How in the name of the goddess’s favorite sports bra am I going to do this Magical Librarian job? I have no idea what I’m doing. And the woman who’s supposed to be training me is…well, let’s just say she’s distracted and leave it at that. I guess I’ll bumble through. It’s become something of a trademark move for me.
My name is Naida Griffith and I’m a sorceress. I actually found that out not too long ago. I’ve lived with an undefined something burning in my belly for a while, feeling as if something wasn’t quite right under my skin. Then, on my eighteenth birthday I started getting headaches. Bad ones. And random stuff started following me around.
Recently I was approached by a group called the Société of Dire Magic to become Keeper of the Artifacts. A magical librarian. Given that magical artifacts have taken to following me around, I decided I might have an aptitude for the job. So I said yes.
But in the first few days, I’ve been flogged by flip flops, bludgeoned by gnomes, and discovered a corpse in a suitcase. Then there’s the woman who’s supposed to be training me. She’s…interesting.
Will I survive the training long enough to get the job as artifact librarian? You might as well ask me if a caterpillar gets manis or pedis. Who knows? But I know one thing for sure. This gig is hard. I’m going to do my best to succeed. Or die trying.
Come to Silver Hills.
Where making friends can prove deadly and making enemies might be easier than
aflutter at Silver Hills as a new heartthrob moves into the residence. Will all
that fluttering still a single heart? And if love dies, will Flo’s very own amour
find itself in the crosshairs of the estimable Detective Brent Peters?
Hertz are on the outs. Secrets tear the tender fabric of a pulsing heart. What
do the secrets have to do with murder?
Affairs of le
cœur aside, will Agnes break the clothing store shopping for a party dress?
What will break during a rousing class of Zumba? And will Flo be able to
soldier through her dance injuries to follow a chubby cherub to a killer?
questions. So much hopping, tapping and fluttering. And still a murder to
Flo and Co. do?
what they always do, of course. Hearts out and chins up, they’re goin’ in!
I really enjoyed Love Hertz. The characters are interesting and hilarious. Flo and Agnes get into so many crazy situations that will have you laughing. This book is so fun. The mystery has so many twists and red herrings to keep you guessing right until the end. This book is full of adventure, mystery, laughs and some romance. A great read!
The last note hit the air, leaving behind a startling
Agnes didn’t stop with the music. She did one last step
slide and flung her right arm up, her fist heading right for Flo’s chin.
Flo’s growl deepened. She blocked Agnes’ upward strike with
a downward strike of her own forearm and, reaching out as Agnes’ eyes snapped
open in surprise, flicked her friend hard between the eyes.
Agnes frowned, reaching up to rub her head. “Ow! Why’d you
do that, Flo?”
“Because you’re a menace,” somebody mumbled behind Flo.
Dabbing her face with a towel, TC turned around, her pretty
face filled with pleasure and glistening with sweat. Her grin slid slowly away
when she saw the carnage Agnes had left in her wake.
Bodies were strewn everywhere. Women rubbing red places on
their limbs, carefully pushed to their feet, favoring tender joints. Groans
filled the air.
Agnes stood at the epicenter of it all. Her own brand of
Level 5 hurricane.
“What happened?” TC asked, all the joy of the dance seeping out
of her. She hurried to help a woman whom Flo thought looked slightly familiar
up off the floor.
“Agnes happened,” Celia said, rubbing one of her
“Hurricane Agnes,” Flo said, feeling a grin tugging at her
Agnes looked around, her eyes going wide. “Did I do that?”
“O-blivious,” the woman standing next to TC said.
Then someone laughed.
Someone else joined in.
A hoot burst out of Celia’s mouth and she gave into it,
doubling over with laughter and holding her sides.
Flo felt a chuckle tickling her throat and set it free,
reaching to give a sweaty, panting Agnes a hug. “I have to say, hun. With you
around, nothing is ever boring.”
Agnes gave her a wincing smile, glancing around as, one by
one, the other dancers joined in the laughter. Then she shrugged and reached
for her water bottle. “That was fun.”
It isn’t every day that you find yourself staring at a
frog’s squishy butt bulging from the underside of a sink drain. I would have
felt better if I’d believed it would never happen again. However, because I
appeared to be frog-cursed, there was a strong possibility I’d eventually end
up lying on my back under the sink, eyeing the posterior region of Mr. Slimy
Sighing, I gave the squishy bulk a tentative poke with my
finger, earning a forlorn, “Ribbit!” for my efforts. Something trickled
downward, hitting my cheek and dripping down to the paper towel I had draped
under my head to keep “under the sink” cooties off my hair.
