I had a blast hosting my first Facebook Launch Party this weekend! We had games and prizes. It was a great chance to for me to get to know the readers and fans a little better!
It was such a kick I thought I'd bring some of the fun over here.
So...without further ado: A Party Game!
Game: Test Your Imagination
Prize: Free ecopy of Good, Clean Murder: A Plain Jane Mystery
*Prize Determined by Hat Draw on Friday March 8th!*
Agatha Christie liked to kill off characters with a sandbag. This always cracks me up. Who has sandbags lying around? How many of us could really wave a bag of sand around, much less deliver a deadly blow with it?
To enter to win a copy of the book, please post the most absurd murder weapon you can imagine in the comments--and how it would be used to kill!
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While you are thinking of your weapon, enjoy this snippet from Good, Clean Murder!
Jane tucked her lemon-Pledge-soaked dust rag back in her apron pocket
and moved on to the laundry room, the chemical citrus wafting away with her.
She needed to strip the beds and get the laundry going if she was going to get
out to her next house on time. On her way past the laundry room, she grabbed a
hamper.
Then she stopped. Monday was laundry day. Laundry day and payday. The envelope full of cash was always pinned to the bulletin board with her directions. That envelope was supposed to buy her books today. Standing still with the hamper on her hip she debated. Stop now, call Pam, and ask for directions and money, or just keep working? The laundry would take two hours, whether she was paid or not, so she moved to the master bedroom. She could call Pamela after she had the first load in the machine.
Then she stopped. Monday was laundry day. Laundry day and payday. The envelope full of cash was always pinned to the bulletin board with her directions. That envelope was supposed to buy her books today. Standing still with the hamper on her hip she debated. Stop now, call Pam, and ask for directions and money, or just keep working? The laundry would take two hours, whether she was paid or not, so she moved to the master bedroom. She could call Pamela after she had the first load in the machine.
Jane pushed open the bedroom door with her hip.
In a smooth set of motions perfected over her two years as a housekeeper, she set the hamper down, grabbed the end of the comforter and pulled all of the bedding off the bed. Then she looked up to grab the pillows.
Bob was still in bed.
“I am so sorry!” she whispered. She backed away from the bed.
Bob hadn’t seemed to notice her.
Heat rose to Jane’s face. What a complete moron! She should have knocked. She could have given him the chance to wake up a little. She looked away from the bed, waiting for him to speak.
He didn’t say anything.
In fact, Bob hadn’t moved a muscle when his covers had come flying off him. Surely, if a big guy like him had moved, she would have noticed.
She stepped back to the bed.
Bob was very still, and his face was pasty.
Jane’s heart thumped against her ribs, like a small, hard fist.
Bob was not well.
Her feet felt like bricks as she pulled herself across the Persian rug to the side of Bob’s bed.
He was wearing an A-line tank top—a wife-beater. His huge shoulders were covered in brown wiry hair.
She had never seen Bob’s naked shoulders.
Jane placed two shaking fingertips under his jaw, and turned away. She couldn’t feel a pulse. She moved her fingers across his thick neck, trying to find even the faint hint of life, but it wasn’t there.
Jane shoved her hand into the pocket of her jeans and yanked out her phone. 911. Must call 911.
“Ambulance, Police, or Fire Department?” The voice of the 911 operator was steady, solid.
“Ambulance, please!”
“Where are you located?”
Jane gave the operator the address of the Crawford home.
“An ambulance will be right there. Can you stay on the line with me?”
“No, I can’t. I’ve got to call his wife.”
“I understand. We’ll be right there.”
Jane ended the call and began scrolling through her phone for Pamela’s number.
Pamela could be at the gym right now, or at the salon, or with the board of directors dealing with the business. She could be anywhere.
Jane found their daughter Phoebe Crawford’s number first and hit send.
“This is Phoebe.” Her voice was rough like she had just woken up.
“Phoebe, it’s Jane Adler. I’m at your parents’ house and your dad—” Jane’s voice broke, but she took a deep breath and continued, “I called the ambulance. I think it was another heart attack. Can you get here?”
“Slow down, what?”
“I’m at the house, and I think your dad has had another heart attack. The ambulance is on its way. Can you make it over here? Do you know where your mom is?” How did Phoebe not understand? Jane walked to the window to watch for the ambulance. Her knees felt like water.
Phoebe yawned on the other end. “That’s awful,” she said. “I had a rough one last night. Call me when he’s at the hospital and I’ll be right there, okay?”
“But I’m just the cleaner…you need to be here. Or your mom.”
“Oh, you’re that Jane. I wondered who this was. Call me when you know what hospital he is at and I will meet him there, okay? It’s just another heart thing. He’ll be fine.”
“I don’t think he’s going to be fine.” Jane saw the ambulance turn the corner, its lights spinning and siren blaring. A fire truck was right behind it.
“Okay, so call me later.” Phoebe yawned again and hung up.
Jane pressed her lips together.
Bob was definitely not fine.
***
and other fine ebook retailers.
Traci earned a degree in History from Portland State University and still lives in the rainiest part of the Pacific Northwest with her husband the mandolin playing funeral director, their two daughters, and their dog, Dr. Watson.
More of Traci's work can be found at http://www.tracihilton.com
