Night Chill by Jeff Gunhus

ONE

Nate Huckley leaned forward against the steering wheel, eyes searching the colorless brick buildings that slid by on either side of the street. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. He couldn’t believe he was spending valuable time, time he didn’t have, looking for a hardware store in this back woods, one-factory, Pennsylvania town.

Huckley spotted the store. The boy back at the gas station had stuttered like a moron, but his directions had been good enough. Huckley pulled into the small gravel parking lot next to the concrete tilt-up building on which the last remnants of the word “Hardware” clung in tall flaking letters. The lot was empty except for a beat-up VW Bug, more rust than metal, squatted in the far corner. Huckley checked his time and felt the anger churn harder in his stomach.

Grabbing the roll of tape, he marched through the parking lot, the hard soles on his leather boots crunching the small rocks into the dirt. Like stepping on bugs, he thought to himself. He smiled and started to twist his foot on each step and stomp down a little harder. By the time he reached the double-wide glass doors that faced the street he felt a little better. Until he saw the sign.

CLOSED.

Bullshit. Huckley pounded on the glass door with the tape.  He leaned down, opened the mail slot with his forefinger and shouted, “Hey! Get out here. I know you’re still there, Godammit! I can see your car.”

He stood up and kept beating the door until he saw a light go on in the back room. A smile spread across his face. He always got his way. Always.

The door in the back opened and Huckley saw the outline of a person walk down the aisle. Huckley grinned a little wider. He’d expected an old man, but it was a young girl who came to the door. She squinted at him through the glass, twisted the locks and stuck her head out toward him.

“We’re closed,” the girl said. She rolled her eyes in case her tone hadn’t made her annoyance perfectly clear.

Huckley looked the girl over. Dark circles ringed her eyes as if old layers of eyeliner had melted into her skin. Her cheekbones stuck out like there wasn’t enough skin on her face to go around, giving her an emaciated, hungry look, like a stray dog who thinks a wrapper with grease on it is a meal. Black roots a few inches long told the world her bleach-blonde hair was more bleach than blonde. The girl was a mess. Huckley couldn’t believe his luck.

“Well, hello sweetie. When’d you start working here?”

The girl ignored the question. “Mr. Cooper left me to close today. Told me not to let anyone in.”

“That’s what Mr. Cooper said, huh? Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean me.”

The girl looked up and down the street. Huckley already knew there wasn’t anyone there. He had checked when he first saw that it was a young girl coming toward the door.

“Look, I’m new to this town, mister. I don’t know who you are. So I think you’d better go now. Come back tomorrow.”

“C’mon now, it wouldn’t hurt to talk to me a little.”  Huckley smiled as he concentrated. The girl’s mind was an open book. He pushed a little and the pages tumbled open, images dancing free form, garbled and non-linear. Hers was the kind of mind that used to confuse him, but that was a long time ago. Now it was easy. With a little concentration he could find out everything he needed to know. Like how the girl was a druggie, a loner, picking up a few bucks before moving on. How she was frustrated the owner hadn’t trusted her with the cash register yet. How the first time he did, she’d take the money and be gone. And there, amid all the adolescent self-consciousness and emotionalism, was a burst of sexual images. Many partners. Some for money. Some for drugs. And blazing out in front was an evolving fantasy with Huckley himself.

Ahh, young hormones, he thought. Little teenage girls could never resist his looks: white skin unmarked by any blemish, blonde hair combed back flat against his scalp, lips dark red as if he had spent the day sipping wine, eyes squinted half shut as if he held a secret too valuable to share. Although he appeared to be in his thirties, it was always the young ones who found him most attractive. And they were always so eager to prove they were women by following him to whatever bed, car seat or back alley he chose.

He left the girl’s sexual images behind and shifted through her thoughts until he found the right information. 

“Your name’s Doreen, right?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

He smiled at the girl. “I just guessed. You look like a Doreen.”

“Is that a good thing?” she asked tugging on a few strands of her blonde hair and twirling it over her ear.

“Sure, pretty name for a pretty girl.” God, it was so easy. Huckley moved a step closer to the girl and inhaled through flared nostrils. Cheap high school perfume mixed with cheap high school marijuana. He smiled. That’s my girl.

“So Mr. Cooper left you all alone, huh? Surprised your father let you work a job like this. What are you, seventeen?”

“I’m eighteen,” she lied. “Don’t know who my daddy is. Even if I did, I wouldn’t let him tell me what to do.”