I realized, too late, what had just dripped on me.
“Argh!” I shoved out from under the sink and bent over while
grabbing frantically for more paper towel to wipe frog pee off my cheek. “I
can’t believe it!”
The figure lounging against my refrigerator grinned. “You shouldn’t
poke a stressed frog, Naida.”
I glared at the source of almost all my problems.
Okay, I know I previously said that about Mr. Wicked, my
adorable kitten who was probably better at being an artifact keeper than I was.
But I’d reassessed the players and decided Rustin Quilleran, former witch and
current frog squatter, was definitely more trouble than my sweet little kitten.
I mean, Wicked was curled up on his pillow, purring happily.
Rustin was driving a fat frog bus that got itself jammed in
my drain and peed on my face.
I’ll let you do the math.
“Not funny. You need to keep a better lock on the contents
of your bladder.”
His grin widened. “I think you have a mistaken view of my
ability to control your wedged friend,” he told me. “I’m just a passenger on
that particular bus.”
Which, normally I’d be happy about. I mean, when Rustin had
gotten stuck in the frog because of a spell his horrible family had performed,
I’d felt terrible. We’d tried everything to get him out of there. But, in the
end, the evil Jacob Quilleran had interfered, making certain poor Rustin didn’t
escape the fate Jacob had locked him into.
I still hadn’t found out why Rustin’s Uncle Jacob had felt
the need to lock him in a frog.
Rustin wasn’t being very forthcoming with the information.
I hurried past him, into my bathroom, where I put soap onto
the wet paper towel and scrubbed my cheek until I was in danger of removing a
layer of skin cells along with the frog pee.
“What are you doing here, then? Standing there laughing isn’t
helping at all.”
Rustin shrugged. “I was bored. Your life is generally good
for a few laughs. I’m happy to report that this morning has been no exception.”
I barely resisted zapping him with my almost worthless
keeper magics. I pretty much had only enough oomph in my zapper to curl
someone’s hair or make them pee themselves.
Trust me when I tell you I’d had enough of making stuff pee
for the day.
Flinging the soiled paper towel into the trash, I glared at
him. “I’m so glad I could entertain.”
“Me too.” His grin never wavered.
A part of me was happy to see it. I’d been so worried that
Rustin would lose his humanity because of his enforced incarceration in the
frog. But his cousin Maude and his very powerful Aunt Madeline had been working
on reversing the spell. They hadn’t managed yet to free him. But they’d created
a metaphysical barrier between Mr. Slimy’s ─ a.k.a. the frog’s ─ consciousness
and Rustin’s so he could maintain his power, brain capacity, and
humanity…basically his soul.
That was as good a result as we could have hoped for under
Even though that meant, as Mr. Slimy’s current foster parent,
I was also the unlucky owner of the ethereally handsome and eternally snarky
witch who was stuck inside the frog.
You thought I was kidding about the challenges of my life,
The bell jangled downstairs in my bookstore, and I glanced
at my stuck amphibian.
“Ribbit.” Slimy’s sticky tongue snapped out and snagged a
massive fly that had tried to make a break for the window above the sink.
I looked at Rustin. “Keep an eye on the squishy, green bus.
I have to go see who’s downstairs.”
He nodded, casting what appeared to be an affectionate
glance toward Mr. Slimy.
I shook my head. How anybody could be fond of a frog was
Although, I realized as I bounced down the steps to the
first floor, that I’d begun to form an attachment which transcended disgust. In
fact, I almost dreaded the day Madeline managed to find a way to extract her
nephew. I was going to miss him.
Unlocking the door that separated the bookstore from the
artifact library behind me, I blinked in surprise.
Had I just had a Freudian moment? Was I going to miss the
witch? Or the frog?
I shrugged, shoving the question aside for another time. It
would probably be an easy choice.
Hi! I’m Flo from Silver Hills. I’m so glad to meet you, hun. I don’t have a lot of time because Agnes and I are about to go to yoga class and we need to make sure to get a spot at the front of the class. Why, you ask? Oh, you haven’t read Dose Vidanya yet have you? LOL All jokes aside, that was a very trying time for us. Finding that dead guy so close to the Book Club cookie table just about did Agnes in. Especially when some well-meaning person told her they thought dead-guy spores might be airborne. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Agnes regret eating cookies before. Oh, you’ve never met my friend Agnes? She’s a great friend and very loyal. But there are challenges to being around her. For one thing, she’s never met a crime scene she couldn’t debauch. A fact that has tested young Detective Peters’ anger management skills many times.
