Here we are again with another cocktail for you to try. Today’s alcoholic treat comes from the letter W. Yesterday I mentioned that this week I’ll finish the last book in the Harvester files series, but the series started with the first book, The White Carnation set in Boston, Massachusetts.
He’s watching, waiting… The last person disgraced reporter Faye Lewis wants back in her life is Detective Rob Halliday, her former fiancé, the man she blames for ruining her career and breaking her heart. But when she discovers her best friend’s mother murdered, she doesn’t hesitate to call him. Breaking up with Faye after she unjustly accused him of sabotaging her career was a crippling personal blow for Rob, but he coped by burying himself in his work. For the past year, his team has been hunting the Harvester, a serial killer who ritualistically murders new mothers and vanishes with their infants. What Rob doesn’t need is another case, especially one involving his ex-fiancée. But, when the killer’s newest victim resembles Faye, all bets are off. When Faye is assaulted in her own apartment, Rob realizes that not only are these cases connected, Faye may be the key to finding the elusive killer, providing Rob can keep her out of the maniac’s hands. Realizing her vulnerability, Faye agrees to set aside their past to work the case together, but the more they investigate, the more complex the situation becomes. The mad man has an agenda, one that involves Faye. Can they catch the Harvester before he finds Faye and reaps another prize?
So, in honor of the novel’s setting, today’s cocktail from the letter W is the Ward 8. According to Wikipedia, in 1898 Democratic political czar Martin M. Lomasney hoped to capture a seat in the state’s legislature, the General Court of Massachusetts. Lomasney held considerable power in the city for nearly 50 years. The story goes that the drink was created to honor his election, and the city’s Ward 8 which historically delivered him a winning margin. In 1915 the Santa Clara Company registered “Ward 8” as a trademark with the United States Patent Office claiming use since November 1912 and published a notice that they would prosecute any infringement. During prohibition the Daily Boston Globe reported that the drink was believed to have originated at the “old” and abandoned Quincy House. Competing, but unfounded myths abound in print and on the Internet. One story reports that it originated in New York in an area known for political corruption, another that the cocktail is a traditional drink of the Scots Guards. Following the end of prohibition, Locke-Ober reopened its bar using this recipe.
Make It Your Own
Ingredients
2 ounces rye whiskey 1/2 ounce fresh lemon juice 1/2 ounce fresh orange juice 1 teaspoon grenadine Maraschino cherry (optional)
Mix It
Shake the rye whiskey, lemon juice, orange juice and grenadine with ice; then strain into a chilled cocktail glass.
Garnish with a maraschino cherry, if desired.
Originally the drink was decorated with a small paper Massachusetts flag.
In all honesty, by now I truly expected that this COVID thing would be under control and we would all be looking at some kind of normal. I guess like Beth says in the story, “there is no normal now. I doubt there ever will be.”
Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales, the weekly blog where authors share their works in progress with you. Our word prompt is BONES. I chose the singular. Enjoy.
“Come on, Mitch. Throw us a bone. What has he said?” Al cajoled.
“Oh no. You need to read it yourself to fully appreciate it.”
She opened a door in the far wall, and it shut behind her.
“Great,” Beth muttered. “If it’s as bad as Mitch implies, maybe I’ll let you have a crack at him first.”
What she would like to do was throw him in a cell and toss away the key, but dungeons were hard to find these days. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.
“Headache’s back?” Mitch asked, stepping into the room with her purse and a large duffel bag.
“Yeah, but maybe I just need to eat. Is that the article?”
“Yeah.”
Mitch handed her the folded newspaper.
Beth opened the paper, the headline jumping out at her. She read aloud.
“Murder, Mayhem, Madness, and Silence, by Jack Ogden. I swear he gets more melodramatic with every report,” she said. “Does he have any facts or is it all purple prose again?”
“You tell me, Special Agent Reynolds. It’s your case.”
Beth cocked her head and continued to read.
“New York City is in the grip of madness. The heat? The full moon? Killer drugs? No one knows—or do they? Do we have a modern-day Jack the Ripper preying on men and women alike? It may well be, and his methods are like nothing this city has ever seen.”
“A modern day Jack the Ripper is an interesting comparison,” Al said, stopping her. “The man was never caught, but he was believed to have surgical abilities and eviscerated his victims. Well, you may not like it, but it is closer to the truth than werewolves.”
“Too close,” she mumbled.
“Thursday night the mutilated body of a woman, a number four burned into her body, was found next to a dumpster in Brownsville, definitely not an accident.”