“I see. But you let this Mr. Cooper tell you, huh?” Doreen shrugged. Huckley held up the roll of tape, “Listen, I really need some duct tape. This stuff doesn’t work for what I’m using it for.”

“I’d like to help, mister. I really would. But the register’s closed and emptied out for the day so....” Doreen started to smack the chewing gum she’d been hiding in her mouth.

“No problem. I’ll just leave some money and you can put it in the register tomorrow.  I’ll be in and out of here. Let you get back to your own business, if you know what I mean.” Huckley raised a hand to his lips and took a drag off an imaginary joint. Doreen broke eye contact and stared at the floor. Huckley smirked. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with it. Lord knows I’ve smoked my share of weed.”

Doreen smiled self-consciously, “You smoke?”

“Are you kidding? My generation invented the stuff.” He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “In fact, I wouldn’t mind a hit if you have any left. I’ll pay you a little extra for it.”

She hesitated, looked up and down the street again. “I don’t think that’d be a good idea.”

“All right. I understand. Maybe you’re too young for me to be talking like that anyway. I’m sorry.” Huckley turned to leave.

“I’m not too young. I told you I was eighteen.”

“Yeah, that’s what you told me.”

Doreen bit her lower lip, then moved to the side to let him in. “I don’t believe I’m doing this.”

“That’s a good girl. You know, I was really lucky you were here.” Huckley smiled. “You have no idea how much time you’ve saved me.”

He leaned into her as he passed. An electric jolt moved through him as his arm rubbed against her breasts. Huckley curled his hands into fists and rubbed them up and down his thighs. He knew he had to wait until she closed the door behind them, but this was his favorite part and he could hardly contain himself. He smiled at his good fortune. He was back on schedule.

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Genre – Supernatural Thriller

Rating – PG13

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Website http://www.jeffgunhus.com/

The Virgin Widow by Andrea Gould

Dear Reader…

It is within the context of death that life takes on its vivid nature.

The Virgin Widow is my story, but it is yours as well. Like you, and like millions of other women, I became a “Virgin Widow” overnight. Like you, I willed myself to survive.

As a psychologist, I am sensitive to the shades of psychic change. I have always found writing to be a way of helping me to digest and understand my experiences. Even as I mourned my loss, my journal entries became a reflection on the process of adjusting to change and transition itself. This book, therefore, is both a memoir and a personal-growth book for individuals like you who have recently lost a partner. My ‘notes from the front’ are meant to guide you on your own healing path.

When the reality of losing a partner is thrust upon us, we are often unprepared. The grief that accompanies the loss can be overwhelming. Not only do we mourn the comfort and the familiarity of our partner, but we also find ourselves being forced into a new, unwelcome, and radically shifted world-picture that eerily—frustratingly—contains many of the same objects, people, and places, although we see these in a different light.

By my definition, “Virgin Widows” are innocent, first-time widows. They have no experience from which to draw the wisdom, philosophy, and behavior necessary to find a way through the intricate and immobilizing situations demanding their attention. Though they may have loved and lost before, they have never experienced the absolute finality that the death of their loved one imposes on their world.

Whether a loss is a “complicated” grief — when death is the result of unusual circumstances: accident, suicide, or mayhem—or the natural outcome of a long and happy life, pain, uncertainty, and the need for guided healing are no less diminished.

I have been trained to be both an observer and experiencer, creating for myself and others a delicate balance, between who we are and who and what we are to become. As I worked through my own grief and began to rebuild in the days and months following my husband’s death, the liberating gift of my professional training gave me permission to reclaim control of my life. I intend to help you do the same as I share my thoughts with you.

Losing a spouse carries with it the loss of life as planned. Coupled life carries with it a shared identity, so this identity is lost too. We lose our friend, our lover, and our partner. The ultimate crippling blow comes when we realize that we have lost an essential part of ourselves as well. And because it takes time for the reinvention process to begin, we can do little more than face each day, one day at a time, under a magnifying glass, in a kind of self-imposed exile.

The time to reinvent ourselves does come, however, and when it does, we know what it is to crave normalcy, to have some semblance of our original self returned to us, to seek the ordinary comforts of companionship, and to feel the first stirrings of curiosity about our desirability: “Will I ever love again?” and “Will anyone again love me for me?”

This is the start of the healing process. Though conventional wisdom says that new partnerships are not the way to soothe our loss, we are social beings who grow and change through our interactions. Balanced against those times of much-needed, sacred solitude is a loving network of friends and family, and it works as an incubator, nurturing and protecting us while we reconfigure our newly evolving selves.