In Freezer Bernie, Agnes was at the top of her game. When she accidentally dumped lemon gelato into the victim’s gunshot wound…well…let’s just say it was a good thing Detective Peters didn’t have easy access to his weapon on that one!
Being around Agnes can occasionally get a bit slap-sticky. But that’s half of her appeal, hun. The fact that she’s a genuinely kind person is definitely the other half. Sam injects humor in almost all her stories, but she puts an extra little punch of it in the Silver Hills books. She says the humor is as much a part of the plot as solving the mystery. I think she’s right because I’ve made so many good friends since the series started. People feel like they know us after reading the books, and they tell me they want to move into Silver Hills!Oh, by the way, did you know there was a new Silver Hills book available? There is! Fowl Campaign hit the shelves a couple of days ago. And the best news is that right now it’s only $2.99, in honor of the new release. If you enjoy a great murder with fun characters and a healthy dose of humor, you should grab a copy while it’s still on sale. Thanks for visiting with me, hun. I hope to see you in the pages of a Silver Hills book soon!
“Once I started this newest Silver Hills adventure, I couldn’t put it down! What a rollercoaster ride this book is!!!! I laughed out loud and had my blood pressure elevate at several points. Sam Cheever has done it again!!!!!”
A dead Realtor, a cranky cat, an adorable, depressed pibl, and a boyfriend who hasn’t been…shall we say…totally honest recently. Joey’s got bigger problems than figuring out when she’ll get her next slice of banana cream pie. Though that certainly ranks high on her list of concerns.
I’ve always been perfectly aware of my shortcomings as a
I consider myself generally a good person. With good
instincts about people and a desire to be kind to others unless they’re unkind
to me. But I do have an aversion to pushy people. Which has put me on the wrong
side of salesmen of all kinds more than once.
My second least favorite of these is real estate agents. Not
that being a Realtor is innately bad. It’s just that the act of buying or
selling a house is way too much like dealing with used car salesmen for my
Which brings me to my first least favorite type of salesmen.
Fortunately, it wasn’t a car
salesman standing on my porch that sunny, cool-ish fall day in the rural area
just outside of Deer Hollow, Indiana.
But it might as well have been.
The woman standing in front of Caphy and me had lipstick on
her teeth and hair that looked as if squirrels might have built it on her head
for nesting. Lucky for her my dog was much more tolerant than I was. Even when
she was being none-too-subtly dissed by said lipstick-teethed intruder.
“Miss Fulle, you should chain that beast up.”
The hand on Caphy’s collar tightened briefly as I fought to
contain my instant rage. Cacophony, Caphy for short, was about the sweetest
animal that ever lived. She was more than my best friend. I credited her with
saving my life when I’d gone into the deepest depression imaginable after my
parents were killed in a plane crash on our property.
She was also a pit bull.
And that was all some people saw when they looked at her.
Caphy smiled at the woman, her muscular tail whipping
painfully against my leg. She whined softly, quivering with friendly
I drew myself up to my full five feet four inches, tucked a
strand of shoulder-length red-blonde hair behind one ear, and narrowed my blue
eyes at her. “She’s fine,” I told the
woman with the squirrel’s nest for hair. “She lives here. Whereas you…” I let
my statement trail away, allowing my uninvited guest to gather my implication
all by herself.
The woman frowned slightly, moving a purse the size of her extra-large
backside in front of her like a shield. “Oh…um…okay. Well.” She extended her
hand a few inches in front of her, a white rectangle stuck between two short
fingers. “Here’s my card. My name is Penney Sellers. I was wondering if you’re
interested in selling your house.”
I blinked several times. “Not in the least.”
As I responded, I realized it was true. After my parents’
death, when I initially learned that I’d inherited the house and the family auction
business, my first thought was to sell the too-big house rather than live here.
Too many painful memories existed within its familiar walls. I still thought
I’d sell eventually. But I wasn’t quite ready to make that decision.
The auction business was another matter entirely. I still
hadn’t accepted the responsibility they’d left in my less-than-capable hands.
There was no way I could fill their shoes in the business, and being there was just
too painful for me to face.
I glanced down at the card, grimacing at the obviousness of
the woman’s name. “Is Penney Sellers really
In response she gave
me a slightly snotty smile. “I can offer you a premium price. There aren’t many
homes in this area of this quality.”
