1 - Now you can order your signed copies of The First Excellence and "Two Scoops" Is Just Right directly from the authors! *** NEW FEATURE -- SEE PAYPAL OPTIONS BELOW!***

Order books:

The First Excellence $19.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $15.95

International Orders:

The First Excellence $24.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $20.95

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 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! *** NEW FEATURE -- SEE PAYPAL OPTIONS BELOW!***

Order books:

The First Excellence $19.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $15.95

International Orders:

The First Excellence $24.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $20.95

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 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! *** NEW FEATURE -- SEE PAYPAL OPTIONS BELOW!***

Order books:

The First Excellence $19.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $15.95

International Orders:

The First Excellence $24.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $20.95

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 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! *** NEW FEATURE -- SEE PAYPAL OPTIONS BELOW!***

Order books:

The First Excellence $19.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $15.95

International Orders:

The First Excellence $24.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $20.95

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 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. 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! *** NEW FEATURE -- SEE PAYPAL OPTIONS BELOW!***

Order books:

The First Excellence $19.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $15.95

International Orders:

The First Excellence $24.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $20.95

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 To know a person is to know what he is seeking –- love, fame, fortune, or any of the medley of darker motivations that reside between ecstasy and despair… We are all driven by our needs.

2 - Bad Habits The Medical Examiner removed his latex gloves, waving them at Brown. “I’ll call it,” he said. “Blunt force trauma resulting in internal bleeding. He died of a blow to the head. You see anything around here that could have been used?” Inspector Brown gave the nod and the forensics team entered the unit, white paper gowns and slippers ensuring they brought no evidence in with them and carried nothing out. Prints – photographs – measurements – every step recorded. This was going to be one of those ‘cover-your-ass’ scenarios. Brown ignored the grinning M.E., waiting for him to leave the apartment. “Dr. Ghoul”, the Constables called him. He enjoyed his work far too much. Both men watched from the doorway. The deceased, a Mr. Robert Lowry, was from one of those families, though you’d never guess it, judging by his humble home. Piles of junk, books, magazines and assorted clutter flung around a modestly furnished living room. Nothing here gave any hint of the family fortune. “Something’s missing, boss,” Starky said. “Dust marks where the computer was sitting. Laptop. Looks like he never moved it from this spot.” “Robbery?” Brown asked. Robbery would be easier to explain to the family than, for example, a sex-related crime. One could always hope… “There’s a message,” Starky said, noticing the red light flashing on the phone. Lifting his white clad feet carefully and using a pointer so as not to disturb prints, he pressed “Play” on the recorder. “Mr. Lowry,” a woman’s voice said, “it’s Rebecca at Global Travel. I’m calling to confirm your tickets have arrived. Seating for 10:00 am to Boston on the 17th. Please let me know if you want to pick them up.” “The 17th – that’s tomorrow,” Starky said. “I wonder what’s in Boston.” “That’s for him to know,” Brown said, waving toward the deceased, “and us to find out.” *** Rhonda left the restaurant and lit a cigarette, releasing a stream of smoke into the crisp Boston morning air. She tightened her scarf, stepping into the shelter of a doorway. Within moments Hamish appeared, pausing outside the lobby