All Done With It
- Publisher: Camel Press
- Series: Dreamwalker Mystery Series , Book 7
- Release Date: August 11, 2020
- Genre: Paranormal Cozy Mystery
- Available Formats: eBook and Print
- Digital: coming soon
A Jane Doe jogger homicide near the swamp mystifies Dreamwalker Baxley Powell. The petite woman carried no ID, and no one recognizes her. Worse, a shadow passes from the body to a deputy, rendering him unconscious. The deputy and the corpse are dispatched to the hospital and morgue, respectively.
With summer heat and pending childbirth on her mind, Baxley’s dreamwalks into the spirit world fail to yield leads, frustrating Baxley and her deputy husband, Native American Sam Mayes. Days later, Jane Doe’s description matches a missing Mississippi woman. Turns out, her new husband is missing too. Jane’s sketchy brother-in-law and her aunt arrive, full of secrets. At Jane’s campsite, the team encounters a terrifying anomaly, nullifying Baxley’s senses. With such danger present, they must protect their unborn child. No more dreamwalks will occur until Baxley gives birth.
When her friend Bubba Paxton vanishes, Baxley sights him in a mirror, trapped between worlds with other souls.
Meanwhile, the shadow invades other hosts, demanding to see Baxley. Mayes and Baxley ignore the shadow as they rescue Bubba, untangle the Jane Doe case, and handle missing persons reports.
To free the trapped people, Baxley must outwit a powerful foe. Can she stop this super villain before he steals her soul?
In this 7th Dreamwalker Mystery, female sleuth and psychic crime consultant Baxley Powell works a homicide case that leads straight to an evil force in the spirit world. The stakes? Her soul, her unborn child, and humanity’s freedom.
Awards & Accolades:
Books from this series have finaled in the Georgia Author of the Year Awards and have won Silver Falchion Awards.
Raindrops pooled in the dead woman’s bellybutton. Her bare midriff gleamed like burnished mahogany. The gray sports bra, running shorts, sneakers, and lean physique suggested she liked to run. Tight curls framed her face like a dark orb, and her amber eyes stared vacantly at the sky.
Definitely a young adult, possibly late twenties like me. I’m Baxley Powell Mayes, Dreamwalker and relatively new crime consultant for the Sinclair County sheriff’s office. My extrasensory talents focus on communicating with the dead and helping the living. I’m also good at observing crime scenes such as this one on Henderson Road in Sinclair County, Georgia.
With the midday thundershower topping off the already high water table in the nearby swamp, the weedy lawn oozed water where I stepped. I leaned forward over my very pregnant belly to study the abrasion near her elbow. It looked fresh. I stepped back from the body and waited for my crime consultant assignment.
“The parcel delivery guy called this one in,” Sheriff Wayne Thompson said, emerging from his Jeep and striding our way.
My boss still bore the muscular carriage of an athlete from his high school quarterback glory days and the arrogance to match. Though he wasn’t the easiest person to work for, I respected his authority.
“Lucky for us, the rain stopped by the time we arrived.” Wayne gestured at the body. “Mayes, give me your perspective of the victim.”
My husband, Deputy Sam Mayes, stood beside me in his khaki uniform, his Cherokee heritage evident in his high cheekbones, striking long black hair, and dark brown eyes. Like me, he was a Dreamwalker, though he had hidden depths I had yet to fathom.
He was also my second husband, my first having disappeared during his military service a few years ago. Last fall, Mayes helped me locate my missing husband’s consciousness in a tween place, and together we eased his concerns and showed him how to enter the afterlife. Even so, it took me a while to accept Mayes as a fixture in my life. I’d had doubts about the wisdom of a long distance relationship since he had a job and tribal responsibilities in north Georgia. He’d been certain I was the one for him. Needless to say, he’d won me over, and we were happily married and living in my coastal Georgia home.
Mayes moved forward, stepping where I’d stepped in the unkept grass. “African American female, about five seven and one-twenty pounds. No ID in sight. No bullet or stab wounds mar her skin. The narrow abrasion circling her neck and the pinpoint red spots in her eyes suggest strangulation as the means of death. All signs point to a homicide.”
“That’s what I thought,” the sheriff said. “Bax, you got anything to add?”