G-2


Series: The Guardian of Earth, Book 2
Publisher: Muddle House Publishing
Release Date: Sept. 22, 2015
Genre: Science Fiction
Available Formats: eBook and Print
Digital: 9780983361497
Hardcover: 978099677606

The Maleem are coming.

Brand new Guardian of Earth Dr. Zeke Landry is just learning the ropes when his extraterrestrial warning system sounds. Merciless invaders are on their way to 2065 Earth. With no tangible proof, Zeke is powerless to warn anyone until the space ships arrive. First Contact has finally happened, and the aliens are tall and green.

The Maleem say they come in peace and want to explore trade opportunities. World leaders salivate at the chance for interstellar markets. As the Maleem tour the planet, countries welcome them with open arms and try to curry favor.

Meanwhile, pop star Queen Bea and her sister are stranded in Japan, diverting Zeke and his android’s attention. Bea sings her pop hit “Little Green Men,” during a friend’s concert, and the Maleem show up for the performance. Afterward, the Maleem hand out jeweled necklaces to key leaders, enslaving them and beginning a reign of terror and annihilation.

When Zeke is enslaved by the Maleem, all looks bleak for humanity. Outgunned, outmaneuvered, and outfoxed, citizens of Earth are doomed, unless someone helps them. Can Zeke rally and save the world a second time?

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© Copyright 2014 – Maggie Toussaint

Shadows flickered in the darkness, black on black, Zeke’s mental gaze keenly attuned to the dark nuances. Frissons of dread peppered his thoughts, rattling his senses. He floated in the timeless void of space. Cold. Alone. Afraid.

Without warning, a line drive of thought energy socked him. He struggled to hold the link. The vermillion-tinged darkness reminded him of primordial ooze from which there was no escape. Was his planet destined to go the way of the dinosaurs?

Several voices spoke in uneasy unison, adding to Zeke’s disembodied sense.

We have not been successful in dealing with Maleem. They take. They do not negotiate. They do not compromise.

His spirits plummeted. There had to be a way. He couldn’t give up on his planet without a fight. Someone, somewhere must have beaten the Maleem before. Earth needed to build on that success.

He fired a query across the vacuum of space. Wait! What about those few stragglers on Drigil Eight? How did they survive?

The link hummed with energy. It buzzed bright in his head as if hundreds spoke at once. Zeke allowed himself to hope. All wasn’t lost. It couldn’t be. More than seven billion people lived on Earth. So many innocent lives at stake.

We have sent a query, young Zeke. We will advise you in due time.

Bubba Done It

Which Bubba killed the banker?

Amateur sleuth and dreamwalker Baxley Powell is called in on a stabbing case. She arrives in time to hear the dying man whisper, “Bubba done it.”

Four men named Bubba in Sinclair County, Ga., have close ties to the victim, including her goofball brother-in-law, Bubba Powell.

She dreamwalks for answers, but the dead guy can’t talk to her. Baxley sleuths among the living. The suspects include a down-on-his-luck fisherman, a crackhead evangelist, a politically-connected investor, and her brother-in-law, the former sweetheart of the new widow.

The more Baxley digs, the more the Bubbas start to unravel. Worse, her brother-in-law’s definitely more than friendly with the new widow.

Between pet-sitting, landscaping, and dreamwalking, Baxley’s got her hands full solving this case.

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© Copyright 2012 – Maggie Toussaint

Gradually my surroundings took on corporeal form. The solid seat beneath me. The mechanical whir of the Jeep’s engine. The zebra-striped slices of sunlight across the lawn of Sparrow’s Point.

Sparrow’s Point.

I was at Morgan Gilroy’s house. The banker had called for help, said he’d been stabbed. Urgency filled me, burning like acid indigestion, and propelled me out of the Jeep.

I had to see Morgan.

It couldn’t wait another minute.

I gained the porch, then the front door, which the sheriff had left open. My eyes strained to see in the dark corridor. The hallway spun. I gasped in a breath, and gravity reasserted itself.

So did reason.

Was the intruder still here?

I needed to find the sheriff fast.

I squinted into the gloomy corridor and took stock. Plastered walls. Wide planked wooden floors. An antique marble-topped buffet with a seashell display was to my left. A large conch shell caught my eye. I palmed it, liking the pointy edges and the smooth texture. If I stumbled upon a bad guy, I could whomp him with the seashell.

Every fine hair on my body stood on end. Energy arced from one raw ending to the next, urging me to fight or run far away. Dread mounted with each step.

I heard the sheriff’s voice down the hall. He murmured something in a reassuring tone. I followed the sound, my eyes darting from the blue and gold carpet runner to the shadowed rooms I passed. My fingers tightened around the shell.

Almost there.

I gained the doorway to what appeared to be a library. My gaze swept the paneled bookshelves lining two plaster walls, the carved desk and empty chair across the room, and the dark stain on the Oriental carpet. Morgan lay face up in the center of the stain. A gasp slipped from my lips.

“I told you to stay outside.” Wayne kneeled beside the banker. “I haven’t cleared the house.”

I lifted my eyes to the sheriff’s familiar rough-hewn features. Below his receding hairline were a handsome face and a trim, athletic body. If I kept looking at Wayne, I wouldn’t see the knife planted in Morgan’s chest or the bloody shirt. I edged toward a bookshelf, putting distance between me and the threshold. “I had to come.”

“This is a crime scene. You can’t be in here.” His dark gaze narrowed. “What’s that in your hand?”

“A conch shell.”

He swore. “Put it down. Don’t touch anything.”

I clung to the shell and nodded toward the banker. “Is he dead?”

“Not quite.”

No wonder I couldn’t find him in the spirit world. He was still here.

The banker wasn’t a close friend, but he had a teenaged daughter. She’d be devastated at losing him, just as my daughter had been when her father was officially declared dead.

What else did I know about Morgan? Twenty years ago he’d swooped into town, flashing cash and buying property. Last year he’d sniffed after my fixer-upper. I needed money something fierce, but I wouldn’t part with my inheritance for pennies on the dollar. I’d told him where to shove his lowball offer.

Stop that, I told myself.

Be respectful.

You’re in Morgan’s home.

He’s dying.

Morgan made a gurgling noise in his throat, rasping in a breath. This was the moment of death I hated most, the liminal moment when spirits slipped through the veil. I steeled myself for Morgan’s passing, not wanting to watch, yet unable to tear my gaze away.

The breath wheezed out of him. Impossibly, his dulled eyes sought mine. I edged closer, my hand fisting over the pointy edges of the seashell. Slashes in his white shirt oozed thick crimson.

Blood.

I shuddered and breathed around the metallic smell.

Another inhalation from the dying man. Morgan’s chin wobbled. A raspy whisper slipped out on his final exhale. “Bubba done it.”

G-1


Series: Guardian of Earth , Book 1
Publisher: Muddle House Publishing
Release Date: May 6, 2017
Genre: Science Fiction
Available Formats: eBook and Print
Digital: 978-0-996770682
Hardcover: 978-0-983361480

Time is running out . . . for Zeke and the world.

Though plague, locusts, and earthquakes riddle 2065 Earth, Dr. Zeke Landry focuses on the world’s vanishing water supply. When his uncle disappears, Zeke abandons his hydrology research to find Uncle John. His efforts land him in deep trouble. The Chameleons, a secret society, believe Zeke has the keystone, an object of great power. This group has already murdered in its quest to find the keystone, so if Zeke can’t produce it, his hours are numbered. Time’s running out for Zeke … and the world.

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© Copyright 2017 – Maggie Toussaint

Footsteps stopped nearby. A shadow fell across Zeke’s body. He turned to gawk at the gigolo robot.