entrance to scan the busy street. Her Adonis – her prince of stolen moments – he was unaware of her green eyes watching him. Closing his jacket, he ducked into a waiting taxi. She stared after him and smiled. A man like Hamish needed to be tamed carefully, to preserve the best of his energy. With his shoulders hunched forward against the cold he had seemed diminished, but Rhonda knew it was an illusion. She never pushed him beyond the limits of his endurance, and always made the journey worth his while. He might be feeling a little bent this morning, but he was definitely not broken. She loitered for a moment, enjoying the tobacco-tinged atmosphere. This was one of her favourite aspects of romance, lingering in the mental corridors of memory, running through the images, recounting what had been said, what had been won – and what was lost. Tallying up love’s score after the fact…. Rhonda had a busy day ahead. She crushed the cigarette onto the cement and wrapped her green scarf around her neck. Her car was in the underground lot. *** Leda Maguire followed the arrow pointing toward the Faculty of Medicine. She’d never been to Boston before and was overwhelmed by the imposing beauty of the academic landscape. The cold reached into her jacket. “Victimology,” Helen said, “this way.” Leda shivered and opened the door. A narrow, dark haired woman offered her hand. Leda thought she looked familiar, but couldn’t place her. The professor registered no sign of recognition. “You must be Leda Maguire. I’m Rhonda Copps. It’s a pleasure to meet you, after of all our emails back and forth.” “The pleasure is all mine, Rhonda,” Leda said. “Thank you for inviting me. Allow me to introduce my friend, Helen Strachan. We travel together.” “Actually, to tell the truth,” Helen said, “I’m Leda’s security.” “Security? What for? Is there something I should know about?” “It’s best if we’re clear.” Helen Strachan waved a hand, dismissing Leda’s objection before she could vocalize it. “Leda hired me because she's been having problems with a fan.” “You mean someone is stalking her?” “Exactly. I’m here to make sure there are no "mixed messages". I’ll be at the front of the room with Leda the whole time. She won’t be engaging in any one-on-one discussions. She and I will leave together immediately after the question period.” “Fair enough,” Rhonda said. *** Rhonda watched the women leave her office. Ms. Mcguire was certainly an enigma. From everything she’d learned about Leda’s ‘victim’ tendencies, she’d expected to meet a stuttering, half-literate mass of nervous energy. The book was brilliantly written, but a good editor could easily account for that. Leda’s composure was a pleasant surprise. The afternoon ‘lecture’ should prove interesting. *** Hamish Burrows turned off his phone. He fell into his chair and rubbed his eyes. Sandy was so desperate to get pregnant these days. It was all she talked about – all she seemed to think about. Her relentless desire was exhausting. He’d tried to tell her about the mess he’d gotten into, several times… over dinner, late at night while they were getting ready for bed. He lacked the courage. If she would just let up about having a baby, maybe everything would work out in the long run. To jump into that commitment now, while he was already struggling… He just couldn’t do that to Sandy. She didn’t deserve it. *** The hall was huge. This would be Leda’s largest audience to date. The number of listeners didn’t bother her, though. What bothered her was the knowledge they would not be merely listening – they would be studying her, analysing her every word and gesture, trying to memorise the indicators that marked her as a ‘victim’. That was, after all, the reason she was there: to address this group of Psychology students on the subject of Victimology, her own victimology. What it was that led her from an abusive childhood into an abusive marriage that resulted in the murder of her mother, father and her infant child. After all, there must be something she could have done differently. She could finally allow herself to entertain these thoughts, now that she had reached her own epiphany on the subject. Now that she finally understood it wasn’t about