“Not interested. You do know there’s a huge subdivision
going up on the south side of Deer Hollow,
right?” Of course she knew that. But I
was making a point.
“Those houses are fine. But they don’t have the…” She swung her arms toward the pond and
the trees. “Ambiance. The setting here is truly spectacular.”
“Thank you. But I’m not interested in selling.” I backed into
the house, tugging gently on Caphy’s collar. Her gaze locked onto the other
woman, who’d taken a step toward the door as if she was thinking about pushing
her way inside. A low growl emerged from Caphy’s throat and the hair in front
of her tail spiked.
Penney Sellers stopped dead in her tracks, her gaze shooting
to the endlessly sweet creature who was giving her fair warning.
But Caphy’s warning didn’t stop the realtor’s mouth from
moving. “Do you own all those woods over there?” The woman asked. Her
expression was perfectly innocent. But there was a gleam in her eye that I
“Yes. All the way to the big stone marker on Goat’s Hollow Road. 100 acres.”
The gleam flared, making her look positively demonic. “A
hundred acres! My goodness. I’d love to talk to you about subdividing the
property. We could build a dozen homes and still have sizeable properties.”
“Not interested. Thanks for stopping by.”
I slammed the door in her face and locked it. Pressing my
ear against the warm wood, I listened for her to climb into her car and drive
away before I took a full breath. A soft whine drew my gaze to Caphy. “It’s all
right, girl. She’s gone.”
The pibl’s tail
snapped sideways once and then she nuzzled me, snorting softly. She was
sensitive to my moods, and the alarm I
was feeling was no doubt putting her on edge. I couldn’t have explained the
panic tightening my chest if someone offered me a thousand dollars to do it.
It was an unreasonable fear. But undeniable.
Nobody could force me to sell my house. Nobody could make me
give up my private little wonderland. It was all I had left of my parents.
It was also the place where Caphy and I had grown up. Where
we’d run and played, where I’d climbed trees and learned to swim. But the new
subdivision was affecting my life in ways I hadn’t expected. When I’d first
learned it was coming it had seemed harmless. After all, the three hundred acre
plot on the south side of Deer Hollow
was miles away from me. The homes were supposed to be decent ones, built on
quarter acre lots and not all exactly the same. I reasoned it would be nice to
have some new blood in town.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t counted on the other stuff that came
with those homes. The constant traffic through town from looky-loos. The noise, mess, and invasion of people who thought the town had
been conjured up for their enjoyment.
And the realtors, builders and construction people who
clogged the streets and turned the few restaurants Deer Hollow boasted into hotbeds of noise and inaccessibility at
Still, I could deal with all that.
It was the other thing that had my nerves thrumming like a
banjo in the mountains of Kentucky.
The sense of impending doom.
I couldn’t explain it. Hadn’t experienced it before. And I
suspected it had something to do with the body we’d discovered in my woods not
all that long ago. I was pretty sure I wasn’t completely over finding that
mangled corpse or the terrifying events that came after.
Whatever the cause, it was all too real.
And it was making me as jumpy as a fat-legged frog in a
When the article declaring Deer Hollow as one of the best places to raise a family in the
United States came out in the The
Indianapolis Star weeks earlier, I’d never expected such a vast and
immediate change in my world.
But suddenly the Hollow
was on the news almost every night. Articles were being written about what a
great spot it was. The local artists, authors, and
businesses were being examined, highlighted, and, in some cases, given an anal
probe, the likes of which the people in my little community had never experienced.
Our recent murder-driven scandal had been examined, the
article’s author lamenting the fact that it had apparently been overlooked when
choosing America’s favorite spots to live.
But, so far, my family’s involvement had been blissfully
absent from speculation. A fact I thought had much to do with a certain
uber-sexy PI and his connections with the FBI.
For that, I was both
grateful and tense.
I felt as if the other shoe was going to drop at any moment.
I tucked the tiny bottle of fake tears more deeply into my tissue and sniffed daintily, scoping out the assembled crowd of mourners with a practiced eye. My baby blues caught on a handsome, dark-haired man standing back from the rest, and I did one of those embarrassing jerk-away things with my eyes, hoping he didn’t notice me noticing him again.
He totally noticed me.
He’d been staring at me since I’d arrived at the viewing an hour earlier. And his expression was anything but friendly. Somehow my eyes kept traveling to him, though I swear on the life of my spunky Pomeranian, Shakespeare, that it was pure accident.
I wasn’t ogling the mourners.
Really, I wasn’t.