It grinned at him. “Sir, I believe you’re expecting me.”

Zeke blinked, aware that every person on the platform was watching him converse with an oversized sex toy. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else. Move along.”

“No mistake, unless you’re not Dr. Zeke Landry, super brain and ultra cool guy?” Zeke ignored the flattery. “I ordered a Bob. Not a Gary. Never a Gary.”

The A.I. unit cocked its head to the side like an inquisitive parrot. Genetically altered human skin and hair covered the artificial life form’s inner machine, which were maintained at a precise ninety-eight point six degrees. “Sir, my programming—”

Zeke’s hand shot up to silence the bronzed Adonis. He was not amused. Leaning in, he read the name inscribed in gold on the mandatory identification collar. “Forman. While I’m sure your programming is extensive, I’m not looking for a hookup. My request was for a laboratory unit to assist in my hydrology research. Catch the next tube back to Hollywood.”

Forman’s blue eyes widened and his head bobbed back, a perfect mimic of human disbelief. “Sir, I can explain—”

“Not interested. Excuse me.” The hovercraft would dock any minute now, and Zeke’s com link wouldn’t work in transit to Tama Island. Turning his back on the robot, Zeke hailed Supply Central on his wrist com. After being routed through six automatic menus, he reached an interactive prompt. “This is Dr. Zeke Landry.” He sucked in a breath, and fury flowed out on the exhale. “You have a big problem. You shipped me the wrong unit.”

“Sorry for the error, sir,” the androgynous voice soothed. “Do you have your authorization number?”

“No, I do not have my authorization number. I’m standing on a pier notifying you of your screw-up. I need it corrected immediately.”

“One moment while I query requisitions.” The silky voice returned. “Sir, we were unable to fill your request, and due to your Level Five priority, shipped you an alternate unit. You are dissatisfied with the Forman?”

The leaden clouds offshore and the changing barometric pressure aggravated his headache. “You sent me a mechanized gigolo. I need a research assistant. Where’s the Bob robot I requested?”

“We show a two-month backlog on the Bobs. Rest assured we will fulfill your request when possible. Our inventory will replenish once the World Collective approves the Ginright circuitry modules. Unlike the defective Bobs, Forman has been extensively mapped and shows no killer tendencies.”

Did they think their standard reply would placate him? Zeke’s voice sharpened. “Two months? Hell, I waited a month for the boy toy you sent. I have critical deadlines to meet. Besides, this killer robot myth is a giant hoax.”

“Your request is in the system, Dr. Landry,” the voice soothed again. “In the interim, the Forman unit will assist you.” “Christ.”

He broke the com connection. Across the lush fields of cord grass, a gleaming white hovercraft approached the wharf. The ferry would dock soon. He needed time to assess the situation. He had none. His sponsors pushed hard for conclusive results. Even with his three-hour sleep pattern, he couldn’t finish the global hydrology computations before the International Water Summit.

His uncle had promised skilled help. And now this sex toy had been assigned to him. An unusual error for Uncle John. Zeke turned to study the robot. No way this pectoral wonder in a vivid pink shirt dotted with white palm trees knew a thing about science.

As Zeke watched, the unit gave two passing women the once over. An athletic male got the same treatment. He was so screwed. The publish or perish mentality ruled the research field. Once he missed his deadline, his sponsors would bail. Then what? Back to making his living as a fisherman in the dying sea?

He had a few minutes. Better make good use of them. He crossed to Forman. “Is light a particle or a wave?”

“Ah, good one, doc,” Forman said. “Start me off with an easy chicken or the egg question. As it happens, I know the answer to this. Both. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.”

“I don’t smoke. And neither should anyone. It’s bad for health and longevity. Not to mention illegal unless prescribed for medical reasons.”

“Right. Medical reasons.” Zeke ignored the flirty wink that came his way, intent on his line of questioning. “Do rapidly shifting tectonic plates cause stronger earthquakes?”

“Yes, they do, though it depends on the fault.”

Zeke felt a spark of hope. This robot’s looks weren’t his only asset. “What common contaminant in underground water poisoned Florida’s bay in the 1990s?”

“That would be phosphorus. Any more questions, Dr. Geek, or do you want us to continue working on our tans on this quaint wharf?”

“I don’t appreciate your sense of humor.” “That’s because you don’t have one.”

“So I’ve been told.” Zeke managed a wry smile. “What are you? You look like a Gary but you sound like a Bob.”

“I’m a prototype for robotic units. Every time there’s a demand for a new A.I., they muck with my programming.” Forman grinned. “Right now I’m in full nerd mode, but I can score us some action in a nanosecond. What do you think about the hottie blonde and the even hotter dark-skinned vixen with the beaded braids by the ticketing kiosk?”

Zeke’s gaze shot over to the women in native orange robes. His second cousin and her mainland friend with a shrill voice. “God, no.”

“Don’t like girls? Got it. What about those two deckhands over there? They look like a ton of fun.”

His throat tightened. “No action of any kind. I have work to do.” Forman blanched. “No wonder your sense of humor is gone. A guy needs action. Too much congestion down there rots your brain.”

“My brain is fine.” A facial muscle twitched, and he clamped his hand on top of it. “If I decide to accept your help, and that’s a big if, you have to tone it down several notches. We keep a low profile, understood?”

Forman leaned closer and spoke confidentially behind his hand. “So I’m in like Flynn?”

Zeke looked away. An ocean breeze swept across the ferry landing. The warm, salt air bathed him with a sense of the inevitable, much like the landward march of seawater. With every inch the sea took, the water came closer to human structures and drowned the salt marsh that fed the bottom of the food chain.

The island hovercraft docked, and two dozen travelers spilled onto the platform. About half of them wore the traditional orange garb of island folk. Strangely, many faces were unfamiliar to him. He had to make a decision about the robot. If he refused the A.I., he’d be back where he started, doing the work of three men. That wouldn’t get the job done in time. He needed help.

With a sigh, he resigned himself to the inevitable. “We’ll try this for a few days,” he said. “Nothing permanent, mind you. This is a trial basis.”

“Cool.” Forman puffed out his chest. “I’ve never been on an island before.”

“We’ll be working around the clock. This is no R&R gig.”

“Dr. Z, you said gig! There’s some fun in you after all.”

Zeke sighed. “What are your recharge requirements?”

“I’m functional around the clock, but a daily one-hour rest cycle is optimal for my operating system.” “Got it. Let’s go.”

“Wait. What about my bags?”

“Bags? You’re an A.I. unit for Pete’s sake. You have luggage?”

Forman pointed to the tower of brightly colored suitcases stacked by the loading dock. “Wardrobe is essential, and I knew there were no clothing outlets on the island.”

“True. But you won’t need more than a change of clothes, if that.”

Forman drew himself up to his full height, two inches taller than Zeke. “My bags travel with me, or I don’t go.”

Zeke swore under his breath. He flashed back to an argument he’d overheard between his parents many years ago regarding his accelerated education. After days of arguing, his father had allowed tutors for Zeke in their island home. He’d said he’d it was important to know which battles to fight.

Zeke applied that lesson to the A.I.’s luggage. “Knock yourself out.”

Forman beamed and hugged Zeke. “I knew you’d come around. We’ll be a great team.”

Zeke quickly disentangled himself, hearing the chortles from others on the platform. “No hugging.”

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Rough Waters


Series: Mossy Bog
Publisher: Muddle House Publishing
Release Date: Aug 29, 2014, first edition; second edition March 5, 2019
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Available Formats: eBook
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Former Navy SEAL Rock Mackenzie must recover the stolen gold sovereigns. Time is running out on the loan repayment for his treasure hunt and unless he finds the coins, he will forfeit a family heirloom and all hope of finding the sunken ship carrying the rest of the gold.

