again before doubling over and retching into the snowy ditch. Helen loped across the highway without waiting for Leda, who followed quickly on shorter legs. “Are you all right?” Helen said. The young man mumbled. He looked up at Helen through bloodshot eyes. “I’m Leda Maguire," Leda said. "This is Helen Strachan. What is your name? Was there an accident?” “I think he’s been drinking,” Helen said. “I don’t smell any alcohol.” “Drugs, then. He’s completely shot.” “We can’t leave him here,” Leda said. “Any suggestions?” “We’re less than a mile from my place. Let’s get him into the back of the Honda and you follow us. We’ll leave your Jeep at my place and ride together to Midland.” “Can’t we just dial 9-1-1?” “Trust me,” Leda said, “by the time an ambulance gets here, we could have driven him to the hospital, spoken with the doctors, given a statement to the police, found out who his people are and had him released to his family.” “We’re in your neck of the woods, my friend. Let’s do it before we all get hypothermia.” *** Inspector Jack Brown finished half the grilled dog he’d bought from the street vendor outside of Old City Hall. He took one last bite, careful not to drip condiments onto his coat, before tossing the remainder into a trash bin. Life was about compromise. Jack loved the sloppy over-sized hot dogs – heart attacks on a bun, his wife called them – but he knew Jessica was right. The best things are meant to be enjoyed in small measures. Jack still indulged in the occasional dog, but he never ate more than half. He was finished in court for the day, so he turned his cell phone back on and checked his messages. There was one from Jessica, one from the desk sergeant, Matt Cummings, and one from Starky’s cell. Starky answered on the second ring. “You’d better get over here, Jack,” he said. “I’m at InkWells on King, the big one next to the Tim Horton’s.” Jack glanced north, towards the parking lot where he’d left his un-marked sedan. Then he looked south toward King. He had to shade his eyes against the watery winter sunlight. He knew where the bookstore was. The only question was whether he felt like hoofing it, so soon after shovelling down a bun-full of cholesterol. On the other hand, once you scored a parking spot downtown, it was best to hang onto it. He started walking south. “Be right there,” he said. *** “Lucky thing you brought him in when you did,” the doctor said. “He was bleeding out. If he'd spent any more time in the cold, we might’ve lost him.” Leda nodded. “There seemed to be a lot of blood on his shirt.” “Do we know his name?” Helen asked. “Nope,” the doctor said. “He wasn’t carrying I.D. and he hasn’t been able to speak.” “You can call me if there’s any change,” Leda said. “We’re not far from here.” “Leave your number with the nurse.” “Alcohol?” one of two O.P.P. officers asked. “No,” the doctor said. “Looks life Rohypnol to me. They’re running the blood downstairs right now.” “Roofies. Great. Find out how much of that crap got into him, will you?” The officer scribbled into his notebook. “And run a rape kit while you’re at it, Doc.” “Already done, Bill.” The doctor lowered his voice, though Leda and Helen were still able to hear. He waved the chart in front of the officer’s face. “No shortage of evidence. Looks like multiple villains. We’re running the samples downstairs with the blood even as we speak.” “Shit,” the Officer said, “he’s about the same age as my boy. How soon before he comes around?” “Minimum six hours. I’m going home now, but I’ve left word he’s to stay under watch. I’ll be here first thing tomorrow. You can talk to him then.” “OK, thanks, Tom,” the officer said. “We’ll be here at seven.” “Bring coffee.” With that high command, Dr. Tom tucked the chart under his arm and disappeared down the hall. _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 9 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.
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Be sure to indicate which book you are ordering as well as quantities: ***For your convenience, both books are also available at Amazon.com: Order The First Excellence from Amazon Order "Two Scoops" Is Just Right from Amazon ]]> http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/03/two_good_hands_volume_8_the_bo.html http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/03/two_good_hands_volume_8_the_bo.html Two Good Hands ~ a Leda and Strachan mystery series Mon, 15 Mar 2010 19:25:21 -0500 Two Good Hands ~ Volume 7: Each Day A Decision, by Donna Carrick And so these hands of mine Began to write. At first I feared that Living through it all again Would be my death. I'm still alive. 7 -- Each Day A Decision Jack shoved the report into a folder. For what it was worth, he now knew the make, model and serial number of the stolen laptop. Whoever had removed the computer would make damn sure it never surfaced. It was gone, along with any clues it might hold regarding the murder of its owner: Robert Lowry. He’d dragged Starky back to the dead man’s apartment in the hopes of finding something – anything – that forensics might have overlooked. Brown studied the shelf. Four missing books, each exactly the same size, had stood side by side edged by a ring of dust. But why, the Inspector wondered, would anyone keep four identical books? Of course, they could be volumes of a set, like four dictionaries, but then the sizes would vary at least marginally. These four books had been identical. “The laptop’s a dead end,” he said to Starky. “We’re not likely to recover it. It’s going to come down to the books. What was the late Mr. Lowry reading? His sister and brother don’t know. What about the neighbours? The local bookstores?” “The neighbours say he liked to read, but no one remembered a specific title. I’ll pull together a couple of guys and visit the bookstores.” “Any news regarding our victim’s latest ‘love interest’?” Starky laughed. “So far, Jack, that remains a mystery.” Brown studied the spines one more time, his gloved hand removing the book that had stood nearest the missing four. As he lifted it, a flash of blue caught his eye. “Hold on, Starky. Have a look at this, will you?” A bright blue feather moved slightly on the shelf. Brown used a pen to hold the feather in place. “Does this look dusty to you?” he asked. Starky leaned in close. The feather showed no trace of the heavy dust that covered the rest of the bookshelf. “Nope.” He opened a plastic evidence bag and used a pair of tweezers to drop the feather inside. “Lowry didn’t own any pets, right?” Brown said. “No pets. Besides, this feather has been dyed. It’s not a natural blue.” “So far as we can tell Lowry wasn’t a cross-dresser.” “No girly duds in his closet,” Starky said. “No feathery fashions.” “Lucky thing,” Brown said, “that mysteries are our business.” *** “Welcome back to sunny Toronto.” Maggie’s warm smile was in sharp contrast to the dreary afternoon. Her