For me, “staying in the present” was of primary importance, both as a safety zone between the poignancy of a lost past and the frightening uncertainty of an abstract future. Though I was sometimes tempted to numb myself, I chose not to. My mind and body — trained by childbirth and sustained by meditation — acknowledged the intensity completely without shutting down.

For many months, it seemed that time hung suspended and that the happy and productive life I had known before my marriage and during the many years we shared our lives had been overshadowed by the Yesterday when he died and the endless Today in which I now lived. Moving in slow motion, I anchored my awareness to the spectrum of sensation and sanctuary that each moment offered.

Other times, I felt an impatience to get away, to be free of this dreadful burden of sorrow. On those days, my body ached — not for him, not to turn back time, but to fast forward to the day when I would awaken from this nightmare. I craved the day when my step would quicken as it had before and I would be consumed once more with my passionate belief in endless possibility.

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Genre – NonFiction

Rating – G

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Connect with Andrea Gould on Twitter

Website http://lucidlearning.com/

Serving Time (The Timemakers Trilogy) by Nadine Ducca

In the beginning, the Logos created the universe. It was a lonely place, empty and quiet, so the Logos brought forth three goddesses: the Past, the Present, and the Future. With them came nostalgia, audacity, and uncertainty. The three child goddesses gazed at their creator with expectation, for now that Time existed, so could life.

Robert stood in the center of the astral circle etched on the hardwood floor of his living room. His brow creased as he studied the ring of symbols. His fingertips tingled. The portal was ready, and no matter how much a small—yet insistent—part of him wished to put it off, he knew the time had come to open it. He closed his eyes and recited the first two verses.

As the words tumbled from the edge of his lips, a blast of air whirled around him. The wind’s fingers plucked at his clothes and buffeted his face, so he crouched and lowered his head. Just one more verse to go. He yelled the final words, raising his voice over the increasing howling of the wind.

The living room dissolved into gray and blue smudges. With a sickening lurch, Robert felt his body somersault through the air. His concentration vanished into the wind, and he rolled over himself, his stomach wadding into a knot.

“Abaddon,” he whispered, “my Keeper. Protect me.”

Only the gale answered.

Something was wrong. Why was it taking so long? Why hadn’t he practiced the chant one last time before rushing to open the portal? If he had made a mistake—even the tiniest of mistakes—in the runes or the chant, he was as good as dead.

He cupped a hand over his breast pocket and felt the capsule within.

Cyanide.

He ground his teeth together. That isn’t the answer. He wasn’t ready to quit—not yet—and he refused to entertain that idea any further. He hadn’t worked for twenty years to end up swallowing a pill. My calculations are correct, he reminded himself as he weathered the storm. But the shrieks of the wind begged to differ.

Just when it seemed that his mission—and his life—had come to an end, the gale swept past him and vanished. Nonspace retreated, and Robert once more felt solid ground beneath him. He trembled from head to toe and waited for his stomach to stop shuddering before daring to open his eyes. Although he was gaining skill in the art of astral jumps—like learning to land on his feet—he hadn’t traveled to other planes often enough to suppress the wave of nausea that overwhelmed him after each trip.

He hesitantly opened one eye, and when he realized his calculations had been, in fact, correct, his heart skipped a beat. He was crouching on a barren white plane under a blazing white sky. He couldn’t distinguish a horizon, for there was none to see, only a tenuous mist a million miles away.

He narrowed his eyes and looked up at the goddess before him. She stood a few feet to the right, her slender, bare back turned to him. Her gleaming silver dress streamed from her shoulders to the spotless, featureless ground, where the fabric dissolved into ripples that flowed all the way to Robert’s feet. Her golden, waist-length curls spilled over her shoulder, and she twirled a lock between her fingers as she stared into the empty distance.

Robert pulled himself upright. He couldn’t bring himself to take that first step or utter that first word which would break the beautiful silence between them. He had so much to offer her…so much to gain from her.

The cream! His hand shot to his pocket. Nothing. His heart jumped in his throat. He patted his clothes and searched through his overcoat. Had he forgotten to take the cream along at the last moment? But that was impossible; he would never forget something so important.

Did they—?

He ran trembling hands over his entire body. Sweat dampened his armpits and clung in beads over his lip. He had read sufficient literature on nonspace to understand the dangers of traveling outside the boundaries of time and matter. Something supernatural inhabited those corners, and that something had sticky fingers.