Pink-haired florist Jeanie Munro learned responsibility the hard way after her ex-husband abandoned her and their two children. Once a wild child with a heart for adventure, Jeanie finds herself falling for yet another bad boy dreamer—until thieves ransack her shop and home and Rock reveals her ex is to blame for her troubles.

In return for his protection, Jeanie agrees to help search for the missing coins. Will their thirst for adventure get them killed, or will they discover the true meaning of treasure before it’s too late?

Book 3 in Maggie Toussaint’s Mossy Bog Romantic Suspense series pairs brains and brawn in a race against time. For fans of Jayne Ann Krentz, Sandra Brown, and Karen Harper.

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© Copyright 2014 – Maggie Toussaint
“You know something, don’t you?”

He was quiet so long the hair on the back of her neck snapped to attention.

“I might,” he said.

“Tell me.”

He set his mug in the sink. “I know Avery.”

Jeanie blinked. Her blood iced. She tried a deep breath and choked on it. “You’re friends?”

“I met him in North Carolina. He told me about Mossy Bog.”

“This is about my ex-husband?” She straightened. Light glinted on the tin roof of the potting shed. The strength of the beam warmed the frost in her bones. She wasn’t sinking down to that dark place again. She wouldn’t let Avery crush her a second time. “Does he owe you money? ʼCause if he does, I’m not paying it. The bank of Jeanie is officially closed.”

Rock’s silence spoke volumes. “Oh, God. He does owe you. I’m sick and tired of this crap. Avery owes me so much it’s ridiculous. And child support. Don’t even get me started on child support. I refuse to pay another red cent of his bills. If you loaned him money, kiss it goodbye.”

Rock didn’t say anything.

Cuss words roiled in her craw like crabs in the cook pot. Jeanie glanced at the sling supporting Rock’s left arm. A horrible possibility occurred to her, a possibility so scary her vision whited out. She hung onto the kitchen counter until shapes and colors came back into view.

“Jeanie? You okay?”

If she wasn’t, she wasn’t going to let him know it. She’d learned to stand on her own two feet after Avery left. “Tell me this isn’t about your accident.”

“I can’t.”

Her knees sagged. A needle of betrayal stabbed her heart. Damn you, Avery. How many lives do you have to ruin? It wasn’t enough that you threw away me and the kids? You had to go and maim a perfect stranger?

The room began to spin. It floated in and out of focus.

Rock’s hand rested on her shoulder. “Sit,” he said. “Sit down before you pass out.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ve had paramedic training. I know the signs. Please sit.”

Not wanting to embarrass herself further by fainting, she complied. After a few deep breaths, she braced for the bad news. “I’m all right. Tell me the whole story.”

He seemed to be holding onto the tall back of a chair. “Avery worked at Bayside Marina where I docked my charter boat. He asked a lot of questions about my charters.”

“He liked being in the know.”

The harsh planes of Rock’s beard-stubbled face tightened at that. The pink scar on his left cheek darkened. This really was about Avery.

“What happened to you?”

“My boat exploded.”

“Your boating accident? Where you got hurt?”

“I wasn’t the only one on the boat. The bomb killed my partner. I was lucky enough to be thrown free.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’re saying Avery murdered someone?”

Gone and Done It


Series: Dreamwalker Series, Book 1
Publisher: Muddle House Publishing
Release Date: October 2017
Genre: Paranormal Mystery
Available Formats: eBook and Print
Hardcover: 9780996770699
While planting a cherry tree, landscaper and pet sitter Baxley Powell digs up a skull. As she waits for the cops, she dreamwalks to identify the victim. Once her findings prove helpful, the sheriff agrees to pay her for consulting, if she closes cases.

A widow and single mom, Baxley needs this consulting gig. Her in-laws want custody of her daughter, so she has to be self-sufficient.

Complications arise when a fresh body is found on Baxley’s jobsite, planting her in the suspect pool. Concurrently, her father steps down as county dreamwalker, passing the honor to her. Some honor. People need help, and she barely knows what to do.

With a killer dogging her heels and spirits nipping at her mind, Baxley follows her dreams.

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© Copyright 2014 & 2017 – Maggie Toussaint

Chapter 1

 My shovel bounced off a monster root. Tremors vibrated up my aching arms, jolting my knotted shoulders. I swore under my breath. Just my luck. The last installation for this landscaping job, and now I’d hit the mother lode of obstructions.

I leaned on the shovel and wiped my brow on my sleeve. Planting this weeping cherry should have been an easy installation. Should. What a crock. Should implied a promise, but it was an outright lie.

God, I was so tired of pretending everything was fine. Between bureaucratic red tape, enhanced sensory perceptions, and the odd jobs I worked, I felt decades older than my twenty-eight years.

Mosquitoes swarmed my neck and hands, feasting on the unexpected banquet named Baxley Powell. Sweat trickled down from the brim of my ball cap. Not a hint of a sea breeze reached this forested clearing off Misery Road. Instead, the air smelled of pine and decaying leaves, of dancing sunshine and brooding shadows.

At the rumble of an approaching diesel, the birds overhead quieted. Carolina Byrd’s builder and realtor had been troubleshooting the faulty exterior lighting at her new mansion, Mallow, which graced the other end of this winding driveway. Automatically, I checked that my mental shields were in place.

I didn’t want any psychic readings off these bozos.

“Hey, pretty lady.” Realtor Buster Glassman leaned out of the driver’s window, right overtop the blood-red Glassman Realty logo. “Whatcha up to?” Behind him, builder Duke Quigley bobbed his shiny head in greeting.

I groaned under my breath. Buster could talk the ears off a toadfish if he wanted something. I didn’t have time to waste on idle gossip.

“Digging a hole.” I jerked a thumb toward the shallow hole. “I’m all done once this weeping cherry is in.”

“Beats me why the boss would want anything that cried.” Buster grinned, laying on the charm.

Annoyed, I explained, using small words. “It doesn’t actually weep. The leaves spill down instead of reaching up. Carolina loves the pink blossoms.”

“You know that, dummy.” Duke joined the conversation and punched his pal’s shoulder. “Your mama has a weeping willow in her yard.”

Buster bolted from the truck, rubbing his bicep. “Yeouch. I was gonna dig the hole for the little lady, but you’ll do it now that you smashed my arm.”

Duke followed Buster. The men tromped up to the hole, their waffle-tread soles leaving deep impressions in the sandy soil. “Got some trouble there, don’tcha?” Buster said.

The idea of help with the root extraction gleamed like a shiny Christmas package. But there’d be a catch. There always was a catch. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Buster studied me. “That why you leaning so heavy on that shovel?”

“You got a chainsaw in there?” Duke nodded toward my vintage truck.

I wish. “Forgot it this morning.”

His sigh was worthy of Scarlett O’Hara. “Bummer. What else you got?”

“My axe.” That should send the slackers running for leather seats, surround sound, and air conditioning.

Duke tsked. “Man, that’s old school. Too bad we don’t have a generator out here still. I could use my power tools.”

Trust a man to think that a power tool solved all problems. “Nope. It’s just me and the bugs out here. No electricity. No generator.”

“I’ll get the axe.” Duke’s chest puffed out, and he strode toward the truck.

Man, I did not want to owe Duke a favor. I stepped forward. “Really, I can do it.”

Buster tapped my arm. “Let Dairy Queen fix your problem. Besides, I wanna talk to you about something. I heard you figured out Maisie Ryals held up the liquor store. I bet you got your daddy’s woo-woo stuff going on in that pretty head of yours.”