office was bright, the walls decorated in best-selling covers. Leda Maguire shook her coat and hung it on the rack. “Very funny,” she said. “How was Boston?” Maggie hugged her client. Leda’s book had raised her status as an agent, but beyond that she was genuinely fond of the author. The cover of Two Good Hands held a place of prominence on her wall. “Let’s just say it was an ‘interesting’ trip.” Leda launched into a review of the past few days: Hamish’s attempted suicide, the hotel maid’s troubles with her daughter and her sociopath son, the break-and-entering of her Boston hotel room. “I was glad to have Helen Strachan with me, that’s for sure,” she concluded. “So the bodyguard thing is working out?” Maggie said. “To tell the truth,” Leda said, “my friendly stalker was a no-show for the first time in months. I don’t know what happened to him. I was a little disappointed, seeing as I’d gone to the trouble of hiring a bodyguard. But as it turned out, there were enough other crazies in Boston to make the expense worthwhile.” “Speaking of worthwhile,” Maggie said, “the University Bookstore called. They ordered 1500 copies of Two Good Hands. They plan to make it compulsory reading for their Psych students. They also fished around to find out whether you would commit to an annual visit to Boston, but I talked around that one. Who knows what our schedule will be like next year?” Leda sat back in her seat. 1500 copies in a single order – five years ago the concept would have been unthinkable! “Anyway,” Maggie continued, “as far as our schedule goes, we’ve got nothing on for the next two weeks. You deserve a break. I was thinking of booking us both a flight to Cuba. How does sun, sand and a steady stream of piña colada sound?” “Sounds wonderful, Maggie, and thanks for offering. To tell the truth, though, I really need to get up North. The contractors are almost finished the new place. I have to spend some time there, find out if there are any problems before I make the final payment.” Maggie stifled her disappointment. She’d been talking to Leda about the possibility of a trip for months, and her friend had seemed open to the idea. It would be good for her to get away, unwind in an unfamiliar place. The truth was, Maggie had no family, no lover, and she counted Leda as one of her closest friends. At least she hadn’t given a deposit on the flight. That was something. “That’s too bad,” she said. “Maybe another time. But are you sure you’re ready to stay overnight in the new place? I mean, it’s a lovely house and everything. It’s just so isolated. Won’t you be nervous?” “I have to face it sooner or later. Might as well get on with it. I was thinking of asking Helen whether she can recommend a security firm in Midland. Maybe I can hire someone to keep an eye on the place while I’m there, and check it out occasionally when I’m not.” “I hadn’t thought of that.” “Ethan’s going to be in jail a long time, Maggie. At some point I have to find a way to get on with my life. If that means hiring a full-time companion, well, at least I have the money.” “Absolutely. Whatever puts your mind at ease.” Maggie studied Leda. Even knowing the author as she did, she still marvelled at her friend’s composure. After all, Leda’s past was a matter of public record. She had been to hell and… well… there was no way of knowing whether she had come back. As a child she had survived sexual, physical and emotional trauma. She escaped into a teenaged marriage, only to discover that her husband was even more violent than her father was – flat out psychotic by all accounts. When the eighteen-year-old Leda Hammer learned she was pregnant, she made a terrifying decision to leave her abusive husband. He always told her he would kill her if she left. It took months to find the courage, but one day she sought refuge in a shelter for battered women. She knew better than to return to her parents’ home. That was the first place Ethan would look for her. Christmas came that year as it always does. Baby’s first Christmas – her mother’s first and only grandchild. After much discussion, Leda finally agreed to spend Christmas Eve at her parents’ house with her newborn son. It was a fatal decision, one that would haunt Leda for the rest of her life. In many ways the events of that night had broken Leda, but she’d come back from the dead… come back to tell her story to the world. Maggie had nothing but respect for her client. Her greatest wish was to protect Leda, to help her achieve success and happiness. “You never told me,” Maggie finally said, “what the burglar took from your hotel room.” Having decided to keep the missing bookmark to herself, Leda had rehearsed the answer. After all, she’d already been questioned by the Boston police. “Nothing at all,” she said. “I’m guessing we interrupted him before he could get his hands on anything valuable.” Maggie turned toward the window. The grey afternoon was giving way to darkness. She longed to give her friend advice, but Leda had a quiet ferocity when it came to making her own decisions. “Drive carefully,” Maggie said. “The roads are going to be bad.” *** Helen was waiting in the limousine. They’d shared a car from the airport, but she was travel weary and hadn’t felt up to meeting Leda’s agent. “Let's go to your place first,” Helen said. “I’ll go in with you, make sure the coast is clear.” “Thanks.” Leda looked out the window. “Everything all right?” Helen asked. “Don’t you think it’s a little strange,” Leda said, “that my stalker suddenly took a powder?” “I hope you’re not disappointed.” Helen smiled. “No. It’s just odd.” Leda pulled her cell phone from her pocket. “I’m going to email his photo to you.” She fumbled with the applications till the 'camera-roll' appeared. She didn’t have many pictures – a couple she’d taken at various signings with Maggie. “That’s funny,” she said, scrolling once more through the pictures. “What?” Helen said. “The picture isn’t there anymore.” “That’s weird.” “I must have accidentally deleted it. It’s no big deal. How would you feel,” Leda said, buckling her seatbelt, “about a little Northern getaway?” *** Rhonda Copps glared at the phone and set her drink on the table. Scotch splashed over the rim onto her fingers. She licked them without dropping her gaze. She’d be damned if some low-class Louisiana witch was gong to get the better of her! A dozen times she’d reached for the phone, determined to tell Sandy Burrows to go straight to hell. Each time, though, the memory of those crazy blue eyes flashing out of that dark African face stopped Rhonda in her tracks. Rhonda's distaste for losing at anything competed with her sneaking suspicion that Sandy Burrows might make good on her threat. The professor had no desire to become fish bait at the bottom of the Boston Harbour. Still…. _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 8 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.