She stopped reading and scowled. “How the hell does he know about the brand? It was in my report to Ned, the same report I emailed to you, Al, and to Major Crimes. Chuck sent it to Amanda, and she forwarded it to Chad. Have we been hacked? How else could that information have gotten out?”
“I don’t know,” Al said, “but I suppose someone who can manipulate the dark web and use it to sell organs is capable of hacking a government website.”
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales
Well, here we are. It’s the last week of April and the last week of this year’s blog challenge. I’ve had fun checking out various posts. It’s also my last week to finish my newest suspense thriller, The White Dahlia. Have you ever wanted something badly but found the thing just out of your reach? That’s how I feel about this book. I’ve had to shelve it so many times to take care of something else, I was afraid I would never get it done.
Today, the cocktail of the day is courtesy of the letter V. Now we’ve all heard of vampires. Even Sesame Street had one in the Count. Of course the most famous of all used to be Dracula, but he’s been replaced by replaced so many others, including the entire family who owns the Hotel Transylvania. Vampires may not exist, but there are thousands of real people who call them selves Sanguinarians. You’ll have to read The White Dahlia to learn more about them. In honor of all the would-be vamps out there, I give you the
Make It Your Own
Ingredients
2 ounces of Tequila (one ounce per glass) 1 cup of ice cubes 1 cup of tomato juice 1/2 teaspoon of sriracha sauce 1/2 cup or orange juice 1/2 cup of grapefruit juice 2 wedges of fresh pink grapefruit 2 wedges of fresh orange
Mix It
Makes two drinks
Add the ice cubes and pour the tequila (one ounce) per glass. Then add the sriracha sauce to the tomato juice and stir. This cocktail is all about layering so start with the first layer pouring some of the tomato juice, then add the orange juice and finally the grapefruit juice. Garnish with a wedge of fresh grapefruit and a wedge of sweet orange. Sip slowly and enjoy.
I’ll have to include this drink in my next Punisher book.
Come back tomorrow to see what the letter W has to offer.
Good morning! I hope this Sunday finds you safe and healthy. The sky is cloudy here today, but there is a promise of warmth in the air. Why not warm up on the inside, too? Laugher is the best medicine. The amazing authors of the Author’s Billboard know that and have created the ideal series for whatever ails you. Here’s a quick peek at the three currently available for only 99 cents USD each, free on Kindle Unlimited.
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Susan Jean Ricci – The Charming Chameleon: Can karma inspire a mismatched couple to forgo masquerading and reveal their true selves for love?
Dani Haviland – The Wizard of Odds: Two co-workers take on an impossible challenge and wind up with a menagerie of unusual animals looking for a second chance in the desert. Will the mismatched couples get one, too?
Mona Risk – Husband for a Week: Sicilian vendetta, fake husband, and an irascible matchmaking grandmother complicate their lives. Can love conquer all?
Leanne Banks – Cowboy MD: Could he cure what ails her?
Susanne Matthews – The Tipsy Pig: A socialite, a recluse, and a tipsy pig—the perfect recipe for romance?
Katy Walters – Love Your Neighbor: Moving into a new neighborhood has more challenges – and nuts – than they thought possible.
Angela Stevens – Whitewash: The Tricks of the Trade: What could go wrong when a Pinterest addict lets a color-blind painter and decorator fix up her dream home?
Patrice Wilton – Night Music: A little magic can make anything happen in South Beach.
Stephanie Queen – Small Town Hot Shot Bride: Will Tammy foolishly get swept up by charming out-of-towner Roark and his runaway train attraction? Or will she derail him for good?
Well, we’ve made it to the end of the third week.Yesterday was William Shakespeare’s birthday. I spent most of my teaching career as an English teacher and teaching Shakespeare’s plays were the highlight of my school year. While we usually focused on his tragedies, I loved the comedies. Twelfth Night was a particular favorite.
Today’s cocktail is brought to you by the letter U and one I’m sure Sir Toby would enjoy.
It’s also one that brings my grandkids to mind. My granddaughter, Eleni, was crazy about all things horse related, but she had a particular fondness for unicorns which she called hornekin. Why? I have no idea, but purple hornekin was her favorite! Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you, the Meet the Unicorn.
Make It Your Own
Ingredients
1 dash Midori Melon Liqueur 1 part Vodka 1 part Brandy 1 part Coffee Liqueur 1 dash Cointreau
Mix It
Rub the lip of a martini or champagne glass with an orange and then dip in it nonpareils.
Pour all liquid ingredients into cocktail shaker filled with ice.