My simmering irritation amped to a rolling boil. Buster’s good old boy nickname for Duke Quigley reinforced that I was an outsider here. Was it any wonder I was protective about the very thing that set me apart from others?

“Um.” My lips compressed, sealing in further words. I didn’t talk about my extrasensory talent with near strangers.

The thud of metal on wood filled the air. Buster steered me away from the manual labor. “I would consider it a personal favor if you could help me out with some picks.”

The hair on the nape of my neck snapped to attention. “Picks?”

He lifted one shoulder with a negligent ease. “I do a little online betting. I figure you could help me up my winning percentage.”

Even though I was shielded, there was a violent rumble in my senses. I knew trouble when I heard it. My ability to predict a person’s truthfulness was darned near one-hundred percent, except when the person believed his lie.

Buster’s voice changed timbre when he spoke about gambling. It became thinner, less resonant. He had a whiff of desperation about him, too.

Interesting.

Why was he lying to me?

My ponytail waggled from side to side as I shook my head. “I don’t do that.”

His fake smile ramped up a bit. “What could it hurt? I’ll show you the ropes, teach you how to place the bets, and the next time you can keep the winnings for yourself.”

I frowned. “Even if I could see the future, I wouldn’t gamble.”

His dimples faded. “Tell you what. You get back to me on this.” He pulled out a golden case from his shirt pocket and extracted a crisp business card. “Call me after you think it over. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I’ve got the system down pat. You’ve got the woo-woo vision. It’s a match made in heaven.”

It was easier to take the card than to argue with him. I peeled off my leather work gloves to pocket the card. The thudding stopped. I glanced over my shoulder at Duke. He dropped the axe and hefted his battered trophy skyward. The root chunk was fatter than my thigh. I’d’ve been here for hours chopping that out. “Thanks.” I meant it.

When the men left, I sighed in relief and lowered my mental shields. The sky seemed bluer, the breeze fresher, the greenery more vibrant. Birds called to one another from the forested canopy, filling the air with lovely trills and chirps. What a beautiful January afternoon.

My energy surged.

There was no one else at Mallow, no inhabited property for a couple of miles. I could relax. I rolled my tight shoulders in large circles, easing the tension.

The landscaped beds I’d installed this past week near Mallow had been darned near effortless because Duke had bulldozed the soil near Tara South, as I’d dubbed the fake tabby mansion. A century ago, tabby buildings were layered with a lime, sand, shell, and water mixture inches at a time and were thick walled. Solid, too. Today’s tabby was a concrete block wall with a veneer of shell-spattered concrete. Nothing says classy and grand in my book like concrete block. Might as well roll in a whole fleet of rusty mobile homes, too.

I snorted at the thought.

Carolina Byrd would have a conniption if trashy trailers were located near her highbrow Mallow Plantation. She’d pointed out the place name in a local history book. A worthy name for her fancy estate with a grand entrance. She’d selected this weeping cherry for the entry because the pink blossoms complemented her sign’s blue background and fancy gold lettering.

I thought the gilded sign was tacky, ostentatious, and a dangerous lure for thieves. She might as well have put up a flashing neon sign that said “Rob me.” I hoped the crackheads and ne’er-do-wells left her and her special-needs child alone.

Not my problem.

Last month a former client had referred Carolina Byrd, of Macon, to Pets and Plants, and I’d been grateful for the work. I’d suggested native plants to Carolina and then I’d agreed to install the high-maintenance stock she wanted. The client was always right.

Dropping to my knees, I widened the bottom of the hole with a smaller spade. When the hole was large enough for the cherry tree’s root base, I’d lime the soil to neutralize the acidity to suit the cherry. Another reason I wouldn’t have chosen this plant to go in next to pine trees.

I was making good progress, opening the hole and deepening it when my shovel glanced off a hard object.

Something rock-like.

In coastal Georgia, we had few rocks. Granted, an early settler might have placed a rock here, but what were the odds of me digging it up? No rocks had been unearthed near the big house, and they’d pushed mounds of dirt around, evening up the land, filling a natural swale where Carolina wanted the house sited.

I could pry the rock out of there. But there was something about the distinctive gray color that riveted me. Something barely detectable on a sensory level. Unease rolled through my gut, weighing me down, making it hard to breathe.

Should I touch the object?

Whatever it was, the energy coming from it was minimal. Was it plant matter from the roots I’d exhumed? Possibly. But I doubted that explanation.

More likely, it was a gray rock I’d found. Rocks had found their way to the Georgia coast as ship ballast during Colonial times. This could be a ballast rock.

Despite my logic, my unease mounted. After learning the hard way to trust my instincts, I respected them. Something about this hidden object tripped all my senses.

I could call someone. But who? And what would I say? I dug up a rock and it might be important? Who would believe that I was scared to touch a rock?

Get a grip, Baxley. It’s probably just a rock. I fetched my new trowel and knelt beside the hole. I held my gloved hands about a foot over the object and concentrated, hoping that the closer proximity would give a stronger signal.

No change.

Only a faint wisp of energy.

Self-preservation wouldn’t let me dig unshielded. I fortified my senses with sturdy imagery and moved sandy soil away from the object, bit by bit. With each pass of the trowel, my nerves pinged.

The exposed shape was rounded like a summer melon. It didn’t resemble a polished rock. The smooth texture seemed bony.

I shivered. Was this the remains of something or someone? A lump formed in my throat. Let it be an animal, I wished silently. Let it be something other than human remains.

I lowered down on my belly and brushed away the remaining dirt with my gloved fingers. Stroke by stroke until the empty orbs of twin eye sockets stared back up at me.

There was no mistaking the species.

I’d found a human skull.

 

Sand Dollar Secrets

Sand Dollar Secrets

Also available as a podcast through King’s River Life and read by actress Leigh Ratliff.  Click HERE  for podcast.

Shadows edged the lacy moonlight on the crushed shell path. A strong ocean breeze rustled through palmettos with enough bite to make me wish I’d worn more than a shawl over my sundress. My golf pro boyfriend, Rafe Golden strode beside me, our fingers intertwined, but even that direct link didn’t bridge the distance which had settled between us.

This afternoon he’d surprised me by flying us to an island off the coast of Georgia for a weekend getaway. Who knew he could pilot a plane? And where’d the plane come from? He’d shrugged off my inquiry with “I know some people.”

You’d think it would be heaven because we were finally alone. There were no kids, no mama, no St. Bernard with insecurity issues. Just the two of us. But it wasn’t wonderful, at least for me.

My name is Cleopatra Jones, and I’m an accountant in Maryland. This summer I started dating again, finally getting past my messy divorce, and I’d thought Rafe might be my Mr. Right. My heart said yes but my head said no way. I sighed out my confusion.

Our steps echoed on the wooden stairs of our coastal cottage. Even in this faint light, I sensed something was different. As the hairs on the nape of my neck snapped to attention, I noticed the front porch looked bare. Why? The rocking chairs and hanging baskets of ferns were there. A glance at the front door confirmed what my intuition knew. “Ledbetter’s missing.” The wooden sea captain statue had been guarding the door when we left for dinner.

“He can’t have gone far.” Rafe’s white teeth flashed in the darkness. “Not with two wooden legs.”

An owl hooted in the nearby woods. I prowled the length of the porch, my pulse jumping. “We’re responsible for your cousin’s place while her son’s in Atlanta. We should call the police.”

With a groan, Rafe leaned against the porch rail. “No one expects you to solve crimes here. You’re off-duty from sleuthing. This weekend is about us.”