1 - Now you can order your signed copies of The First Excellence and "Two Scoops" Is Just Right directly from the authors! 1stExcFrntCoverWebSmallest2.JPG *** NEW FEATURE -- SEE PAYPAL OPTIONS BELOW!***
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Be sure to indicate which book you are ordering as well as quantities: ***For your convenience, both books are also available at Amazon.com: Order The First Excellence from Amazon Order "Two Scoops" Is Just Right from Amazon ]]> http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/03/two_good_hands_volume_7_each_d.html http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/03/two_good_hands_volume_7_each_d.html Two Good Hands ~ a Leda and Strachan mystery series Sun, 07 Mar 2010 12:54:19 -0500 Two Good Hands ~ Volume 6: Dance of the Golden Snake, by Donna Carrick In those darkest hours I often thought If only there was some kind of magic – Some way to bring my family back… But there was no hope, no comfort to be found. The only things I had left were My own two good hands. 6 -- Dance of the Golden Snake Rhonda Copps rolled over and checked the time. It was still early. She had no classes on the agenda. Nothing planned but a visit to the hospital. The mirror was kind to Rhonda. She set her coffee mug on the bathroom counter and studied her hair, dark and matted from sleep but still attractive. She was one of those ageless women – the casual observer would be hard pressed to guess her years. Tall and slender, even in pyjamas she was a presence. The hospital receptionist said Hamish had woken through the night. The worst was over and he was beginning to mend, but was still in I.C.U. Rhonda would visit anyway, posing as his sister. If she ran into his wife, well, the inevitable showdown was overdue. From Hamish’s description his wife was a small, barely educated hick, a docile creature with little personality who clung to her husband as her sole purpose. What could a woman like that offer a man like Hamish? With his intelligence and Rhonda’s connections, they would become a professional team to be reckoned with. Rhonda stepped out of the bath and wrapped her body in an oversized towel. She normally used a rich, natural shade of green eye-shadow to complement her eyes, but today she felt like going ‘gold’. The right clothes, shoes, a shimmering gold-flecked scarf – she studied her reflection one last time, ready to take down the competition. *** “What time is our flight?” Helen Strachan stirred sugar into her coffee and looked across the table at Leda. “It’s at three.” “Is there anything else you’d like to do while we’re in Boston? I mean, other than looking in on Hamish and Sandy at the hospital?” Leda Maguire shook her head. “I just want to get home. I can’t write here. The aura of the city is lost on me.” “I’m sure it has nothing to do with the non-stop excitement of the past twenty-four hours.” Leda smiled. Between Hamish’s near-fatal encounter with the bus, discovering the letter he’d written to his wife, arriving to find a thief in her hotel room and helping a mother to get assistance in dealing with her sociopath son, it had been an eventful trip. Through all of that, though, one factor dominated her thoughts and would not let her rest. Yesterday’s presentation had gone well, but it left her feeling raw. The group of psychology students was her largest audience to date. They’d listened, watched her with rapt faces as if she were a stripper, as if they were determined not to miss a second of the peep show into her soul. For the first time since setting out on this crusade of hers she was beginning to have doubts. She felt as if she’d sold something yesterday, something that shouldn’t be sold. When she first started writing Two Good Hands, she told herself it was her story. It was the only thing she had of value. Why shouldn’t she use it to earn herself a living? Some people accused her of exploiting a terrible tragedy. To hell with them. It was her tragedy, after all. Yesterday, though, seeing the faces of those students as they studied her – analysing her behaviour and her motives, pouncing on any clue to her own vulnerability – for the first time she’d felt as though she’d made a mistake. What was done was done. There was no turning back. Her agent and friend, Maggie Landers, was already pushing for the draft of her next book. Two Good Hands was a runaway success. Her future income was secured. “Let’s take the luggage with us to the hospital,” Leda said. “We can head to the airport from there.” *** Sandy Burrows greeted them in the I.C.U. waiting room. It was obvious she hadn’t rested. Her curls were unkempt and her blue eyes flashed maniacally. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “Hamish isn’t out of the woods yet, but he’s much better.” “Can we see him?” Leda asked. “Only direct family is allowed to visit. They plan to move him to a room later today, if you’re still around.” “We have to catch a flight back to Toronto,” Helen said. “Please tell him we were here. Keep our contact info and let us know how he’s doing.” “I will.” Sandy sat between the two women. She took the coffee Leda had brought. “Thank you. I’ll get breakfast at the cafeteria shortly.” “Have the police been back?” Helen asked. “No. I called them, though. Once Hamish gets settled into a room, they’ll be back to question him. I told them it wasn’t the bus driver’s fault.” “Did Hamish tell you what happened?” Leda asked. “Just that he did it on purpose – stepped in front of the bus. He wouldn’t say why. He says there was a letter for me. I asked the police, but they didn’t find any letter.” Helen Strachan shifted in her seat and glanced at Leda, who nodded agreement. “Sandy,” Helen said, “there’s something you need to see.” She reached into her pocket for the blood-stained paper and unfolded it. Sandy put her paper cup down on the table and stared, trying to focus on the words. Finally the truth worked its way into her brain. The colour drained from her coffee skin, leaving it a pale grey. “Is this everything?” she said, turning first to Helen, then to Leda. “Yes. It was in his hand when the bus hit him.” Helen fought the urge to stand. “I got to him first and put it in my pocket without thinking. Later I realised what it was.” “This explains everything,” Sandy said. “I have to get back to him.” “Let us take you to breakfast first,” Leda said. “You have to eat. Another hour won’t change the facts, but it might make things easier for you.” “I am hungry,” Sandy said. “I’m eating for two now, you know.” “Congratulations,” Leda said. “I told Hamish about the baby last night, as soon as he woke. I was afraid he might die without knowing he’s going to be a father.” “It was the right thing to do,” Leda said. “You gave him another reason to fight for his life.” Helen didn’t know what to make of Sandy’s attitude. It wasn’t what she’d expected – the scorned wife should have been furious, humiliated, but Sandy just smiled and rested a hand on her belly as she walked toward the elevator with her new friends on either side of her. “You're taking this news well,” Helen said. Sandy pushed the button. “The truth is never as bad as what we imagine. For months I’ve been going out of my mind wondering what the hell was happening with my husband. I love him, but his world is different from mine. I don’t always understand him – couldn’t see what the problem was. There was a mysterious rift growing between us. “Now that I know he’s been cheating, hell, I can deal with it. Oldest story on earth. Hamish loves me. No 'other woman' is going to take down my marriage – my family.” She laughed, but an edge had crept into her voice that wasn’t there before. Leda recognised the hint of restrained fury buried under Sandy’s chuckle. *** Rhonda followed the yellow line on the hospital floor to the I.C.U. main lobby. Once there, she leaned over the desk and rang the bell. Two nurses were huddled at the back of the station, no doubt gossiping. One of them scowled at her. The nurses deliberately finished their whispered discussion before acknowledging Rhonda. “I’m here to see Hamish Burrows,” she said. “Are you family?” “I’m his sister. I called earlier.” “Oh, yes.” “Is his wife here?” “She went