Shake & strain into the decorated martini or champagne glass.
Enjoy.
And, since it’s always nice to end with a song, here you go
That’s it for this week. See you Monday when we take a look at the letter V.
Well, here we are. It’s Friday again, but this Friday is different because it’s also the release date for the ABB”s newest book box, Cute but Crazy 3
In honor of that occasion, the letter T is offering The Tipsy Pig as its cocktail of the day.
Never heard of a Tipsy Pig? I hadn’t either until I needed something unusual for a new book. The Tipsy Pig is sure to be a crowd pleaser because it’s made with bacon! Yup, you heard that right. Alcohol and bacon. What could possibly be better than that?
Make It Your Own
Ingredients
Ice 3 ounces of bourbon 1 ounce of bacon brown sugar simple syrup (recipe below) 1 ounce of sweet vermouth 5 drops of bitters Candied bacon Maraschino cherries for garnish
Mix It
Making the bacon brown sugar simple syrup:
In a small saucepan, over medium heat, cook 1 cup of chopped bacon with 1 cup of brown sugar and 1 cup of water until lightly boiling. Strain the candied bacon and leave the syrup to cool.
Making the drink:
Add the bourbon, bacon brown sugar simple syrup, vermouth and bitters into an ice-filled shaker.
Shake until well mixed.
Pour over ice
Garnish with maraschino cherries and a piece of candied bacon.
While you’re enjoying your new favorite cocktail, take a minute to read a bit from The Tipsy Pig, my contribution to the Cute But Crazy 3 box set.
A former socialite, a recluse, and a tipsy pig—the perfect recipe for disaster or romance?Dreading publicity over her recent divorce, her ex-husband’s arrest, and her upcoming 40th birthday, Sahara Larson, the former CEO of Larson Enterprises, escapes from Toronto to hide away at a friend’s rustic cabin near Algonquin Park. The future looks bleak, but among her neighbors is Hiram Colson, a reclusive bestselling author who rescues discarded pets. Will he be able to rescue her, too? Can a potbellied pig with a penchant for homemade dandelion wine unite two lonely people?
Chapter One
Childless, divorced, unemployed, and almost forty. A fate worse than death, and yet there wasn’t one damn thing I could do about it. I couldn’t decide which of the dreaded Four Horsemen of my Apocalypse was the worst, although at this moment, the unemployed option stung the most. Not that I really needed to work. I’d lost a fortune, but I wasn’t penniless. It was just that I’d worked at one job or another my entire adult life, dedicating myself to the family business, and now I would have nothing to do. It sucked.
Before I’d reluctantly assumed the position of CEO for Larson Pork Enterprises, I’d worked my way up from graphic design to head of the marketing department, constantly searching for ways to keep up with the competition in this dog eat dog—or rather pig eat pig—world, forced to work long hours to try and hang on to our market share, especially once COVID 19 hit, creating havoc in the meat processing plants which led to shortages. Finding ways to stay competitive without raising prices or cutting employees had been a delicate balancing act, but then the virus had hit too close to home, and everything had changed.
Sadly, after only nine months in the big chair, I was forced to sell the pork processing company that had been in my family since 1890 when Toronto had been known as Hogtown. No more bringing home the bacon. Not exactly a banner line for the resumé or a plus at a job interview. I could picture the scene now.
So, Ms. Martin, I see you’re applying for the position of CEO. I can see you have experience in the field, but tell me, why did you leave your last job?
I sold the company to an international competitor after I fired myself on the grounds that I’m an idiot who didn’t have enough commonsense to realize my ex-husband was robbing me and my company blind.
I see, and would you consider that a strength or a weakness?
I groaned. It would probably be even worse than that.
I sat behind my great-great-grandfather’s ebony desk one last time, staring down at the Moroccan leather blotter. I ran my fingers over the S M L I’d carved into the material a lifetime ago, and sighed. I wasn’t ready for this, not now, not ever. I reached for the cooling cup of coffee I’d picked up from the Java Shack on my way to the office.
According to my best friend Miranda who’d dropped by before going to court this morning, I was giving an Oscar-winning performance as a corpse, even though I’d narrowly escaped being one. It was all a matter of perspective. As she put it, with a little effort I could probably land a walk-on in the filming of the next zombie apocalypse movie. She was exaggerating, but sadly there was too much truth there to ignore.
I’d always been slender, but following weeks in the hospital, the black pantsuit and shell I wore under it hung from my emaciated frame, the only color other than the waxy pallor of my skin coming from my grandmother’s pearls, a fitting costume for a corporate funeral. Saying goodbye to the company and the only jobs I’d ever known was so much harder than I’d expected.