But those creatures wouldn’t open my pockets—would they? He wiped the sweat from his face. Of course they would.

The wind had been prying at his clothes like an impatient child searching for candy, but Robert had hidden the tube of cream in his pocket and had zipped it closed. But now the cream was gone. Mugged in nonspace. A zipper. What was I thinking? Robert could flay himself for his stupidity. He glanced at the goddess, who stood in silence, either unaware of his arrival or uninterested. Just then, his hands came across something in one of the open pockets of his overcoat. He pulled out the white tube of cream and his jaw dropped open. Those tricksters. But now was not the time for revenge. He needed to concentrate on his mission.

As if sensing his rekindled determination, the goddess spoke. “What do you want?” Her lazy words wove their way across the emptiness toward him and wrapped themselves around him.

Robert cleared his throat. “Greetings, my Goddess. It is an honor to be in your presence.” His voice faltered and he swallowed. “My name is Robert Westbrook.” He bowed his head. A second flitted by. Another. He cautiously glanced up.

The woman standing before him had not stirred. The ripples in her dress gently swelled and receded.

Robert licked his lips. A pearl of sweat tickled as it ran down his temple. “I have dedicated my life to finding you. I am your humble servant.” He dropped to one knee.

“How interesting.” The woman’s sweet voice coiled tighter around him.

She turned, and Robert gasped for breath. Her eyes were two unsettling black pits speckled with stars—the cradle of the universe itself.

“Oh, my… I must say…” Finding words became more and more difficult. “Your beauty has no rival, my Goddess.”

The woman’s brow furrowed, and the corners of her mouth sank into an unflattering scowl. “Yes…beauty.” She lifted her chin. “That is why your kind represent me as an old man. With a beard and a scythe—and an hourglass. You call me Father?” She pointed at herself. “Look closely at me. Observe my brilliance! Now imagine me in a black cloak, lugging a useless hourglass and a scythe from one place to another!”

Without uttering a word, Robert settled his gaze on the ground. It was best not to infuriate her.

“Black is not my color!” she continued. “Have the Grim Reaper wear black if he so wishes. Not me! I am Time, overseer of the universe!”

Robert waited for her to finish with a bowed head, his lips pressed together.

“How did you arrive at my plane?” Time demanded. “For what reason do you dare interrupt my passage?”

Robert took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and in a smooth, unwavering voice, said, “I have dedicated my life to the summoning of Devourers and the travel from one astral plane to another. Years ago, the Devourer Abaddon, my Keeper, suggested I study your magnificence. Since then, I have spent my life honoring you and investigating how to contact you. Today, I have achieved my lifelong ambition. I am finally here, with you.” He smiled. Time did not look impressed. He swallowed and said softly, “Abaddon informed me of the state of the universe.”

Time awarded him a withering look. “So you know. Those beasts cannot hold their tongues.”

“We are living in interesting times.”

“And your prattle is boring me.” Time turned.

“No! Wait! My Goddess, I’m here to make a deal, if you would listen to what I have to offer.” Robert swallowed and his ears clicked. “I wish to buy a bit of time.”

Time gasped, and a cold breeze swept across Robert.

“Foolish little man! Buy a bit of me? How dare you insult me!” A purple mist rose from the ground, making Time’s dress flutter in bubbling waves and locks of her hair dance like serpents. She swelled into a fifteen-foot colossus, her silhouette overshadowing the white plane beneath her.

Robert clambered to his feet and braced himself.

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Genre –  Science Fiction/Fantasy

Rating – Adult

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Website http://nadineonwriting.blogspot.com/

Accountability Leadership by Di Worrall

Accountability Leadership Saves Tech Company

In 2005, HCL Technologies was in trouble.

The Delhi-based IT firm was losing market share, as competitors grew by 50% annually.

By 2009, HCL’s president, Vineet Nayar had turned the company around, nearly tripling annual revenues and doubling market capitalisation despite the recession.

Nayar accomplished all this through a top-down culture of accountability, beginning with the leadership qualities of himself—the CEO—and other senior managers.

The Rules Of Accountability Have Changed

Great business leaders understand that acceptance of greater personal accountability and responsibility leads organisations back on the path to success.

But with the evolving nature of 21st century business, the practical steps that go into creating a high performance culture of accountability have become more muddled than ever.

Many organisations have seen temporary improvements, implementing traditional systems of accountability in an attempt to drive high performance in the workplace—only to quickly revert back to their old ways, or worse.