to get some breakfast. She should be back soon.” Rhonda followed the nurse through the door to the intensive care unit. It was impossible to guess which of the sheet-covered gurneys held Hamish. When the nurse pointed him out, she almost didn’t recognise him. He was asleep, with tubes and an oxygen mask, only his trademark red hair giving him away. “I’m here, Hamish,” she said, taking his hand. His eyes flew open. At first they registered confusion, then alarm. He tried to lift one shaking hand to remove his mask, but the struggle was too great. “Don’t try to speak,” she said. “I won’t stay long. I just wanted to let you know I’m here, waiting for you to heal.” Hamish lifted his hand once more, this time managing to knock the mask from his mouth. “Go away,” he said. His voice was weak, but the words were clear. “Don’t worry. I won’t stay. This is not the time for a confrontation with your wife.” Rhonda leaned forward, intending to kiss Hamish. He turned his face away. “Just go away,” he said. “I don’t want to see you again.” “You don’t mean that. I’ll see you when you’re back on your feet. You’ll feel differently then.” She patted his hand, a mother comforting an angry child. Knowing there was nothing more to be accomplished at the moment, she left, aware of his eyes watching her go. His rage was just one more indication of his weakness. It was something she could use to her advantage. *** Leda and Helen returned to the I.C.U. floor with Sandy. She’d talked through the situation with them, and they felt comfortable in leaving her to deal with her husband. They retrieved their luggage from the nursing station and said good-bye to their new friend. Sandy watched as they disappeared down the hall and around the corner. As she approached the I.C.U. entrance, a tall woman dressed in shades of light brown and gold stepped into the waiting area. The woman passed Sandy, then suddenly turned on her heels. “Are you Sandra Burrows?” she said. Sandy turned. “I am,” she said. “My name is Rhonda Copps. I’m a professor of abnormal psychology at the University.” “I know exactly who you are,” Sandy said. She walked deliberately toward the woman, who towered over her in height. Sandy’s tangled hair stood out and her blue eyes flashed with demented fervour. “You’re the bitch who’s been bothering my man.” Rhonda looked down at Sandy with an expression of amused triumph. This rag doll, this backwater voodoo gypsy couldn’t possibly compete with her. The little woman had no fashion sense and no composure. A man like Hamish needed a partner who wouldn’t embarrass him. “Your man,” Rhonda said, “came to me of his own free will. Apparently he was looking for something he couldn’t get at home.” Sandy leaned into Rhonda’s space. When she spoke, her voice was quiet but clear. “You’d better stay away from us,” she said. Rhonda laughed. “Or what?” she asked. “Will you cast one of your voodoo spells on me? I do as I please, my dear. I don’t take orders from pipsqueaks.” Sandy’s face hardened. “This is the only warning I plan to give you,” she said. “You need to hear me, lady. I have no problem with cutting you into little pieces and dropping you into the Harbour. If you think I’m not dead serious, then try me. You’ll wake up one fine morning and find yourself face to face with me and a couple of my psycho voodoo brothers.” Rhonda stepped backward. She hadn’t expected this reaction from Hamish’s wife. She’d pegged the woman as a dishrag, someone to be easily cast aside in a puddle of tears. Obviously Sandy Burrows was out of her mind. “I think,” Sandy continued, taking another step closer to Rhonda, “you’d best get on with humping some other guy’s leg. If I see you near Hamish again, you’ll be one dead-assed bitch.” Rhonda studied Sandy’s eyes for any sign the woman might be bluffing. Seeing no flicker of weakness, she hurried down the hall the way she came, following the yellow line right out of Sandy’s life. *** “Your ‘friend’ was here,” Sandy said, fluffing Hamish’s pillow. Hamish turned his head away in shame. “Oh, for crying out loud,” she said, “look at me. I read your letter. I know about the professor.” “I’m sorry,” he said. “Yeah, I’m sorry, too. But enough of that crap for now. We’ve got a baby coming. I sent her packing. She won’t bother us again.” Hamish looked at Sandy, unable to contain a flicker of pride for his feisty wife. “I’ve been trying to get rid of Rhonda for months,” he said. “What did you say to her?” “I told her I was gonna call a couple of my badass voodoo brothers to come up here and cut her into little pieces.” Sandy smiled at her own brazenness. “You don’t have any brothers,” Hamish said. “Yeah, but she don’t know that.” _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 7 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.
1 - Now you can order your signed copies of The First Excellence and "Two Scoops" Is Just Right directly from the authors! 1stExcFrntCoverWebSmallest2.JPG *** NEW FEATURE -- SEE PAYPAL OPTIONS BELOW!***
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Be sure to indicate which book you are ordering as well as quantities: ***For your convenience, both books are also available at Amazon.com: Order The First Excellence from Amazon Order "Two Scoops" Is Just Right from Amazon ]]> http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/02/two_good_hands_volume_6_dance.html http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/02/two_good_hands_volume_6_dance.html Two Good Hands ~ a Leda and Strachan mystery series Sat, 27 Feb 2010 13:58:59 -0500 Two Good Hands ~ Volume 5: Where Fear Lives, by Donna Carrick Two%20Good%20Hands.JPG One…two…three… all dead before my eyes: First my father, who I thought I hated, Then my mother, And finally my baby … my baby. I knew he wouldn’t kill me, though; I was already dead…
5 -- Where Fear Lives Charlene peeked out of the office in time to see two women pass. One was tall, with long blonde curls. The other was smaller, an undeniable beauty, even to a child’s eyes. “Sharlee, get back in here, honey,” her mother said. Her mother always called her Sharlee when she was happy and Char-lene when she was not. “Coming, Mom.” The little girl ducked back into the office, leaving the door open. “You’re supposed to be asleep,” her mother said. “You’ve got school tomorrow.” “Will you pick me up tomorrow, Mommy?” Bessie sighed. She was on the 4-12 evening shift this week. Picking Sharlee up from school meant bringing her to work – again. So far no one had complained, but it was only a matter of time. “Yes, dear, I’ll pick you up,” she said. “Now get your stuff together. I’ve got two more bathrooms to clean, then we can go home.” “I wish…” Charlene said, not bothering to finish. “I told you before, Charlene, we can’t stay here. This is where I work.” *** “I still don’t get it,” Helen said. “Why would anyone break into your room just to steal a book?” Leda shook her head. The book in question was a copy of Larsson’s The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo that she’d borrowed from her agent and friend Maggie Landers to read on the plane. It had been turned over to Boston police as evidence. There were no notes in the margins, no inscription on the front page – to all appearances it was just a book. In fact, the only thing of note was something that was no longer there – something Leda remembered had been inside the book when she’d picked it up from the table before leaving for the airport. She hadn’t paid much attention at the time. After all, what was unusual about a bookmark inside of a book? She was sure Maggie wouldn’t mind her borrowing the book. The two women often shared reading material. “Is it possible the thief took something else?” Helen asked. Helen Strachan was a private investigator and ‘bodyguard’. Recently hired, this was her first time travelling with Leda Maguire. “Nothing else was missing, as far as I could tell.” “It’s possible he happened to pick up the book at the moment we interrupted him.” “Maybe he’s a b-and-e-reader,” Leda said. “Very amusing.” Helen smiled despite herself. The hour was late, and both women were feeling punchy from lack of sleep. “Our rooms should be ready soon,” Leda said. Just then, a girl of about