“What the hell are you going to do now, Sahara?”
My voice echoed in the office devoid of family paintings, books, and the soft-surfaced furnishings I’d opted to keep, bouncing off the Lavish Lavinia Larson pig statuette.
A single tear trickled down under the frame of my dark, tortoise-shell glasses. I swiped at it. I would not cry—not now, not ever again. As Dad had always said, tears were for sissies, and while I might be a lot of things—naïve, anxious, and disheartened, despite being a girl, I wasn’t a wimp. I was a survivor.
When I’d turned twenty-one and had graduated from university with a degree in Fine Arts, Dad had given me a job in the marketing department. It had been a far cry from my imagined future restoring masterpieces and creating some of my own, but since I’d spent most of my life trying to make up for the fact that I’d been born without a dick, if that was what Dad wanted, then that was what he would get.
I reached for the statuette on the desk, my biggest success. Lavish Lavinia Larson, the company mascot, was a cartoon pig, loosely based on Miss Piggy, the Muppet character I’d loved. In her silver sequined gown and tiara, holding a lorgnette up to her eyes, she ruled over the porcine realm selecting only the best of her subjects for Larson Bacon. While my father had had his doubts, claiming people would be appalled by the idea which in some ways smacked of cannibalism, I’d pointed out that it was really no different from Charlie the tuna, Chiquita banana, the life-sized M & M candies, or Mr. Peanut—all products selling themselves.
Eventually, he’d backed down, and after a consumer study that showed the pig immensely popular with children and female shoppers, Lavish Lavinia became the star of all Larson bacon ads and commercials. Within a year, the Lavish Lavinia slogan, a cut above the rest, and her cute piggy face had graced Larson bacon products.
As another means of drawing in more consumers, I’d added unusual bacon recipes under our package labels, along with mini pig stickers that could be saved and redeemed for a Lavish Lavinia plush toy. Shoppers loved the idea, and the sale of Lavish Lavinia products increased until our bacon was our most popular commodity. Larson’s might be a far cry from the industry giants, but we had a firm grip on our markets.
Within five years, in addition to selling trademark items like lunch bags and t-shirts, we’d put out two Lavish Lavinia Cookbooks, with recipes for everything from Bacon Stuffed Artichokes, Bacon Brownies, and Bacon and Cheese Baked Ziti in Zucchini Boats to cocktails. After all, love made the world go round, and everybody loved bacon.
Shortly before my father’s untimely death, we’d expanded our product line, adding bacon-flavored simple syrup, candied bacon, bacon-flavored potato chips, and pre-cooked woven bacon taco shells to our list of products. We’d partnered with a micro-brewery and had given our blessing to bacon flavored beer, with Lavish Lavinia on the label, and most recently, after we’d joined forces with McPhee’s Distillery, she’d been featured on their newest product, premixed Tipsy Pig cocktails, a favorite of mine, the perfect drink anywhere, anytime. What I wouldn’t give for one of those now—I would even settle for just the three ounces of bourbon in it.
Stiffening my spine, I placed the statuette back on the desk, stood, and paced the floor, the heels of my Jimmy Choo’s rat-tat-tatting on the polished oak, sounding like some demented woodpecker, as I waited for Saul Levett, the company lawyer.
While selling Larson Enterprises had been the only thing to do, doing so had left a hole in my heart—as if the damn thing didn’t already resemble Swiss cheese.
I glanced at my watch. Where was Saul? He’d been gone almost two hours. The meeting shouldn’t have taken this long.
Nature abhorred a vacuum, and the longer I waited to hear my fate, the more worries and memories combined to fill the void.
How I wished for a do-over, a mulligan, a chance to go back in time to change something, make a different decision, run away from what would turn out to be the biggest mistake of my life—even if I hadn’t been the one to orchestrate it—but karma never gave anyone a second chance. I’d lost it all. Whatever I had left was all I would ever have, and while the Coronavirus had been the last straw, stealing my father from me, it had been my ex-husband who’d taken everything else.
I wrung my dry, chapped hands, desperately searching for answers. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t used to disappointment, but this time, there didn’t seem to be any light at the end of the tunnel.