Torn, I stopped a few feet away from him. “We should report the theft.”

“Cleo—” He held onto the last vowel of my name.

“At least phone your cousin and tell her the statue is gone.”

Rafe shrugged and made the call. “I’m getting her voice mail.”

“Leave her a message.”

“You’ll abide by her decision?”

I nodded.

“I’m holding you to that promise.” Rafe left a message and pocketed his phone. He walked toward me, drew me into his arms. “I’ve got my own mystery to solve.”

“Oh?” My pulse quickened at the sensual charge in the night air. Sensible concerns faded. This man had a power over me I didn’t understand.

“I’ve been wondering all evening how this spot on your neck would taste in this salt air.”

A tiny voice said I should make a stand. A louder voice shouted how much fun we were going to have. I summoned my best come-hither smile. “Go for it, big guy.”

* * * * *

Kaitlyn called back on Saturday morning while we enjoyed a late breakfast on the terrace. Rafe switched the phone to speaker mode, and I listened intently, my fingers gripping a china coffee cup. Overhead, birds trilled in the oak canopy.

“Your guy is missing,” Rafe began.

His cousin chuckled. “Honey, my guy has been missing for years. If he doesn’t find me soon, it’s gonna be too late. But enough about me. You called about Ledbetter. I’m worried about him.” She was silent for a beat. “He’s a broken man.”

Rafe laughed aloud. “Kidding aside, what should we do? Cleo wants to call the cops.”

“Not much point in doing that,” Kaitlyn said. “Ledbetter is a party animal, thanks to my youngest son.”
Intrigued, I leaned forward. “This happened before?”

“Yeah. The cops write up a report, but Ledbetter wanders home eventually.”

“Who took him?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” Kaitlyn chuckled. “There’s probably a class reunion of twenty-somethings, and they’ve come by for Ledbetter.”

Shafts of sunlight dotted the shaded lawn. “You said the statue was broken. How did it happen?”

“Robbie had Ledbetter extending out of his moon roof, and he stopped short. Ledbetter broke at the waist. Good thing I didn’t get him reglued yet because Robbie dropped him again on Wednesday. Claims he was distracted by a girl jogging by. Broke the poor guy’s wooden nose.”

I nodded, remembering the lighter area on his carved face. “We shouldn’t worry about the statue?”

“Nah,” Kaitlyn said. “He’ll turn up. Y’all relax and enjoy yourselves.”

Rafe shot me a gotcha look as he concluded the call.

Doing nothing wasn’t in my vocabulary. Granted this wasn’t life or death, but it was a puzzle I’d like to solve. “We could look for him on the island.”

He snorted. “Finding Ledbetter will be like finding a turtle egg in a shoreline of sand dunes.”

“Are you letting a couple of kids get the better of us?”

“Your kids get the better of us routinely. Charla invites her father over all the time, and Lexy wants you to date her tennis coach.”

“Wishful thinking on their part. They know I’m crazy about a certain golf pro.”

He covered my hand with his. “And I’m crazy about the sexiest accountant in Hogan’s Glen. What do you say to us hitting the beach before lunch? We could come back here and lounge by the pool in the afternoon.”

After dealing with the IRS for years, I knew a thing or two about stalled negotiations. “Sounds good, as long as we cruise the island on the way back.”

“Done.”

His gleaming eyes and disarming grin made me think I’d been outmaneuvered. What else did Rafe have up his sleeve?

* * * * *

We parked at the old Coast Guard station and strolled down to the beach. Billowy clouds sailed the crisp blue sky. Sandpipers chased the ebbing waves at the distant waterline. Higher up on the shore, sunbathers staked their claims on the sun-kissed beach.

Not far from the water’s edge, I found a perfect sand dollar. Cradling the treasure in my palm, I showed it to Rafe. “I never find these things in one piece. You’re my good luck charm. It’s so beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful. The sexiest woman on the beach.”

The old Cleo would have told Rafe thirty-five year women with teenaged daughters and crazy mamas weren’t sexy. The new Cleo smiled.

“You’re good for me,” I said.

He drew me close. “Feeling’s mutual. I could get used to this.”

Caution shivered through me at the tenderness in his voice. I’d trusted my heart before and when that trust shattered, so had my self-confidence. Each moment I spent with Rafe, I fell more in love with him.

If only he didn’t have so many secrets.

He wouldn’t talk about his family. Or the past. Or how he knew how to fly planes. Every time I probed, I hit a brick wall. If he wasn’t so reliable and such a great kisser, I’d walk away. A man’s secrets nearly killed me before. But, if I was being honest, I didn’t want to walk away.

As we returned to the parking lot, a flash of blue caught my eye. A familiar captain’s cap protruded from a passing convertible. I tapped Rafe on the arm. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Looks like Ledbetter to me.” His pace quickened. “Let’s follow that car.”

We hopped in the Jeep, but two families with rafts and small kids crossed in front of us. “Darn,” I said. “Where’d they go?”

We cruised Beach Drive and then followed Oceanview to Ibis. No sign of a blue convertible or a wooden statue. With that, we took King’s March to Fort Road and our island hideaway.

Rafe pulled into the driveway. “Sorry I lost him.”

I smiled at his regret-tinged voice. “Next time.”

“Fruit smoothies and lunch by the pool?”

“Sounds good.”

* * * * *

After a shrimp dinner and dancing at Clarice’s, we strolled along the breezy fishing pier. Rafe’s arm encircled my shoulder, and I leaned into him. This place was special. This man of mystery was special.

“Why did you pick me?” I asked. “Out of all the women at golf club, why me?”

“You’re nice.”

My good mood tanked. Nice was for cardigans and cuts of meat.

“You’re pretty,” he added.

An afterthought. Not that I was vain or anything. I sighed long and slow. At least he hadn’t said I was sexy.

“You’re sexy, too. But you know that.”

I gulped. Sexy was third in his list of why he dated me? It could be worse. He could have said convenient. Or desperate.

He halted and took my hand in his. “I have the feeling I’ve offended you.”

Moonlight shimmered on the ocean. Waves lapped at the pier supports. “I’m not good at this,” I hedged.“Sure you are. Nothing stops the intrepid Cleopatra Jones.”

“Seriously, I need to know. Why me?”

“I told you. You’re nice.”

I glared at him. To my horror, tears blurred my vision.

His thumb rubbed across the back of my hand. “Nice. You help people. You don’t put yourself first. You care about your friends. You know what’s important and stick with it.”

The sting washed out of nice. “Go on.”

“Nice because you don’t flaunt your beauty. Nice because you are so hot I melt inside each time I see you. Nice because I can’t stop thinking of you.”

Turning to study the dark sea, I nodded. “I’m liking nice.”

“Nice because when you look at me I feel like the most powerful man in the world. Nice because you’re the kind of woman I’ve always wanted. A woman who makes me feel at ease, who doesn’t play games, who doesn’t squeeze me like I’m some damned money machine.”

I shot him a sidelong glance. “You don’t think I’m nice like a cardigan or a hunk of roasted meat?”

He stilled. “No. Should I?”

“Never mind. Nice works for me.”

“My turn. Why’d you pick me?”

Uh oh. I could be honest. I should be honest. “Your hands.”

“Huh?”

I hastened to explain. “When you touch me, I light up inside. That’s never happened before.”

He ran his hand up my bare arm. “Very good answer.”

I shivered in anticipation of the pleasure his touch wrought. “You’re a caring person. You wouldn’t flaunt another woman right under my nose.”

“Never.”