eight tore down the hallway. She was slightly overweight, with a long sand-brown ponytail that was coming loose. She was carrying a black satin ladies’ purse, the kind that would go with a fancy dress. The high quality clasp and handle made it clear it was not a child’s toy. She was fully clothed, except for the fact she was in sock-feet. Without looking up, she crashed into Leda. Only Helen’s quick reflexes kept Leda from flying head over tea-kettle onto the carpet. The girl stepped back, realising what she’d done. Her face betrayed her with an expression of guilt – obviously she’d been caught at some kind of mischief. “Are you all right?” Leda asked. “What are you doing?” Helen asked. “Sorry.” The girl’s voice was hardly above a whisper. She tried to scoot past the women, but Helen put an arm out to stop her. “Whoa, there, hang on a minute,” Helen said. “Where’s your mom or dad?” “My mom works here.” Defiance flickered in her eyes. “She’ll be finished working in a few minutes.” “Is that her purse?” Helen asked. The girl started to hide the purse behind her back, then thought better of it. “It’s mine,” she said, lifting her head. “No, it isn’t,” Helen said. “Give it here.” The girl threw the purse at Helen and ran down the hallway, disappearing around a corner. “I’ve had enough action for one day,” Helen said. “Let her go.” She opened the purse, one of those small bags, the kind that would hold a compact, a tube of lipstick, keys and a small comb. A silk pocket inside held a folded stack of twenty-dollar-bills. There was also a driver’s licence. At least they would be able to identify the owner. “I want to make sure she’s OK,” Leda said, starting down the hallway. “She shouldn’t be wandering around alone.” “Oh, all right,” Helen grumbled. “I’m coming.” They turned the corner and had gone half-way down the corridor when a door on the right marked Maintenance opened and out stepped a woman in her mid-thirties wearing a beige winter coat. From inside the office a child’s voice whined, “I don’t want to go home. Please, Mommy. Let’s stay here.” “Charlene, get your backpack. It’s time to go.” Charlene pulled on her boots and dragged her heavy backpack into the hallway. When she saw Leda and Helen, she stopped. She looked like she might duck back into the office, but her mother quickly pulled the door shut behind her. “Excuse me,” Leda said, “is this your daughter?” The woman was startled. She was off duty. All she wanted was to get Sharlee home and to bed. The girl was going to be hell to wake up in the morning. “Yes, she’s my daughter,” she finally answered. “Why do you ask?” “I’m Leda Maguire. Is this your purse?” Bessie looked at the black clutch in Leda’s hand. She shook her head. A purse like that was for other women, women who wore nice dresses, not for her. Helen stepped forward. “We saw your daughter running down the hall a moment ago,” Helen said. “She was carrying this purse. She said it was hers. When we questioned her, she threw it at us and ran away.” It took a moment for these facts to register with Bessie. When they did, she turned to her daughter. “What’s going on, Charlene?” she said. “Where did you get that purse?” “I found it,” the girl said. “What do you mean, you found it? You were supposed to wait in this office for me.” There was a silence as the girl struggled to manufacture a plausible story. At last she said, “I found it in the ladies’ room.” It was an obvious lie. Even Bessie couldn’t pretend to believe her daughter. Her shoulders sagged and she turned to the women, not really daring to hope, but needing to make the plea. “She’s never taken anything before. It won’t happen again. I can’t afford to lose this job.” Charlene stepped out from behind her mother. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I took it from the big party room earlier. I was just looking around at everyone. It was sitting on a table.” Bessie put her hands up in a gesture of surrender. She tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat. “Can we help?” Leda asked, putting her arm around the woman. Leda’s touch was all it took to break down the last of Bessie’s resistance. Her face collapsed and her shoulders heaved. “I’m sorry, Mommy,” Charlene wailed, trying to grab onto her mother’s hand. “I’ll never do it again. I promise.” “I can’t do this alone anymore,” Bessie said. “Whatever it is,” Leda said, “we can help. Just tell us.” “It’s my son.” *** Leda guided the woman back inside the office, where they all sat down. The words, so long repressed, began to rush out. Bessie had first noticed her son’s odd behaviour when he was only three. At that age, a child couldn’t be expected to have empathy. When she caught him throwing goldfish onto the floor and watching them die she was alarmed, but she convinced herself a five-year-old couldn’t possibly understand matters of life and death. She emptied the aquarium and refused to buy any more pets. She kept a watchful eye on her baby daughter, Charlene, just to make sure. When she caught Matthew prowling in his sister’s room at night, she immediately set up a small bed in her own room for Charlene. Still, she couldn’t watch Matthew every minute. Soon Charlene began complaining about small abuses – an unwarranted smack, a pull of the hair. One morning her toothpaste tasted “funny”. And there were other things… food and drinks that were ‘off’, dead bugs on Charlene’s pillow. The behaviour escalated to punches, pinches and threats, name-calling, always out of Bessie’s earshot. Always denied… Most recently, Charlene found a dead mouse under her blanket. The girl was terrified. She’d started acting out, something she’d never done before. Her teachers complained. And now, apparently, she’d stolen a lady’s purse. Bessie didn’t know what to do. How long would it be before Matthew crossed the line and stopped trying to hide his behaviour, even from her? Once he realised his mother was no physical threat, there would be no controlling him. “Sometimes,” Leda said, “we have to admit things are out of our hands. It’s time to ask for help.” Helen reached for the phone. “Let’s start with the police,” she said. “They’ll know what to do. Meanwhile, you’ll need a safe place to stay. Would the hotel put you up for a couple of days?” “I’ve been afraid to ask my managers,” Bessie said. “We’ll talk to them with you,” Leda said. *** “The world really is full of problems, isn’t it?” Helen said, helping Leda get settled into her room. “I seem to have an aura that attracts this sort of thing.” Leda smiled wryly, but Helen got the feeling she might be at least partly serious. “We’d better get some sleep. We promised to stop by the hospital in the morning.” “I hope Hamish is all right,” Leda said. *** Rhonda Copps finally fell asleep, but woke in the early hours from an unremembered dream that left her filled with rage. She couldn’t explain the feeling, but somehow she had the sense she was losing something. Professor Copps was not a person who accepted loss without a fight. *** In another time zone, Toronto Inspector Jack Brown studied the book shelf in his living room. His wife, Jessica, was the reader. She loved books, but kept most of them on a stand near her bed. He thought about the late Robert Lowry, who’d been found dead in his apartment downtown. He thought about the clean spot surrounded by dust where a half-dozen or so books had been removed from Lowry’s shelf. There was no way to be certain the books had been taken by the killer. Still, Brown’s people had gone through Lowry’s apartment carefully. They did not find any stray books that would fit into the dust-perimeters on that shelf. What was even more strange was that, judging from the line of dust, the missing books were all more or less the same size and shape. That was unusual, from anything Jack knew about books. He looked at his own shelf, where Jess had carefully arranged her books. Each spine was unique – no two were the same thickness or height. It probably didn’t mean anything. Still, he’d like to find those missing books. “Are you coming to bed?” Jess called from upstairs. “I’ll be right there." _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 6 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.