being a victim, or being a survivor. It was simply about living. It was about taking what you were given and turning it into something better, by whatever means you had at your disposal. This understanding was what her book was all about. She’d used every skill at her disposal and she’d created a better life for herself, using her intelligence and her own two good hands. That was her message. They could make of it what they would. A young man entered the room, taking a seat near the chair reserved for Professor Copps. Leda recognised him at once, and suddenly remembered where she’d seen Rhonda before. He was too old to be a student, although he might be an adult-student. Many people, she knew, enrolled later in life to change their career path. The way he took the chair next to Rhonda’s, though, told her he wasn’t a student. She glanced at the programme – he must be Dr. Hamish Burrows, the Psychologist who would lead the questions following her address. So far, there was no sign of her “number one fan”, Robert. It figured he’d stop stalking her, now that she’d gone to the trouble of hiring a bodyguard. Still, Leda kept her eyes on the door… By 3:10 the room was full. Rhonda pointed at her watch to indicate it was time to begin. Leda approached the podium. There would be no formal introduction made, no commentary that might skew the students’ opinion of what Leda was all about. She would introduce herself, speak, then answer questions. *** “That was terrific,” Helen said as they walked through the backstage exit. Leda pulled on her gloves, wishing she’d worn her winter coat. “Thanks,” she said. “No, really, you’re a natural speaker. I’d die if I had to talk about crap like that in front of people. You’re very brave.” “And yet,” Leda said, smiling, “I’m the one hiring a bodyguard.” “Did you see our friend Robert?” “Nope. I feel like a damned fool.” “He’s probably lying low, waiting for me to disappear.” “Maybe, but…” Leda paused, seeing a familiar figure waiting for the University shuttle bus. “Isn’t that Hamish Burrows? Maybe we should invite the doctor to dinner.” “If you like,” Strachan said. “He does look cold, standing there all alone.” The women retraced their steps. The bus approached. Wanting to catch Hamish, she was about to call out when the unthinkable happened: he stepped off the curb directly in front of the moving bus! “Shit!” Helen said. Before Leda could react, Strachan was in motion, running full speed toward the scene. Leda followed, amid the confusion of screeching tires and horn blasts. Strachan shouted to clear the growing crowd. She removed her own jacket to make a pillow for Hamish’s head. Blood flowed from the doctor’s nose and mouth. He’d manage to ‘catch’ the bus before it had slowed, literally throwing himself in front of it. If he survived, it would be a miracle. Leda met Helen’s eyes over his broken body. “Why?” she whispered. Helen shook her head. She didn’t have the answer. “What’s going on?” Rhonda said, her green scarf trailing as she ran toward the scene. “Stand back,” Helen said. “Oh, My God, it’s Hamish!” Rhonda’s voice was shrill, verging on hysteria. “You and he were friends,” Leda said. The professor was panicking. She needed help. Leda stood and stretched out her hands. “Friends? No, I barely knew him. I mean, I called on him occasionally to speak to my students. He was a colleague – a professional acquaintance.” Leda glanced at Helen, not surprised to see her own doubt reflected in her friend’s eyes. The lady protested far too much. “Did he have a family?” Leda asked. “Who should we call?” Rhonda pulled herself together, busying her hands by fastening her coat and knotting her scarf. Finally she faced Leda directly. “I’ll call his wife,” she said. Will Hamish Burrows survive his critical injuries? Will Leda and Strachan uncover the truth about Rhonda’s relationship with the doctor? Tune in next week, for Volume 3 of “Two Good Hands”! 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! Simply send your certified cheque or money order payable to: Donna and Alex Carrick 3901 Don Mills Road Suite #47 North York, Ontario CANADA M2H 2S7 PRICE INCLUDES SHIPPING WITHIN CANADA. (International orders, please add $5.00.)