He kissed me under the stars, to the gentle lapping of waves. Afterwards, we strolled slowly back to the Jeep. Mid-way there, Ledbetter cruised by in the blue convertible. His torso rested on the right rear seat, his upended feet were on the left side of the car. An athletic-looking blonde woman drove the car.

I pointed toward the disappearing vehicle. “There he is again.”

“He doesn’t appear any worse for wear, except for the two pieces thing,” Rafe said. “Want to chase them?”

“Nah. I’ve got other plans this evening. Plans that involve privacy.”

Rafe grinned. “Cool.”

* * * * *

We golfed at Sea Oaks on Sunday. I marveled at Rafe’s ease on the links, and his patience with my lousy game. As he drove us from tee to green, Rafe pointed out Ledbetter passing on a nearby road.

“That statue really gets around,” I said. “I think he has a nose again.”

“Every man needs a nose,” Rafe said. “Too bad our golf cart doesn’t have the power to catch a car.”

“No need. Ledbetter is having a fun outing.”

“He’s got excellent taste in chauffeurs.”

I glanced at him over the top of my sunglasses. “She’s a little young for you.”

“A lot young for me. Got a feeling she’s Robbie’s age.”

“A feeling, you say?”

“Hey, you’re good at mysteries. I’m good at women’s ages.”

“The missing statue isn’t much of a mystery, not that I’m disappointed.” I sized him up. “I’m having a great time.”

“You like the island?”

“Love it.”

* * * * *

The statue returned Sunday evening. I heard a thud on the porch as I zipped my suitcase. Sure enough, Ledbetter stood at his door-side post. A woman wiped his feet with a white cloth.

“Hello.” The buxom blonde brushed off her hands as she rose. Her tanned skin gleamed beneath a white tank, shorts and sneakers.

“You fixed him,” I said.

“It was the least I could do.” The young woman gripped her hands together. “Robbie dropped it when I jogged past him on Wednesday. Gramps carved Ledbetter a new nose. I’ve been driving him around all weekend, trying to get his glued-on nose to dry faster.”

She peered around me. “Is Robbie here? I’d like to speak to him.”

Rafe emerged with our suitcases. “We’ve got company?”

The blonde’s blue eyes warmed. She extended her hand to Rafe. “I’m Tanya Kessler. My grandfather lives at Hardy Point. Delighted to meet you.”

I stepped between them. “Robbie should be back from Atlanta any minute now.”

“Got your cell on you?” Rafe asked.

Tanya handed her phone to him.

Moments later, Rafe had Robbie on the line. “I’ve got someone here who wants to speak with you, cous.”

He handed the phone to Tanya and ushered me to the Jeep.

“That was nice.” I buckled my seat belt.

Rafe grinned. “Nice like a cardigan?”

“Nice like a decent person.”

* * * * *

As the plane lifted off from the airstrip, my gaze lingered on the island. So many beautiful homes, majestic oaks, and stunning beaches. And the tides. I loved the symmetry of the tides. That six-hour pattern was dependable.

Sure, there were secrets in the tide. All that power and strength. Hard not to be, all things considered.

Like Rafe. Power and strength with secrets.

But now instead of being frustrated by that barrier, I accepted them as part of the package. The man was entitled to his secrets. I had a few of my own.

“What’cha thinking?” he asked.

“We should do this again. Soon.”

* * * * *

Hot Water

Hot Water by Award-Winning Author Maggie Toussaint


Publisher: Muddle House Publishing
Release Date: March 25, 2013, First Edition; Second Edition March 5, 2019
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Available Formats: eBook
Digital: 9780999705407

Something evil lurks in this town of secrets.

Solving Mossy Bog’s first fire fatality could net police officer Laurie Ann Dinterman the promotion she desperately wants. When the state arson investigator arrives to take over the case, Laurie Ann is assigned to give the man everything he needs while keeping him alive. The fact he’s the sexiest man ever to hit town shouldn’t make a difference.

Hot on the trail of a serial arsonist, Wyatt North demands justice for his partner, the arsonist’s first victim. He’ll find the murderer or die trying—no matter how distracting the tall, lithe figure of his local partner is.

As the investigation zeroes in on a suspect uncomfortably close to Laurie Ann’s life, her cop instincts conflict with her feelings for Wyatt. Worse, the arsonist will do anything to protect his identity. Can Laurie Ann accept the truth in time…or will she and Wyatt go up in flames?

Book 2 in Maggie Toussaint’s Mossy Bog Romantic Suspense series pairs a cop and an arson investigator on the trail of a serial killer. For fans of Jayne Ann Krentz, Sandra Brown, and Karen Harper.

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Before Laurie Ann sat down again, the chief stepped out of his office and waved her over. She hurried across the narrow squad room, wondering if she’d forgotten to sign an incident report again. Had she missed an important meeting?

Worse, had Rawson’s court case ended early and she was off the arson case? She hoped not. She hadn’t downloaded her pictures of the scene yet or scanned her site sketch. She was bummed she’d missed James Brown’s autopsy, but at least his clothes had been sent to the lab for examination. If she could find the murder weapon, that promotion would be hers for sure.

“Sir?” Laurie Ann asked when he gestured her toward the chair across from his desk.

The chief settled his bulk into the creaky leather chair. “I’ve got the arson investigator holding on line three. He wants to talk to us together. You ready?” She nodded, her curiosity rising. This would be the first arson investigator she’d met. The fires around Mossy Bog and Tidewater County didn’t ordinarily attract outside attention.

Chief Tyler activated the speakerphone button. “Mr. North, I have Officer Dinterman with me in the office now.”

“Good,” North said. “Dinterman, I expect to hit the ground running when I arrive tomorrow at one p.m. I expect a briefing package with the case files and autopsy report. We’ll head out for a site tour following my review of the records. Oh, and I need all records of fires in your area for the last two years.” His deep, gravelly voice reminder her of a gunslinger, but his request loosened a bolt of panic through her bloodstream.

She exchanged a worried glance with her chief. “We don’t get called out to every fire. I’ll have to ask the fire department for those records. And the coroner’s finalizing the autopsy report.” She had other responsibilities and patrol duty tomorrow. How would she manage to collect all this information in time?

“Anything you want,” the chief said. “We’ll have those materials waiting for you when you arrive.”

“That will do it. See you folks tomorrow,” North said.

The line went dead, and Laurie Ann shifted in her seat. “He asked for a lot of information,” she began, feeling her way through the swamp of red tape. The man probably rode roughshod over anyone foolish enough to get in his way. “But I’ll make it work.”

The chief nodded. “I’ve got pressure from the top to give this guy whatever he needs, so I’m assigning your patrol shifts to Calucci. You’re assigned full time to the arson guy. We need to keep him happy, understand? Wyatt North tells you to jump, you do it, no questions asked.” She fought back a rush of excitement. With only one directive to follow, she could easily meet North’s deadline. And if he was such a by-the-book guy, she’d still have time after-hours for her scrap metals project.

“Got it.” She rose from her chair. “I’ll get started.”

“Oh, one more thing, Dinterman. That task force you put together, I’m handing that over to Harlow. I don’t want you to think about anything but this arson investigator for the next few days. Scrap metal theft is a low priority compared to catching a serial arsonist.”

Her excitement fizzled. This was her baby. “I can keep up with the task force, sir. It won’t take that much time.”

“I’ve seen how many calls you get on that. Too time-consuming for you right now.”

“This North must be the governor’s son or something,” she muttered. “Or something.”

He eyeballed her. “You’re the best we’ve got. I’m counting on you.” The unspoken message came through crystal clear. Don’t screw up.

She squared her shoulders. “I’ll do my best.” Her best. Would it be good enough for Mr. I-want-everything-right-now? Darn straight. She’d be the best babysitter he ever had.