Accountability Leadership Will Teach You:

• What it really takes to lead a high performance culture of accountability
• Why so many of today’s employees avoid personal accountability and responsibility like the plague, and how to reverse that trend
• How to sustain great performance through inspiring feedback, feed-forward and follow-through
• What an accountability plan is, how to create one, and why it’s considered the “secret weapon” behind successful business transformation

Filled with real world case studies and straightforward, easy to digest research, Accountability Leadership offers practical solutions that are direct, engaging, fast, cost-effective, proven, and easy to implement...

Immediate, Concrete Solutions You’ll Take Away From This Book Include:

• How to transform the “dark side” of accountability into a positive force for change
• Why carrots and sticks no longer work—and what they’ve been replaced with
• How to create compelling consequences that inspire people to perform at their best, and achieve the ultra productive workstate known as “flow”
• Crack the code of high accountability conversations, turning confrontation into a productive and positive opportunity

Accountability Leadership Also Sheds Light On Topics Like...

• How negativity bias covertly sabotages your feedback loop with your employees
• The optimal ratio for positive to negative comments in feedback
• The right amount of autonomy to give employees—without overdoing it
• What lack of recognition is really doing to your workforce (hint: it’s staggering)
• The surprising biochemical effect of praise, and why it cannot fail

Plus, You’ll Also Receive A Special Bonus

Reader’s can claim an exclusive 20-minute podcast interview with top-rated thought leader Marshall Goldsmith, sharing his powerful experiences and groundbreaking ideas on coaching for accountability leadership—absolutely free.

A Personal Message From The Author

Accountability is arguably the number-one issue that makes or breaks leadership performance today. Yet most of us were never taught this critical skill—not by our parents, teachers or business leaders.

The good news is, accountability can be coached.

The ideas in this book draw from extensive research and 25 years experience working with executives to improve performance through high accountability.

These ideas work.

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Genre - Business, Leadership, Workplace Behaviour, Human Resources, Executive Coaching

Rating – PG

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Connect with Di Worrall on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.diworrall.com.au/

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Author Interview – Michael J. Bowler

30Can we expect more books from you in the future?

Once I complete the Children of the Knight Trilogy, I already have my next four books outlined and ready to go. I like certain genres, horror having been a lifelong favorite. My next book will be a horror story involving a group of special ed high school kids who are called upon to save the world from a supernatural evil. Kids with learning or other disabilities are generally the lowest rung of the high school food chain and I have a lot of experience working with that population. It’s high time they got their moment in the spotlight.

After that I have a “superhero” story about a guy with no super powers, and a sci-fi action tale about the creation of a dangerous, unstoppable weapon. So you can see that as a writer, I tend to be all over the map. I even have a crazy, offbeat comedy on the docket that has also been outlined, so yes, more books are forthcoming.

Are you reading any interesting books at the moment?

I’m currently slogging my way through the “Song of Ice and Fire” series, though I’m not loving it as I was told by friends I likely would. I’m maybe five hundred pages into the second book but don’t feel compelled to pick it up every day. These books are well written, but slow moving. Since I tend to write YA books, I like to read current YA that is popular just to see what kids like.

I just finished “City of Bones” and found that one uninvolving to the point I’ll not read the sequels. I realize I’m not the target audience for books like that, but I loved the Harry Potter and original Percy Jackson series so some do interest me. I’m just about to begin The Fault in Our Stars, which I’ve heard is an outstanding book, and I try to support fellow Harmony Ink authors if they write something I think I might enjoy.

Are there any new authors who have sparked your interest and why?

J.R. Lenk, who wrote one book, published in 2012, called Collide, is an up and coming talent to watch. I wrote a long review for Amazon and Goodreads because I was so impressed by the writing and the maturity of the writing, especially given that Lenk was seventeen when he wrote it. Normally, I wouldn’t have read a book like that because it’s a niche I didn’t read, but I stumbled upon it scrolling through Goodreads and when I learned the author’s age (eighteen upon publication), as a long-time high school teacher I wanted to check it out.

It may not be your cup of tea and, as I pointed out in my review, I couldn’t relate to any of the experiences the high school kids had in the story, but the raw emotions this author was able to conjure sucked me in and entangled my heart and got me totally caught up within the lives of his two main characters. A book’s description has to interest me more than the author or I won’t read the book, but Lenk is an amazing writer and I will at least consider reading whatever he releases next.