Glancing at the mirrored wall behind the empty display shelves, I examined my reflection. I’d never deluded myself with the idea that I was a great beauty. I resembled my father, but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. While he might’ve been considered handsome in a Nordic sort of way, I was as plain as they came, with a wan complexion that could burn in the shade, a nose that might be slightly too big for my face, thin, colorless lips that had long ago forgotten how to smile, and myopic, watery blue eyes that necessitated the constant wearing of glasses. I’d tried contact lenses, but putting them in and taking them out was far more trouble than they were worth. I’d considered laser surgery, but the severity of the myopia meant I would still have to wear glasses, so why bother?
Blonde hair, pulled back into a chignon, exposed the inch of dark roots that would probably grow even longer before I could do anything about them. With this area of the province still in partial lockdown, it was almost impossible to get an appointment with a hairdresser, and the last time I’d tried to do my own, my hair had come out a most unattractive shade of mauve. Thankfully, we’d been in total lockdown, and I’d been working from home. Eventually it had washed out.
The pale face staring back at me had dark circles under overbright eyes, visible behind thick frames, and bloodless lips. I suppose I could’ve made an effort, put on some of the makeup I’d started to wear when I’d been introduced to Randy, a little blusher for color, lipstick, maybe even eyeshadow to draw the observer’s eyes away from what was really there, but to what end? There was no one left to impress.
I reached for the Financial Observer lying on my desk and glared at the headline on the front page of the rag that passed itself off as a newspaper. Larson CEO Sells to Sapphire, Cuts Randy Loose. Not quite the truth, but what had I expected? Sensationalized headlines sold more papers than facts ever did. I dropped the broadsheet into the recycling bin and resumed my pacing.
You can get Cute But Crazy 3, featuring The Tipsy Pig from any Amazon retailer for only 99 cents USD, or free to read in Kindle Unlimited.
Come back tomorrow for the last of this week’s cocktails brought to you by the letter U.
Good morning. Welcome back. It’s hard believe that most of the month of April is over already. Wish I could say the same about the Pandemic. Have you ever been to New Orleans? A few years ago, I’d planned to go there, but a nasty little storm named Katrina changed my plans. I had a friend who lived in the area. His home was all but destroyed, but he bounced back. Sadly, he’s gone now, but I remember him telling me that if I did decide to visit the city, I should carry chalk to make it easier for the police to outline my body when they found it. He had a wry sense of humor.
Here’s a little history I’ll bet you didn’t know. In 2008, the Louisiana House of Representatives made a historic decision. In a 62-33 vote, legislators proclaimed the Sazerac — the famed mix of rye whiskey, bitters and absinthe that originated in the bayou — New Orleans’ official cocktail.
The drink’s origins date back to the 1830s, when a Creole apothecary named Antoine Peychaud concocted a potent recipe at his pharmacy in the French Quarter. Peychaud combined his family’s secret recipe for bitters with cognac and began serving the drink to friends.
Although the Sazerac can be found across New Orleans’ drinking establishments, Peychaud’s bitters remain the key to creating this iconic cocktail.
NPR’s Robert Siegel prepares a Sazerac under the strict guidance of Lu Brow, bar chef at the Swizzle Stick Bar in downtown New Orleans. Brow calls the Sazerac a “wonderful, complex” cocktail and adds, “If ever there was a city that deserved an official drink, it was New Orleans.” (NPR)
And so today, the letter S brings you the official drink of New Orleans, the Sazerac! Now, just because I haven’t been to New Orleans doesn’t mean I haven’t researched it. In fact, New Orleans is the setting for my paranormal series, The Punishers. It was always my dad’s dream to help me write a book. He had his heart set on something involving vampires and shapeshifters, but he loved my police procedural suspense novels. Hence, the Punishers, a group of preternatural crime fighters who keep both the underworld and the overworld of New Orleans safe.
Make it Your Own
Ingredients
Absinthe, to rinse 2 ounces cognac (Can use Rye whiskey if you prefer) 1/2 ounce simple syrup 3 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
Mix it
Pour the absinthe into a rocks glass and swirl to coat the inside. Discard any excess. Fill the glass with ice to chill.
Combine the cognac, simple syrup and bitters in a cocktail shaker with ice. Cover and shake vigorously.
Discard the ice from the glass and strain the shaker mixture into the glass.
Rub the rim of the glass with the lemon twist, add to the drink and serve immediately.
When I get to New Orleans, you can be sure I’ll have a Sazerac!