Of its own volition, my gaze accidentally slipped over the spot where he’d been again, and I blinked.
He was gone.
To cover my surprise, I turned to the elderly woman next to me and let my bottom lip quiver. I gave a practiced little sob and squeezed the fake tears in my tissue just as a big hand landed on my shoulder.
I yelped, gripped the tiny bottle as if it was the only thing keeping me from plunging a thousand feet off a bridge to my death, and then yelped again as I shot a stream of faux sadness right into one wide blue eye.
Fake tears ran like the River Jordan down my artificially pale cheek. “Oh!” I exclaimed as I tried to deal with the mess.
I jerked around to eye the owner of the hand and forgot how to speak.
Across the room he’d been yummy, definitely an eight-star performance on opening night. But up close and personal, Mr. Hostile was a solid fifteen stars, with a good three-minute standing ovation added in.
Even with the glare on his face.
I couldn’t help wondering why he seemed so angry with me. Surely it wasn’t because I was ogling him at the viewing of the man who was supposed to be my boyfriend. I gave that one a few moments of thought.
Nah. That couldn’t be it.
Hostile Hottie stuck the hand he’d accosted me with in front of my face, all but daring me to shake it. “Eddie Deitz.”
I blinked. “Huh?” Brilliant, MayBell. Oscar-worthy response.
My poor tissue was swamped with fake tears, and there were more of them trailing down one cheek. I couldn’t seem to get them under control. So, I decided to embrace the dramatic substance of the moment. I quivered my bottom lip and sniffled behind the lump of saturated tissue.
Accepting his challenge, I placed a limp paw into his and allowed it to be pumped. “MayBell Ferth. It’s a pleasure.”
Ugh! I wanted to kick myself. Who says that at a funeral? Jeezopete!
His gorgeous green gaze narrowed slightly, bringing my attention to the thick fringe of black lashes framing his eyes.
I’d do a year’s worth of PiYo classes to have lashes like that. And that was saying something because I hated PiYo with the power of a thousand suns.
“Is there something wrong with your eye?” he asked.
I mopped ineffectually at the fake tears with my soggy tissue. “Um, no, I’m just sad.”
Stupid, May. Stupid.
His expression told me he didn’t believe I was sad out of only one eye. I couldn’t blame him for his skepticism.
NOTE: Mourning Commute is available exclusively on Amazon. If you don’t have a Kindle you can use Amazon’s free Reading App. That’s how I read on all my Apple devices! It’s also available in Print.
When I was asked to write Mourning Commute, I spent some time pondering the idea of hired mourning. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about it, I’d actually already written a scene with paid mourners. Perhaps you recall this dignified and sedate scene from Naval Gazing?
A long, wailing sob broke the stillness, its fulsome, alarming tenor enough to break through even the little old man’s stupor. He flinched once but, no doubt suffering under nine decades of emphasis on manners and how to behave in polite society, kept his gaze fixed on the casket in front of him.
However, the emitter of the wail was not to be ignored. Another hefty wail broke the silence and it seemed the sound broke something loose in the rest of the assembled mourners. Loud sobbing bubbled up to fill the previously mostly silent cemetery. The sound rose to match the wailing in loudness and, in one or two instances rose above it.
Not to be outdone, one mourner called out, “Help me Lord Ja-eee-sus!” Sounding like a good old-fashioned television preacher working a crowd for money.
With that, the stakes were raised. Never one to let someone beat her at her own game, Agnes let off wailing and, giving her competition a very un-Christian glare, threw back her head and screamed, flinging herself forward toward the unsuspecting deceased.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, Agnes caught her oversized sneaker on a blade of grass and toppled, arms akimbo, onto the surface of the casket.
Everything stopped. It was as if someone had been playing with a time machine and, seeing the pure entertainment value in that place and time, hit a giant ‘Pause’ button to savor the train wreck more completely.
Yeah, not Agnes’s finest moment. But you have to admit it was a good bit of acting. #:0) The truth is that professional mourning has been a “thing” for a very long time. It has its roots in several cultures and is mentioned several times in the Bible. In ancient times, the profession was meant to comfort and entertain a grieving family and was performed mostly by women. The jobs were coveted because they provided a way for women to earn their own money. For the deceased, having paid mourners was a sign of prosperity and importance.
Like her ancient sisters, May Ferth believes her job is a comfort to her clients. She takes great pride in serving the grieving family’s needs. But it soon turns out to be the role of her life. May bumps up against a cold-blooded killer while performing her part, and is soon running for her life in a truly ugly pair of shoes!