1 - Now you can order your signed copies of The First Excellence and "Two Scoops" Is Just Right directly from the authors! 1stExcFrntCoverWebSmallest2.JPG *** NEW FEATURE -- SEE PAYPAL OPTIONS BELOW!***
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Be sure to indicate which book you are ordering as well as quantities: ***For your convenience, both books are also available at Amazon.com: Order The First Excellence from Amazon Order "Two Scoops" Is Just Right from Amazon ]]> http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/02/two_good_hands_volume_5_where.html http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/02/two_good_hands_volume_5_where.html Two Good Hands ~ a Leda and Strachan mystery series Donna Carrick Leda and Strachan Mystery series Two Good Hands Mon, 15 Feb 2010 17:10:53 -0500 Two Good Hands: Volume 4 ~ Still Moments, by Donna Carrick Two%20Good%20Hands.JPG Sometimes I imagine I’m alone on a cool, green mountain, High above the fear, the violence and rage. Clouds wash my face -- thin air wraps me in stillness… If there is only one word to describe this moment, Let it be ‘Forgiveness’.
4 - Still Moments It was past 10:00 pm when Sandy Burrows stepped through the I.C.U. door to find Leda and Helen in the waiting room. “You didn’t have to stay.” “Is there any change?” Leda asked. “No, but the doctors are hopeful. They thought he would have tanked by now. The fact he’s hanging on is a good sign.” “We do have to leave,” Helen said. “Is there anyone you’d like us to call before we go?” “Hamish has no other family, and my people are in Louisiana. I’ll be all right. It was good of you to stay this long. Can I get your full names? When Hamish wakes up I’ll tell him you were here.” “I’m Leda Maguire and this is my friend Helen Strachan.” “Maguire… are you the woman who wrote that book? Hamish has been carrying it around for days.” “Two Good Hands,” Leda said. “That’s how we met Hamish. I was speaking about the book to a Psych class.” “That would be Rhonda Copps’ class, I guess,” Sandy said. “That’s right,” Strachan answered, eyeing Sandy. “Did you know Professor Copps?” “I never met her, but Hamish talked about her…” Sandy Burrows let the thought trail off, as she looked back towards the I.C.U. door. “You’re tired,” Leda said. “We’ll come back in the morning to check on you.” “That’s very kind. I’d better get back to Hamish now.” *** “Did you see the look on Sandy’s face when I asked her about Rhonda Copps?” Strachan said, pushing open the hotel lobby door. “Do you think she knew about her husband and Rhonda?” “We guessed it even before we saw Hamish’s letter.” Helen touched the sheet of paper in her pocket. “We hardly knew him. It must have been obvious to someone close to him.” The elevator door opened at the sixth floor. Helen Strachan led the way to Leda’s room, taking her role as bodyguard seriously. Leda was both grateful for and mildly amused by the unfamiliar attention. Leda pulled the pass-card from her pocket and reached for the door. She was about to insert the magnetic strip into the socket when a sound from inside the room caused her to freeze. She glanced up to be sure Helen had heard it. Helen put a finger in front of her mouth and motioned for Leda to go back to the elevator. Then she pounded on the door. “Room service!” Helen called out. There was no answer from inside. “Room service for room 603,” she repeated. After waiting a moment, Helen noisily headed back toward the elevator, to where Leda was hidden around a corner. She pushed the elevator button, knowing the loud “ping” would be audible down the hall. Instead of boarding, though, she shoved Leda onto the elevator car and pushed the lobby button. It only took a few seconds for the intruder to be sure he was alone and step into the corridor. Helen was waiting as he rounded the corner to the elevator. Her plan was to get him trapped on the elevator with her and there overpower him. Even without a firearm, Strachan was capable of putting down almost any man. Her heavy-duty flashlight had caused more than one minor concussion. Let him explain to the Boston police what he’d been doing in Leda’s room. Like all good plans, though, Helen’s went awry the moment the intruder laid eyes on her. Her unmistakable jungle of long blonde hair gave her away – he recognised her as Leda Maguire’s recent companion. Too late, Helen realised her mistake. The intruder ran toward the staircase. She tore after him, the heavy clomp of her shoes covering ground like a steamroller. She caught him as he was entering the stairwell. He grabbed at her hair. Unmoved by the sudden pain, she kicked him with her hard leather shoes. He let go, falling backward with a cry and flailing his arms as he lost his footing. Strachan leapt down the stairs after him, sending another solid kick towards his midriff. A sickening crack told her she’d connected with his ribcage. He doubled into a foetal position, protecting what he could of his soft parts. Holding her flashlight in her right hand, Helen grabbed his hair with her left, lifting his head so she could look into his eyes. “What were you doing in her room?” she hissed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “You don’t want to mess with me, my friend. I have a stinko attitude. I’m going to ask you one more time, then I’m going to drag your carcass down these stairs and toss you at the nearest cop. You want to find yourself tangled up in the Boston legal system? Feeling the need to dress yourself up in red tape?” “Are you a cop?” he asked. “No, baby,” Strachan said, “I’m your worst nightmare. I’ve got no status here. I don’t answer to anyone.” “I think you broke my ribs,” he whined. “Get me an ambulance and I’ll tell you everything.” “Tell me everything and I’ll think about it,” Strachan said. She made herself comfortable on the stairs, tapping the flashlight against her palm and resting one shoe lightly on his broken rib, just to make sure he knew who was in control. “I used to be on the job,” he said. “Used to be. What do you do now?” “I’m private. Like you. I run a security outfit in the GTA. Small stuff – not on your scale.” “So you’re from Greater Toronto.” Helen thought about that. “Who hired you to follow Ms. Maguire to Boston and invade her privacy?” “It was an anonymous hire. Big money. My orders were to ‘find and follow’.” “OK. So you ‘found’ and you ‘followed’. Why were you in her room?” Instead of answering he turned slightly, pulling his jacket around his body. “Give it,” Helen said. She tore at his jacket, managing to get the book from the inside pocket. Before he could grab it back, she tossed it up the stairs to the doorway, well out of his reach. Rolling over, he grabbed her hair again. This time he managed to hold on, slamming her head against the concrete firewall. For an instant Strachan was dazed. The intruder managed to get to his feet. He tried to climb over Helen to retrieve the book, but she got hold of his leg and threw him down another flight of stairs. Realising he wasn’t going to get past Strachan, he stumbled downward, hoping at least to get away from the hotel before she recovered her balance. Helen pulled herself together and made it down two flights before the wooziness forced her to give up the chase. Holding her head, she lumbered back up to the sixth floor and retrieved the book. Anyway, she had a good description of the guy. The private security business in the Greater Toronto Area was a small, close-knit community. She should be able to find out who he was without too much effort. As for who had hired him, well, that was another matter…. *** Inspector Jack Brown looked across the