2 - *** NEW FEATURE -- SEE PAYPAL OPTIONS BELOW!***

Order books:

The First Excellence $19.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $15.95

International Orders:

The First Excellence $24.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $20.95

Be sure to indicate which book you are ordering as well as quantities: 3 - ***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_vol_2_bad_habit.html http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/2010/01/two_good_hands_vol_2_bad_habit.html Two Good Hands ~ a Leda and Strachan mystery series Donna Carrick Leda and Strachan mystery suspense thriller Sun, 24 Jan 2010 16:23:38 -0500 In the end we all, I mean each of us, is really nothing more or less than a reflection of what we’d like to be. We are what we are – the secret is to be at peace with that inescapable truth…

1 - The Circling Fan Best of luck in your new life… Leda wrote. She hoped the words were legible. Her hand was cramping and she was only half way through the string of buyers that trailed through the busy store. She’d heard the book industry was in its death-throes, but you’d never know it here. Maybe it was ‘end-of-cycle’ activity, that final burst of energy that erupts from any dying creature. The last dance of denial… Leda had always wanted to be a writer. As a child she’d read adventures, the ultimate escape, and dreamed of being lost on a peaceful island somewhere far, far away… Courage had been lacking. Try as she might, she couldn’t see herself as someone who had anything to say, at least not anything that might sell books. “Thank you,” the woman muttered, clutching the autographed copy to her chest. Her eyes were tired and wary. That’s the way most of her readers seemed to Leda: a worn-out, apprehensive lot desperately in need of hope. They looked to her for answers. She gave them what she could. “We broke a hundred copies,” Maggie whispered, leaning over Leda’s left ear. The right ear, she knew, was impaired and would not register the subtlety of a whisper. Leda nodded in acknowledgment, signing another book, this one for a sixty-something grey-haired gentleman. “It’s for my daughter,” the man said. “Her name is Debbie.” For Debbie, Leda wrote. It was always like that – women trying frantically to change their lives, men hoping to guide a loved one to a better existence. Everyone looking for a way to take hold of reality and shape it into something worthwhile… Glancing up, she saw him again, the young, dark-haired man who had been stalking her. He was not overly tall, defined muscles belying a boyish face. His eyes darted around the store, unnerving Leda. She waved at Maggie, who rushed back to the table. “He’s over there,” she said, keeping her voice low and taking care not to lift her eyes. “The blonde guy?” “No. The dark-haired one, with the khaki pants and jacket. He’s twisting about with a handful of books, as if he has to use the bathroom or something.” “Did you call the number I gave you?” “Yes. I’m meeting Strachan this afternoon, after we leave here.” “OK. I’ll make sure he doesn’t follow you. Try to get his name when you sign for him.” Leda’s heart tapped out a manic S.O.S. as she hurried through the signing, all the while watching him approach. He twitched and shifted from one foot to the other, obviously feeling every bit as agitated as she did. His tension was apparent, though, while hers was hidden. Even her closest friend and agent Maggie wouldn’t have guessed how upset she was if she hadn’t confided to her a few days earlier. Leda prided herself on being in control of her outward appearances. She’d learned as a child to hide her true feelings. Those childhood lessons seldom are un-learned. Everyone thought she was so brave, putting it all on paper the way she had in Two Good Hands. When she read her own words, though, they didn’t seem courageous. They seemed removed, clinical, as if those events had happened to someone else. It was funny, but as a younger woman when she’d tried to tell people about her experiences they often hadn’t believed her. In the telling she always removed herself from the story. Remaining detached was the only way she could communicate the truth. Just the facts… But when she wrote the stories down, the same words were transformed into something they could grab hold of… touch… believe in. Suddenly people no longer doubted her honesty. There was no point trying to figure it out. They wanted to know. There was an element of sensationalism in their desire to read about her life. Some were titillated by the suffering of another human being. Still others thought she was mercenary. They couldn’t understand how she could profit from the kind of things she’d been through. To hell with them! It was her story, her suffering, her life. She owned those experiences, every dark and sordid one among them. If she couldn’t turn them into something good, a living and a way to help others, then who could? “My name is Robert,” he said. “Can you please say ‘For my friend, Robert…’” She met his eyes, then looked away quickly, unsettled by their intensity. It figured – he would want her to write ‘friend’. It fit with his apparent fantasy. He’d been to every signing she’d done in the last three months, from the Mid-west to the East coast, even following her South to Florida. She had no idea how he could afford to track her, but here he was again. She suspected he lived in Toronto. That’s probably why he felt so connected to her. Maybe he felt they shared this, a common geography, if nothing else. He wanted to talk. She knew better than to encourage him. It would only feed his delusions of their ‘friendship’. “The part about your childhood,” he began, lowering his eyes, “did that really happen?” “This is an autobiography. Everything in the book is true.” “But how…?” “I’m sorry,” she said, turning to the next person in line, a scrawny middle-aged woman with what looked like a bruised eye, “there are a lot of people still waiting.” “Oh, of course,” he said, almost dropping his copy of Two Good Hands in his hurry to leave the signing table. He didn’t leave the