Now, here’s a look at The Punishers, Book One, The Tigress
Paranormal Detective Ellie Taggart, a rakshasa capable of assuming the shape of a tigress, has always worked alone, searching for those responsible for her mother’s murder. When an investigation results in the death of a close friend and vampire, she’s forced to partner with handsome and mysterious peredhil, Steve Cassidy. Like her, the half-human, half-elf uses his special talents to fight evil wherever it exists. Rogue vampires, shapeshifters, zombies, practitioners of black magic, poltergeists, ghosts—none of them can beat him. That is until someone or something no longer plays by the rules. There’s a new villain in New Orleans, one who threatens both the humans and non-humans who make the city home. Is the enemy Draug, the wizard who murdered Ellie’s mother centuries ago? Is it someone from Steve’s shrouded past intent on revenge? Or are they facing a new enemy with an agenda all his or her own? As the tigress and her partner search for answers, trying to prevent the bodies from piling up, they have to manage conflicting emotions and desires that threaten to overwhelm them. Can two such different creatures of the light join forces to defeat the darkness, or will the powers of evil triumph?
Welcome back. We’re one month into spring in the Northern Hemisphere. I hope Mother nature is treating you well.
Today’s cocktail is brought to you by the letter R. There are many great drinks that start with the letter R, but I’ve chosen a simple one. The Rob Roy is similar to the Manhattan but is made with scotch.
According to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel’s history, the drink was inspired by an 1890’s operetta loosely based on the life of the Scottish folk hero, Rob Roy MacGregor while the show was running. I am a big fan of historical movies like Ben Hur, Hawaii, BraveheartCleopatra and The Last of the Mohicans. One of my favorites is Rob Roy, starring Liam Neeson.
Who doesn’t appreciate the beauty of the highlands?
Hello again. We really do need to keep meeting like this, so I hope you’ll continue to follow the blog long after April is over.
When I decided on the theme for this year, I was afraid I might have trouble with some of the more different letter, like Q, but believe it or not, Q was an easy one, and it’s given me some fantastic story ideas.
As a Canadian, I’ve always enjoyed our rye whisky whether on the rocks or with mix. I have a bottle of maple rye that’s to die for.
Unfortunately, like a few of the previous cocktails, this isn’t one I can try myself since I’m allergic to nuts and chocolate, but it does sound yummy.
Make It Yours
Ingredients
½ ounce Canadian whisky ½ ounce Irish cream liqueur 1½ ounces coffee flavored liqueur 2 ounces chocolate milk Ice
Mix It
In a cocktail shaker filled with ice, combine all ingredients. Shake until chilled. Pour into an old fashioned glass and add an ice cube.
Enjoy!
Come back tomorrow for a peek at what you’ll get from the letter R.
Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales, the weekly blog where a select group of writers share a scene from their work in progress with you. This week, our word prompt is HURRY. I’m continuing with The White Dahlia. The story is moving right along at a much quicker pace. Enjoy.
The sooner she got home, the better.
“Beth! … Beth Reynolds! … Detective Sergeant Reynolds, I know you can hear me! What’s your hurry?”
For the second time in as many days, Beth turned her head at the sound of Jack Ogden’s despised voice. He was running toward her. In this heat, he was sweating like a chunky kid chasing an ice cream truck.
“Who’s that?” Al asked.
“That is the infamous Jack Ogden, the pariah who wrote the story about the body yesterday. He looks like crap. No doubt burning the candle at both ends, with too many women, fast food, and booze,” she answered, unable to quash her bitterness.
And if he got close enough, he might smell her latest cologne, knowing damn well she’d discovered another body. But that’s all he would get out of her. The uniformed officer stepped in front of him, blocking his access to her.
“That’s far enough, sir.”
Jack poked his head around the man.
“Beth. Either you speak to me, or I’ll shout out my questions for everyone to hear.”
She turned toward the journalist, knowing that if she didn’t, he would make good on his threat.
“What do you want, Jack? I was about to have dinner but seeing you just turned my stomach.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure it wasn’t something in there that did that for you? Why are you here? Is it because of the explosion? You aren’t with the bomb squad anymore, so there has to be more to it.”
“No comment,” she ground out through clenched teeth.
“The Commissioner said a van exploded. Would it by any chance be the van the police have been looking for, the dark van seen in the alley on Thursday night?”
How the hell did he know that? They’d kept the search under the radar, and yet slimy here knew all about it. Who’d he speak to?
Jack narrowed his eyes. Her hesitation was all the answer he needed.
“So it is the same van.”
“No comment,” she spit the words at him, barely able to control her fury.
Jack turned from her to Al.
“Detective Foster. The woman who died Thursday night was one of your missing persons, and here you are again this evening. Why is that? Does this have something to do with her? Care to add anything?”
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales
Living the Dream 