interview table at Minx Lowry, the younger sister of his murder victim. She was a beautiful woman, maybe twenty-seven or so, who wore her family wealth like a favourite beat up coat. No one could have mistaken her for ‘working class’, and yet there was something approachable about her. She seemed to understand what it meant to be human. That’s what suffering does to us, Brown thought. It gives us a universal point of connection. Minx took a sip of her drink, doing her best not to make a face at the muddy syrup that passed for coffee at 52nd Division. “Do you have any idea,” Brown said, “why Robert booked a flight to Boston?” “There’s something you should know about my brother,” Minx said. “He wasn’t exactly…like…the rest of us.” “In what way was he different?” “Robert was easily ‘caught up’ in things. The doctors called it a compulsive behavioural disorder. He was harmless, but he could be a… nuisance…at times.” “In what way?” “Robert would get attached to certain people. He was basically very shy. I hope you understand, he never meant any harm. But he would fantasize that certain people were close to him. They sometimes got spooked by his attention.” “His record was clean,” Brown said. “My family saw to that. Whenever they found out he was bothering someone, they would step in immediately. They would order him to stop. He always obeyed. They would apologise to the party. Occasionally, money would be involved.” “And your brother would be free to continue his behaviour?” Brown wasn’t surprised, but the privileges of wealth still annoyed him. “Believe me, Inspector, Robert never bothered the same person twice. He had a heart of gold. Once he understood he was upsetting the person, he always stopped. Robert wouldn’t hurt a fly.” “Someone hurt him, though,” Brown said gently. “Do you know who he was ‘interested’ in lately?” “He never confided his interests to us. We only ever learned what he was up to after there was a complaint.” “Can you guess? Was it a celebrity? An average person? What was his usual type?” “I spoke to him a couple of weeks ago, Inspector. All I know is that he said he was doing a lot of reading. He said he was spending his time at libraries and book stores. That seemed harmless enough. His last ‘interest’ was a minor movie star. You can just imagine what that fiasco cost us.” “There were books missing from his shelf. The last time you saw him, was he reading anything specific?” Brown asked. “I didn’t see my brother recently. We spoke on the phone.” Minx lifted her paper cup and chugged back the last of the coffee, dregs and all. *** It was near midnight when Sandy opened her eyes and sat up in her chair. Had she dreamt it, or had she sensed a movement on the bed in front of her? She stood. Leaning over Hamish, she kissed his cheek. His eyes opened ever so slightly. He tried to speak, but the oxygen mask was in his way. Sandy moved the mask, stroking his face. “I’m here, Hamish,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.” “There was a letter,” he said, his voice a jagged whisper. “Did you get my letter?” “What letter, dear? You’re hallucinating. You’ve had a terrible accident. You need to rest.” “The letter… Sandy, please, you have to ask the police. Someone must have taken it. It’s important. It explains everything…” “It doesn’t matter,” Sandy said. “I don’t need explanations. I only need you to get better. No matter what the problem is, we’ll get past it. Just rest, now, dear. Don’t fight it.” She held his hand, watching his eyes flutter closed once again. Sitting back down, she placed her hand on her own belly. A small smile spread across her face as she drifted back to sleep. Your Daddy’s gonna be all right, she thought. Everything’s gonna be all right. _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 5 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.
1 - Now you can order your signed copies of The First Excellence and "Two Scoops" Is Just Right directly from the authors! 1stExcFrntCoverWebSmallest2.JPG *** NEW FEATURE -- SEE PAYPAL OPTIONS BELOW!***
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Be sure to indicate which book you are ordering as well as quantities: ***For your convenience, both books are also available at Amazon.com: Order The First Excellence from Amazon Order "Two Scoops" Is Just Right from Amazon ]]> http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/02/two_good_hands_volume_4_still.html http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/02/two_good_hands_volume_4_still.html Two Good Hands ~ a Leda and Strachan mystery series Donna Carrick intrigue Leda and Strachan Mystery series suspense Two Good Hands Sat, 06 Feb 2010 15:06:21 -0500 Two Good Hands: Volume 3 ~ Terrible Transgressions, by Donna Carrick Two%20Good%20Hands.JPG Best not to look back at the wreckage we cause As thoughtlessly as rain falls from the sky. Our terrible transgressions! Sometimes, though, a cry is heard That will not be extinguished: The song of something nobler Rising from the ruins of our crimes.
3 - Terrible Transgressions “Is he going to be ok?” Leda asked. “Can’t say.” The paramedic pushed the gurney toward the waiting ambulance. “Where are you taking him?” Strachan said. Helen’s physical presence – tall, blonde, muscular, with the full voice of someone used to being obeyed – caused the medic to turn. “East General,” he said. “Are you a relative?” “No,” Helen said. “We’re…friends.” She didn’t add that she and Leda Maguire had met Dr. Hamish Burrows earlier that day, that they barely knew him, but had liked him enough to ask him to join them for dinner… an idea that was dismissed when he stepped in front of a moving bus. Helen touched the piece of paper in her pocket, the bloodied sheet she’d removed from Hamish’s hand. She had a feeling it was important. She pushed it deeper into her jacket, just as a large policeman waved his arms at the crowd. “Did anyone see what happened here?” the policeman shouted. “We did,” Leda said. Her voice, as always, was steady. “This way, please, ma’am. We’ll need your statement.” Helen joined Leda, and together they gave the officer the ‘facts’. *** At East General, Helen Strachan paced in front of the I.C.U. nursing station. Leda sat on a hard, straight-backed chair and watched her new friend. “Any news?” she asked. “One of his lungs was damaged. There’s internal bleeding. They’re not telling me much.” “His wife should be here soon. I don’t want to leave until someone shows up. He shouldn’t be alone…” “I agree,” Helen said. “By the way, I didn’t want to mention it earlier, but Hamish was carrying something.” She pulled the piece of paper from her pocket. Sitting beside Leda, she smoothed the page on her knee so both she and Leda could see. “It’s a suicide note,” Leda said. “It’s a confession,” Helen added. “He’s telling his wife he was unfaithful.” “Can we forget we saw it?” “I think that’s best. At least until we know whether he’ll be all right.” “If he doesn’t make it,” Leda said, “we’ll have to give it to the police.” Helen folded the paper carefully and slid it back into her pocket. The words, though, stayed in her mind: My dear wife, I know you’re confused. I’ll try to be a man and give you the entire truth. Last year Rhonda Copps asked me to speak to her students about ‘Victimization’. I let it slip how my interest in victim profiling grew from my own years of catering to a domineering mother. We had a drink. We spent a few hours together. That was supposed to be the end of it. She was interesting but I wasn’t looking for an affair. I made a terrible mistake. I tried to end it. Rhonda called me several times a day, made demands, pushed