How hard was it to write a book like this and do you have any tips that you could pass on which would make the journey easier for other writers?

The sheer scope of this story was a bit intimidating. It’s the first of a trilogy and each subsequent installment begins exactly where the previous one ended, almost as though they were all one book. Thus I had to map out all three of them even as I was writing the first one so everything would connect and add up.

There are also a lot of characters, and the overriding goal of gaining more rights for kids in this country is so huge that I have been working nonstop since June of 2012 to complete the series, while also helping get the current book edited and ready for publication. My advice to other writers might be, “think smaller” in terms of plot. Ha! While my book has distinct fantasy elements and is, at heart, a fable, it is set in the real world of today and the issues it depicts and decries are very real and very destructive. Thus it was a delicate balancing act to make the story play out in a believable fashion. Hopefully, I succeeded!

Have you ever considered anyone as a mentor?

I had two amazing English teachers in high school and three in college who really inspired me and encouraged my writing. They spent lots of time helping me shape my ideas and thoughts and express them in ways that others could read and enjoy. Plus, the high school teachers had such a positive, nurturing influence on me that I wanted to go into teaching as well as writing so I could perhaps touch the lives of kids the way they had touched mine.

On the non-education side, Father Greg Boyle, who runs Homeboy Industries is a friend and mentor and a personal hero of mine. I’ve learned an extraordinary amount about humility, decency, compassion, and unbending resolve from this remarkable man.

According to legend, King Arthur is supposed to return when Britain needs him most. So why does a man claiming to be the once and future king suddenly appear in Los Angeles?

This charismatic young Arthur creates a new Camelot within the City of Angels to lead a crusade of unwanted kids against an adult society that discards and ignores them. Under his banner of equality, every needy child is welcome, regardless of race, creed, sexual orientation, or gang affiliation.

With the help of his amazing First Knight, homeless fourteen-year-old Lance, Arthur transforms this ragtag band of rejected children and teens into a well-trained army-the Children of the Knight. Through his intervention, they win the hearts and minds of the populace at large, and gain a truer understanding of themselves and their worth to society. But seeking more rights for kids pits Arthur and the children squarely against the rich, the influential, and the self-satisfied politicians who want nothing more than to maintain the status quo.

Can right truly overcome might? Arthur’s hopeful young knights are about to find out, and the City of Angels will never be the same.

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Genre – Edgy Young Adult

Rating – PG13

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Connect with  Michael J. Bowler on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://michaeljbowler.com/

Slow Burn: Zero Day, Book 1 by Bobby Adair

A new flu strain has been spreading across Africa, Europe, and Asia. Disturbing news footage is flooding the cable news channels. People are worried. People are frightened. But Zed Zane is oblivious.

Zed needs to borrow rent money from his parents. He gets up Sunday morning, drinks enough tequila to stifle his pride and heads to his mom’s house for a lunch of begging, again.

But something is wrong. There’s blood in the foyer. His mother’s corpse is on the living room floor. Zed’s stepdad, Dan is wild with crazy-eyed violence and attacks Zed when he comes into the house. They struggle into the kitchen. Dan’s yellow teeth tear at Zed’s arm but Zed grabs a knife and stabs Dan, thirty-seven times, or so the police later say.

With infection burning in his blood, Zed is arrested for murder but the world is falling apart and he soon finds himself back on the street, fighting for his life among the infected who would kill him and the normal people, who fear him.

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Genre – Horror

Rating – PG13

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Connect with Bobby Adair on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.bobbyadair.com/

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Oliver Booth & the Evil Socialite - David Desmond

Chapter Two

Casa Costoso was built in 1923 under the direction of Addison Mizner at a cost of slightly more than $1 million. Irony being uncommon in those days, Mizner was more likely suffering from false modesty in applying the diminutive term Casa to such a spectacular estate, which consisted of a 29,000 square foot main house, three outbuildings to house guests and staff, two tennis courts, a skeet-shooting range, and a moat encircling the property that was intended to serve as a swimming pool, all of which were situated on 14 acres of prime Palm Beach land running between the Atlantic Ocean and the Intracoastal Waterway. Casa Costoso was purchased by Josephus Morgan in 1984 for just under $10 million and it had never been his intention to sell the property, but with the encouragement of his daughter and perhaps the trickery of Nick Mount, that was exactly what was going to happen.