Dime If I Know

Dime If I Know by Award-Winning Author Maggie Toussaint


Series: Cleopatra Jones Series, Book #3
Publisher: Muddle House Publishing
Release Date: January 2020
Genre: Mystery
Available Formats: eBook and Print

Cleopatra Jones has visions of marriage dancing through her head, but her boyfriend, sexy golf pro Rafe Golden, is happy with the status quo. With three puppies, a Saint Bernard, two teenaged daughters, a free-spirited live-in mother, a kooky best friend, and an accounting firm to run, Cleo’s household is hopping. But still. After months of dating Rafe, her relationship should be headed somewhere.

Mama comes home engaged and the wedding is in three weeks. Cleo’s happy for her mom, and hopes Rafe takes the hint. Meanwhile, her best friend is running for mayor.

A former girlfriend of Rafe’s turns up dead in a seedy motel. His fancy red sports car was spotted there the night she died. Cleo questions him, but he swears he didn’t shoot her.

The police identify Rafe as their top suspect, but Cleo’s having none of that. She hires him a lawyer, gets crossways with his snooty family, and sets out to prove her boyfriend’s innocence.

The more she digs, the more questions arise. Rafe’s been keeping secrets from her, but are they deadly secrets?

Dime If I Know is set amid the rolling hills of contemporary mid-Maryland. It features fast-paced family life and Southern humor. Cleo’s trials and tribulations with the game of golf are a counterpoint for her success in following the money and identifying the real killer.

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My fingers gripped the steering wheel when Rafe’s voicemail clicked on again. “This is Cleo.” I grimaced at the razor-sharp edge to my voice. With Rafe sneaking off last night to do God knows what, I wondered how many women left him messages. I didn’t want to be mistaken for another woman.

I cleared my throat, trying not to sound as desperate as I felt. “I called to invite you to dinner tonight. I have news to share, news I need to tell you in person. Call me.”

With that I hung up. I’d phoned him at bedtime last night, before early church this morning, and now, at midday. All the calls had gone to voicemail. Where was he? Normally he worked at the golf course on Sunday. I’d checked the club, and his Jaguar wasn’t there.

Lord.

Had I crossed a line? Was I turning into a psycho girlfriend who had to know where my boyfriend was every minute of the day? Now, now, I told myself. This was genuine concern. It wasn’t like Rafe to be out of touch for so long.

I had to face facts. He was an adult. He hadn’t been missing twenty-four hours. I should put his whereabouts out of my mind and start on my other projects for today.

Like helping Jonette with her mayoral campaign.

I exited my sedan and entered the Tavern, the Hogan’s Glen watering hole where Jonette worked. Her boyfriend, Dean, owned the seventies-style bar. Both greeted me warmly. Jackson Browne crooned a song about pretending, and I took my cue from the singer. I could pretend everything was all right.

“Are we plotting world domination today?” I slid into the booth across from Jonette, who looked young and hip in a bright-pink blouse and black slacks.

She thumbed through a sheaf of papers. “I wish.”

Dean brought me a glass of water and pulled up a chair. Today his long hair was clubbed back in a ponytail. In his black T-shirt, jeans, and boots he resembled an aging rock star.

I smiled my thanks at him and nodded at Jonette’s stack. “What’s all that?”

“Crapola from the Internet. Whose bright idea was it to fish for issues? I’ve got more issues here than I care to know about. Each voter wants their pet project guaranteed, and then they’ll vote for me. No way I can please everybody.”

“Right,” I said. “Trying to please everyone is a recipe for disaster.” I stopped to clear my throat. “And, fishing for issues was your idea. You wanted to know what ‘the people’ thought.”

Dean’s head came up, and relief shone in his eyes.

“The people are crazy,” Jonette said. “Here’s one asking the city to buy Crandall House and turn it into a museum and interpretive center. Where would I get the money to do that from the city budget? Maybe if I stopped trash pickup for ten years or so I could swing it, but everyone would be unhappy about rotten garbage in the street.”

Crandall House had been built two centuries ago by our town’s founding father. Now the family descendants lived elsewhere, and they wanted a small fortune for the house.

“Yeah. Big-ticket items like that need to go on the back burner,” I agreed. “You need to take on a few lesser causes that mean something to you. Read me the topics from the other emails.”

“A guy wants me to drill more wells because we’ll run out of water if any of the White Rock houses ever get bought. Here’s a guy wanting me to legalize medical marijuana.”

“That one gets my vote,” Dean said.

“Here’s one from that grumpy lady over on Third Street,” Jonette continued. “She wants speed bumps installed on her street because folks drive too fast past her place. And here’s someone asking if we can’t get three weekdays of trash service for the price of two.” Jonette thumbed through a few more pages, and her face lit up. “Yes! Found it! This is the issue for me. We need to establish a dog park in the city. I need a place for my puppy to play.”

“A dog park would be nice,” I agreed. “Pet owners should have a place where pets can romp off the leash.”

“I can’t imagine anyone getting upset over a new dog park,” Dean said.

“Looks like I’ve got my first agenda item,” Jonette concluded.

“We’re coming along. Tell me about the event next week. You’re holding it here at the bar?”

“Yep. Figure most folks know we’re dating, and they know where the bar is; might as well take advantage of that to get them here.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Select a menu of food we need to serve. Something classy but cheap.”

“I can do that.” My face heated. “Oh. I almost forgot. I’ve got news. Big news.”

“Rafe proposed?”

“Nope.” I waited, drawing the suspense out. I wasn’t Delilah’s daughter for nothing.

“Charlie proposed?”

Charlie was my ex. He’d recently moved next door so that he could spend more time with our girls. So he said. “That doesn’t count. He proposes every time he sees me. That’s not news, and you know it.”

“Oh!” Jonette’s eyes danced. “It’s your mother, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Yep. Bud proposed. She accepted. They’re getting married in three weeks.”

“Wow.”

Jonette’s eyes met mine. “Wait a minute. How long have you known about this?”

“Less than twenty-four hours, but Muriel and Francine knew first,” I said to soften the blow. “They’re organizing the food for her reception. Say, that gives me an idea. I wonder if they’d do the food at your fundraiser. It could be a trial run for their new catering business.”

“We don’t have much money,” Jonette cautioned. She chewed her lip a moment. “Maybe my campaign committee could chip in to finance the snacks. Then we could spend the rest of the campaign going door to door to beat that rat-fink Darnell.”

“I’m good for twenty bucks,” I said. “And maybe Francine and Muriel would do it at cost if they could hand out brochures for Two Sisters Catering.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m okay with them networking at my party. Let’s see. If you, me, Dean, and Rafe chip in twenty each, that’d give us eighty. Would Charlie cough up twenty for the fundraiser food?”

“Charlie would do it. He’d think that would earn him a spot in my good graces. But, Rafe…”

Jonette grabbed my hand. “What? What aren’t you telling me about the golf pro?”

I pulled away from her, hugging my middle. “It’s probably nothing.”

“You’re not acting like it’s nothing. What did he do?”

“I don’t have any idea what’s up, but my imagination is running wild. He got a call yesterday morning during my lesson and cancelled our date last night. I can’t find him anywhere today.” My lip trembled. “He’s not returning my calls.”

“Bastard.” Jonette nudged Dean. “Go beat him up, honey.”

Dean froze.

“What?” Jonette zeroed in on her boyfriend. “You know something.”

“I shouldn’t say.”

“You should,” Jonette insisted.

“Yes, please,” I urged. “Any information is better than nothing. I don’t know if he’s hurt or dead or just a jerk.”