buttons that hadn’t been pushed since Mom died. I didn’t have the strength to fight her. I became desperate. All I wanted was to forget it ever happened. I’m so sorry, Sandy. Rhonda’s a malicious person, capable of anything. I want you to know the truth from me, so she won’t be able to hurt you anymore. I don’t blame you if you hate me. If there is forgiveness in your heart, please understand how much I love you. If I could change the past, I would. Hamish A tiny woman in blue jeans and a sweater approached the nurse’s station. Her voice was frantic as she asked about Hamish Burrows. “Are you a relative?” Leda asked, joining the woman at the desk. “I’m his wife. The police said there’d been an accident.” “I’m Leda Maguire and this is Helen Strachan. We were there when it happened. We didn’t want to leave till you arrived.” “Thank you. Did you see the accident?” “It was a bus. The police are investigating.” Sandy Burrows dug into her pocket for a tissue. Her eyes were as wild as her long, curly hair. “Do you want us to stay awhile?” Leda asked. “At least until the police get here?” “Thank you, that would be good,” Sandy said. “I have to go in now.” Sandy followed the nurse into the I.C.U., leaving Leda and Helen sitting in the hard, straight chairs. “We’re supposed to catch a flight back to Toronto tonight,” Helen said. “Under the circumstances, I’ll stay. You can head back if you like.” “Nah. We’re in this together, Leda. Never a dull moment.” “That’s the spirit!” Leda allowed herself a tiny smile in the midst of the tragedy unfolding around her. *** Professor Rhonda Copps left the accident scene promising to call Hamish’s wife Sandy, but didn’t. His wife was the cause of their problems – she stood in the way of their happiness. Because of her, Rhonda had to cover up her love for Hamish. She didn’t owe Sandy Burrows anything. Besides, the cops would call Hamish’s next of kin. Rhonda picked up the phone and dialled the number she’d found on-line. “East General I.C.U.,” an aged voice answered. “I’m calling about Dr. Hamish Burrows. He was brought in by ambulance about an hour ago. Is he all right?” “Are you a relative?” the receptionist asked. Rhonda suppressed her annoyance. “I’m his sister,” she said. “Doctors are trying to assess the extent of his injuries. If possible, you should come here.” “Yeah. Ok.” Rhonda hung up the phone. She almost smiled at the prospect of confronting Hamish’s docile little wife at the hospital, but knew a scene like that was beneath her dignity. She poured herself a Scotch and water. It was going to be a long night. *** The minutes passed like hours for Helen. She wasn’t accustomed to sitting still. Finally she excused herself. “Bring me back a coffee, please,” Leda said, as her friend headed for the elevator. Leda watched a pair of officers approach the nursing station, whispering something. A woman rose from behind the desk and scurried into the I.C.U. A moment later she returned, followed by Sandy Burrows. “Didn’t I see you at the scene?” the policewoman said to Leda. “Yes,” Leda said. “My friend and I were there when it happened.” “They were kind enough to stay with me,” Sandy said. “Mrs. Burrows, I’m Sergeant Tacoma. Has anyone spoken to you about the accident?” “Just that my husband was hit by a bus. I don’t understand. How did it happen?” Tacoma led Sandy toward the chairs. “Mrs. Burrows, I have to ask you a few questions. Would you like to sit down?” Leda stood to make room. “I have to get back to Hamish,” Sandy said. “He’ll be wondering why I’m not there.” “This will only take a moment, ma’am. Did your husband seem at all troubled lately?” “What do you mean, troubled? Hamish was fine. We were fine.” “Was he acting out of the ordinary lately? Any changes in mood?” An image flashed in Sandy’s mind: the other night, when they were having dinner, and he’d seemed so…. tired. Yes, that was it, he’d said he was tired. That’s why he’d been so withdrawn. “Hamish has been working very hard lately. He was exhausted. Forgetful. That’s probably why this happened. He wasn’t paying attention.” “Mrs. Burrows…” “Stop calling me that. Are you trying to imply something about my husband? Just say what you mean.” “We have reason to believe,” Tacoma said, keeping her voice as low as possible, “that it wasn’t an accident. The people we spoke to said it appeared as though Mr. Burrows stepped in front of the bus deliberately.” “Dr. Burrows,” Sandy said. “My husband was a doctor of Psychology, Officer. He understood depression very well. I don’t believe for a moment that he attempted to take his own life.” “I understand,” Tacoma said. Leda noticed the kindness in her voice. “But, if there was anything at all, anything that might make you think otherwise, please let me know. It could make a difference, especially to the bus driver.” “Well, please, by all means,” Sandy said, standing and pulling herself up to her full height of not more than five feet, “do let the bus driver know how concerned I am for him.” “Please, sit down,” Tacoma said. “What about you?” Sandy said, turning toward Leda. “You were there. Did my husband deliberately throw himself in front of a bus?” Leda met Sandy’s eyes, seeing the frightened woman’s tangible need to hear the right words, to be comforted, consoled – to be right about her husband. “I’m sorry, Sandy,” she began, “I’m afraid it looked that way to me.” Sandy fell into the chair, her breath abandoning her body as if she had been struck. “Oh,” was all she said. *** Inspector Brown hurried into Toronto’s 52nd Division, passing a pair of traffic cops and the desk jockey, Matt Cummings. “Hey, Jack,” Cummings said, nearly knocking over his Tim Horton’s cup, “what’s shaking on the Lowry case?” “Just here to grab the forensics reports.” “They’re on your desk. This Robert Lowry, he was a character.” “What makes you say that?” “We had his family in this morning. A chunk of change there, for sure. Hamilton talked to them. You should check with her.” “I will. Thanks.” “No problem. Anything on the Boston connection?” “I’m hoping the family gave us something on that.” Cummings looked like he was busting to share some news. “Anything else, Matt?” Brown asked. “His sister swore he always kept a journal. Your guys didn’t come across a diary at his place did you?” “I don’t think so.” According to the neighbours, Lowry was a loner, a strange dude who came and went carrying books, rarely talking to anyone. He appeared mildly autistic or paranoid, with a compulsive streak. He didn’t seem like the type to open the door to strangers. The whole premise of a ‘robbery’ was flimsy. The only things missing were his laptop, a handful of books from his shelf, judging by the dust surrounding where they had stood, and now, it seemed, his personal diary. As Starky liked to say, it was a real mystery. _______________________________ TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 4 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery! Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. 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Be sure to indicate which book you are ordering as well as quantities: ***For your convenience, both books are also available at Amazon.com: Order The First Excellence from Amazon Order "Two Scoops" Is Just Right from Amazon ]]> http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/01/two_good_hands_volume_3_terrib.html http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/01/two_good_hands_volume_3_terrib.html Two Good Hands ~ a Leda and Strachan mystery series Donna Carrick Leda And Strachan mystery suspense thriller Two Good Hands Sat, 30 Jan 2010 14:24:33 -0500