Mount’s staff had prepared a list of the pre-approved clients who would be permitted to tour Casa Costoso that day. He was not surprised to note that he knew none of the prospective purchasers personally, given that those who tended to be stupendously, and typically temporarily, wealthy were hedge fund managers from big cities, in contrast to earlier times in Palm Beach, when old families with old money retained ownership of the most important landmarked homes through multiple generations.

His attention drawn by a sputtering noise, Mount watched with growing irritation as a battered Ford Fairlane rolled slowly and erratically into the driveway. This was certainly not the sort of vehicle that a pre-approved client would own and not the sort of scenery that a pre-approved client would appreciate as he approached Casa Costoso for the first time. Anticipating that he would encounter one of Josephus Morgan’s housekeepers as he walked up to the car, he instead found an elderly woman wearing a brightly colored, vintage Lilly Pulitzer ensemble. She turned off her engine, removed an enormous pair of sunglasses, and stepped out.

“Can I help you?” Mount asked.

“You most certainly can, young man,” the woman responded. “I read in the Shiny Sheet this morning that my beloved Casa Costoso is going to be sold by Josephus Morgan. I grew up in this house and I thought I would stop by to take one last look because who knows what the new owner is going to be like. He’ll probably be one of those New York banker types, if you know what I mean.” The woman began to giggle and added, “Well, at least St. Ed’s won’t be any more crowded during the Christmas Eve service!”

“I’m sorry, Madame, but this estate is only available for viewing by pre-approved clients of my firm,” said Mount, hoping that the woman would be in an agreeable mood and simply leave. “I have an obligation to the owner to control the flow of strangers into his home.”

“Oh, Josephus won’t mind,” she replied. “We actually dated for a few months just after his wife died. Until he found his little chippy, that is. But I would prefer to believe that we’re still on good terms. Is he here? I suppose I should say hello before I start wandering through the house reminiscing.”

The broker was becoming anxious as he realized that he might have difficulty convincing the woman to leave before his first client arrived. “I regret to inform you that Josephus, I mean Mr. Morgan, is not here and that I really don’t think I can permit you to do any wandering at all. In fact, one of my clients should be arriving very soon, so I must respectfully request that you get back in your car and leave me to do my work.”

“Nonsense, if Josephus isn’t here, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you simply let me into the house. I certainly won’t get lost. I mean, I lived here for a number of years until I went off to finishing school at Miss Porter’s.”

“No, it’s simply out of the question. I’m sorry. Now if you’ll just—”

“Oh the memories!” began the woman, falling into a reverie, oblivious to the broker’s instructions. “I remember when I was a little girl, there were only dirt roads on the island, but some of them ran as far as the eye could see. In certain areas, Afrocabs were available, and they would take you anywhere you wanted to go for a pittance. Have you heard of the Afrocabs? They were driven by poor—”

Mount took the woman’s arm and guided her forcefully back toward her car. “I’m sure that’s quite interesting, now if I could just ask you to—”

The old woman broke away from him and continued, reveling in her memories. “Did you know that during the Second World War, we were actually afraid that the Germans were going to attack us with their U-boats? We had to lower our shades every night so they wouldn’t spot us! I remember sitting on the sea wall over there with my daddy’s binoculars looking out at the water for those scary old submarines. I never found one, of course, but—”

“Madame, I really must ask you to leave now. My prospective clients are all very private people. If they drive up and see me talking to a stranger they might just decide to keep on going.”

“Oh, you’re no fun at all!” she replied. “Alright, but tell me, how much is Josephus going to make when he sells this house?”

“That’s certainly confidential information, and, anyway, one never knows the selling price until the deal is concluded. Now if you’ll just—”

“Blah, blah, blah. You brokers are all the same. Just tell me, what is the asking price? That’s not a secret, now is it?”

“Actually, it is.”

“Then how do your prospective clients know what to bid?”

“I can tell them the asking price. I just can’t tell you.”

“Perhaps I have the resources to buy this house,” said the woman. “Did you ever think about that?”

“With all due respect, looking at your car, I doubt it,” replied Mount.

“That’s a bit rude, isn’t it?”

“Have you looked at your car lately?”

“This isn’t about my car, is it? You just don’t want to waste your time on some old lady.”

“Madame, I do not judge people based upon their age. In addition, I do not judge people based upon the color of their skin, their religion, or their country of origin. I judge people based solely upon their net worth. Remember, Palm Beach is a town where the police will pull someone over simply for driving an inexpensive car.”