store, though, she noticed. He hung back, hoping, no doubt, to speak with her again when the crowd had thinned. *** Helen Strachan stood in front of the mirror, smoothing her dark blue trousers and pulling the side of her jacket into place over her heavy flashlight. As owner of one of the top ‘personal security’ organisations in Southern Ontario, she was not licensed to carry a weapon. She always wore the intimidating, club-like flashlight when meeting with new clients, in case her height and stature were not enough to convince them of her ‘ability to protect’. When meeting with men, she usually pulled her long blonde curls into a bun. Her hair was the one truly feminine vanity to which she still clung, and she clung to it fiercely, despite a nagging belief that it made her seem less powerful than she was. In truth, no one could ever mistake her for the vulnerable sort. At six feet tall, her body was athletic in the Grecian style, as tight as a coiled spring. She tucked her copy of Two Good Hands into her leather case and ran her fingers through the loose curls one last time. She’d bought the book after receiving the call from Leda Maguire, intending to scan it as ‘research’, so she’d know something about the woman before they met. It always helped to show an interest in your clients. She hadn’t expected to read the whole damn thing, page after scathing page. She hadn’t expected to find herself crying in the late-night hours. She certainly hadn’t expected to recognise her own human self in this tiny academic-looking woman from North York. Helen Strachan was not a person who emoted easily. She preferred to forget the things that hurt and keep her feet planted firmly in the ‘here-and-now’. She arranged her clothes, wanting to present herself as someone who could help. *** “I read your book,” Strachan said, setting it on the table beside the glass of water that had just been delivered. Leda Maguire was exactly as she expected, quiet, diminutive, thoughtful… Her small hands rested on the table, not fidgeting the way most people did who chose to hire a personal bodyguard. “Thank you. I appreciate you spending the time.” “Not at all. I couldn’t put it down. When does your ex-husband get out of prison?” “Not for a good, long time, I hope. Meanwhile, I still look over my shoulder. After all, he could hire someone. He could track me down.” “Do you have reason to believe he’s done that?” “Not at the moment. My immediate problem has to do with a fan, of all things. He’s been following me all over North America. I recently had a new house built in the country up near Midland. I’d like to spend some time there alone, just writing, but frankly I’ve been afraid…” “I’m not surprised. Anyone who’s been through the things you’ve been through would be nervous.” Leda laughed. The sound was pleasant and normal, the bell-like laughter of a woman who had earned her small joys and was determined to appreciate them. “It isn’t paranoia,” she said, “if they really are following you.” “Of course not,” Strachan said. “I didn’t mean to imply you were imagining it. Can you give me a description?” “I can do better than that. My agent, Maggie Landers, took a picture with my phone.” Leda passed the phone across the table. “Does he always look this ‘furtive’?” “Yes. He never stands still, always twirling about in the line-up, waiting for his turn. Everyone else looks bored or impatient, but not Robert. He looks like there’s no place else he’d rather be, as if he’s got a ‘starring role’ in the event.” “I see.” Strachan passed the phone back. “Do you want me to email a copy of this picture to your office?” Leda asked. “That won’t be necessary. If you’re interested, I can take the job immediately. I’ll be with you at your next event. I’ll have a chance to meet this ‘Robert’ face-to-face.” *** Robert Lowry smiled as he turned the key in his apartment door. At first he’d been frustrated when that busybody ‘agent’ had gotten between him and Leda, holding onto his arm and telling him Ms. Mcguire was exhausted and couldn’t answer any more questions. He’d tried to break away, but couldn’t without creating a scene. He’d almost lost his temper when he spotted Leda hurrying out of the store, with too much of a head-start for him to be able to follow her. He’d spent the afternoon at the library, consoling himself by re-reading the part about how her ex-husband had broken into her parents’ home on Christmas Eve, killing Leda’s mother and father as well as her three-month-old baby in an uncontrollable rage while she looked on in helpless horror. Robert knew what he’d do to that bastard Brian if he ever got his hands on him – killing an innocent baby – it was unthinkable! How had poor Leda survived it all? He’d never understand. He knew, though, that no one would ever hurt her again. He’d make sure of it. He had already booked the flight to Boston for her next appearance. Somehow he’d find the courage to let her know his feelings, to tell her he was there for her. Somehow, in Boston, it would be different. He turned on the light, making his way down the hall toward the kitchen where he kept his small computer. Too late, he heard the sound of a footstep, caught a blurred movement out of the corner of his eye. Too late…. As he fell, he dropped his latest signed copy of Leda’s book. The last thing he saw before he died was a pair of hands picking the book up from the floor. A pair of good, strong hands.

Tune in next week, for Volume 2!

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! Simply send your certified cheque or money order payable to: Donna and Alex Carrick 3901 Don Mills Road Suite #47 North York, Ontario CANADA M2H 2S7 PRICE INCLUDES SHIPPING WITHIN CANADA. (International orders, please add $5.00.)

2 - *** NEW FEATURE -- SEE PAYPAL OPTIONS BELOW!***

Order books:

The First Excellence $19.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $15.95

International Orders:

The First Excellence $24.95 "Two Scoops" Is Just Right $20.95

Be sure to indicate which book you are ordering as well as quantities: 3 - ***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]]>