“That’s a bit crass, but I suppose that’s your business. Alright then, if it’s money you’re interested in, let’s play a little game. I’ll guess the asking price. I’ll say a number, and if I’m too low, just don’t say anything and I’ll guess again.”

“If I play your little game, will you leave?”

“Probably, but there are no guarantees. Are you ready? Here we go. $10 million?”

Silence.

“$15 million? … $25 million? … $50 million? … is it even higher? Are you sure you understand the rules of this game?”

“Yes, I do.”

“$75 million? Oh my God, $100 million?”

“Basically, yes.”

“You’re telling me that this house is going to be sold for $100 million? Oh, my idiot father, I can’t believe he let it go for peanuts back in the day. I could have had 100 million new memories!” The elderly woman was beginning to hyperventilate.

“Okay lady, I’ve played your little game and now it’s time for you to run along. I have business to attend to here,” said Mount, his patience at an end, as he guided the woman back into the driver’s seat of her car. She started the engine and drove off abruptly, narrowly missing Oliver, who was pulling up to the house in his ancient Citroën.

“Not this one now!” thought Mount as Oliver extricated his chubby girth from his vehicle. Anticipating that he would be in the presence of a number of wealthy clients, Oliver had dressed more formally on this day, wearing a blue blazer, a glaringly gold tie set off against a blue silk shirt, khaki shorts, blue knee socks and an old pair of permanently scuffed Gucci loafers.

“Nick!” said Oliver enthusiastically, extending his right hand, “It’s so nice to see you again. When I mentioned to your secretary how much I’ve been looking forward to our little collaboration, she very kindly told me where I could find you. Tell me, when does our first client arrive?”

The broker ignored Oliver’s hand and replied, “Now you listen, Booth, they’re not ‘our’ clients, they’re ‘my’ clients, and you’ll play no role in this sale. And mark my words, I will find a way to disallow that clause that you forced into the contract. Perhaps I can prove that Josephus Morgan is incompetent. It shouldn’t be very difficult.”

“If he’s not competent, then he can’t be giving you permission to sell his house, now can he?”

“We shall see,” said Mount. “Now off with you. There is only one face to my firm and it’s not pudgy, so I’m going to ask you to leave before my first client arrives.”

“Tut, tut, my boy, it may reassure you to know that I have actually been the proprietor of a very successful antique shop on Worth Avenue,” said Oliver. “I’m sure you’ll agree that selling is selling, whether it’s a fine antique or a house. You’re going to find that my sales acumen will be quite an asset.”

“If you run an antique shop, then why were you delivering that writing table yesterday? Don’t you have a menial who can do that for you?”

“Well, um, I didn’t mean that I run an antique shop right now. I’m in a bit of a freelance phase, you might say.”

“So why were you delivering a writing table?”

“I really don’t think that this is a topic that—”

The two men were interrupted by the arrival of an armored stretch Hummer with rims modified to resemble roulette wheels, flashing neon pipes along the running boards, a four-foot wide satellite dish mounted on the roof, and three bikini-clad women dancing in a hot tub built into the trunk. As the gargantuan vehicle ground to a halt in the driveway, the palm trees vibrated from the throb of the subwoofers.

The broker consulted his schedule and said, “My first client is a Mr. Vitaly Shevchenko, but this doesn’t look like a car that a Vitaly Shevchenko, or any sane person, would drive. Or be driven in. Tell you what, Ollie, do you really want to be a part of this sale? You talk to this person, whoever he is.” He handed Oliver a manila envelope and said, “Here are the keys and the listing brochures. Do not allow this person into the house unless he offers to pay for it in cash.”

The driver and a bodyguard opened the two front doors and jumped down out of the Hummer. Both men were huge and wore perfectly tailored black suits with black shirts and white ties over their heavily muscled forms. With matching scowls, they walked over to Nick Mount and Oliver.

“Is this the place?” asked the driver.

Mount turned to Oliver with a smile and said, “Have a good meeting. I need to run off and take care of some business.”

“But—”

“Bye!” said Mount with a laugh as he jogged over to his car and drove off.

“I said, is this the place?” the driver repeated, staring at Oliver.

“It depends on which place you’re looking for, now doesn’t it?” replied Oliver with a nervous laugh.

“Is this the house, my friend?” said the man in a tone that was not suggestive of an interest in friendship.

“Well, it’s A house. Which house are you looking for?”

“The house that’s for sale. Is this house for sale?”

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Genre – Fiction / Humour

Rating – PG

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Website http://daviddesmond.net/