“There aren’t too many red Jags in the county. I recognized his car at first glance.”

Jonette smacked her open palm on the tabletop. “This is worse than trying to get information out of Cleo’s mom. Where was he parked?”

Linda Ronstadt belted out a song about being cheated and mistreated. My heart raced as I waited for Dean to spit it out. It had to be another woman. Nothing else would make Dean so hesitant, right?

Death Island Style

Death Island Style by Award-Winning Author Maggie Toussaint


Publisher: Five Star/Cengage
Release Date: March 7, 2012
Genre: Mystery
Available Formats: eBook and Print
Digital: 9781432827496
Hardcover: 9781432825669 (Hardcover) / 9781410448118 (Large Print Edition, Wheeler)

She sells seashells by the seashore

Recent widow MaryBeth Cashour moved six hundred miles to escape memories of her late mother’s betrayal and her husband’s mysterious death. While beachcombing for seashells to use at her artsy Christmas shop, MaryBeth finds a corpse rolling in the surf on Sandy Shores Island.

The horror doesn’t end there. When detectives uncover a connection between the murdered man and MaryBeth, she’s their prime suspect. It’s not her fault the dead guy had one of her hand-painted Christmas sharks in his pocket—she doesn’t even know him. Besides, lots of people from the Mid-Atlantic region vacation in coastal Georgia. She insists it’s a coincidence he’s here. The cops don’t believe her.

As her world comes unglued, MaryBeth strips the shellac from her memories, discovering secrets that endanger her life. But time to prove her innocence is running out faster than a rip tide. The killer is crafting up a new murder – MaryBeth’s.

Death, Island Style is a cozy mystery flavored with eccentric southerners, Christmas music, and hand-painted holiday decorations. Set in sunny coastal Georgia, the book reveals the struggles of a young woman trying to make her Christmas gift shop profitable while dodging a murder rap. Beach scenes, a hunky pharmacist, and disastrous craft projects add sparkle and humor.

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© Copyright 2012 – Maggie Toussaint

One of the perks of my new life is walking on the beach. I love to sink into the crisp morning sand, leaving behind perfect impressions of each plump toe, slender arch, and narrow heel. Those footprints proclaim to the world that MaryBeth Cashour lives here on Sandy Shores Island.

At least until the wind changes, the tide comes in, or someone else tramples my tracks. Oh, who was I kidding? My footprints were transitory, just like me. That’s the worst part about starting over, figuring out who I am and what I’m doing.

I turn to face the wind, taste the salty spray on my face, and bask in the unfamiliar warmth of the October sun against my skin. Back in Maryland, a warm fall day like this was called Indian summer, but here in coastal Georgia, short-sleeved weather is standard fare. In time, I’d relinquish that northern concern that a howling snowstorm could hit at any minute, but for now, I was still stuck in that cold weather mindset of a nasty storm on my horizon.

After my husband of ten years drowned unexpectedly in April, I sold everything but one framed picture of the two of us and moved back home, only to discover that my mom had kept her terminal cancer a secret. I spent the next three months watching her die.

Two deaths in three months gave me the willies. Worse, it made me responsible for all their possessions. Grandmother Esther’s gilt-edged porcelain lamp was a family heirloom, but I hated it. And Uncle Wallace’s faded latch-hooked rug? It had clearly seen better days. The marble-topped buffets I listed on e-Bay, and I gave away Mom’s junky old car, which was in worse shape than mine. The horrid checkered tile bathroom floor I left as was, and the house sold anyway, thank goodness.

By the time I’d finally gotten to the point of sorting through Mom’s personal papers in August, I believed I could see daylight. I couldn’t wait to finish this chore and do something, anything, else, but I learned a hard lesson. Be careful what you wish for. The information I discovered in her bank lock box knocked the wind out of me.
I’m adopted.

You would think that being thirty-five years old, I might have heard about this by that time, but my mom never mentioned it. Not once. I can’t blame my dad for his silence, as he passed away two decades ago, but Mom had years upon years to tell me the truth.

She sewed my prom dress, mailed me crafty care packages all through college, and single-handedly created beautiful decorations for my wedding. No mention of my adoption. Not even a hint. And it wasn’t like her death was unexpected. She knew the end was coming as surely as one ocean wave follows the next.

Secrets. I hate them. And yet the shores of my life were littered with them, much like the scattered shells dotting this deserted beach.

I stopped at another deposit of seashells and chucked them one at a time into my plastic pail. Justine Mossholder, the vibrant woman who’d sold me her gift shop named Christmas by the Sea, told me that part of owning the craft store was continually harvesting shells to make into Christmas ornaments. “Tourists love buying these local crafts as souvenirs,” she’d said.

She’d left detailed instructions on how to make oyster shell Santas, scallop shell angels, and sand dollar snowmen. “Paint the shell until the color suits your eye,” she’d said. “Use a dollop of glue to hold the ornament together, and accent it with a clump of tulle.”

Her instructions might as well have been in Greek. Turns out I had no eye for color, glue guns hated me, and I couldn’t tell tulle from organza. So here I was, collecting shells as instructed, only I didn’t want the nice big paintable shells.

I wanted the little itty bitty shells. I picked up one shell, then another, but that pace wasn’t satisfying. I wanted great glopping handfuls of them. Something about these little shells felt urgently right.

I couldn’t explain my sudden unfathomable craving for them, but I needed these tiny shells as much as I needed air. With increasing fervor, my fingers grabbed clumps of miniature colored shells and tossed them in my pail. It was as though I was in a timed contest, and I only got to keep as many shells as I could cram into my hot-pink pail in the next ten minutes.

Stupid, I know, but so was trying to start fresh when I’d lost myself along the way. I’d gone from functioning as a devoted wife and competent receptionist to a berserk seashell-grabber. What was I going to do?

I had no friends.

I had no family.

I had no roots.

All I had was a yellowed piece of paper that said I was adopted. How the hell was I supposed to deal with that? My whole life was a lie.

My throat tightened. I sat down and allowed the shells and dry sand to drizzle through my curled fingers. How could I figure out who I was? My past was a jumble of secrets, my lonely future too dismal to contemplate.

I touched my gold heart-shaped locket, a treasured gift from Bernie on our first anniversary. Engraved inside were the words, “All my love forever.” Hollow words for a hollow life. I’m supposed to grieve and go on with my life, but the little kid in me wanted to stand up and shout, What happened to my Happily Ever After?

That sappy fairy tale sentiment wasn’t real. It was fiction, and I’d best realize that MaryBeth Cashour was a ghost of a person.

The offshore wind whipped my hair under my glasses. I flicked the tangled locks away from my eyes and stared out at the sea buoys on the watery horizon. Sea gulls lazily rode on currents of air above the cresting surf. I huffed out my disgust at their freewheeling lifestyle. Oh, to be so unencumbered. To let go and glide on the wind. If only I could be so free, so uninhibited.

After all the changes of late, I couldn’t fathom living like that. I needed to know what was coming next. I needed structure and anchors to keep me grounded.

The tides were regular. I’d learned that in a few short weeks. Natives of McLinn County, Georgia, set their watches by tidal fluxes. High water meant big waves, depth in the winding creeks, and delightful onshore breezes. Low water meant lots of beach sand, fish and crabs that could be caught moving with the tide, and offshore breezes. And nasty, biting flies.

I smacked one that was stupid enough to land on my ankle. Take that you bloodsucking varmint. I buried the insect carcass in the dry sand. My gaze drifted back to the hopeful blue sky above the cresting waves and noticed those sea gulls were still wheeling over the same part of the sea as before, just off the beach. That was unusual.

I caught sight of a dark shadow in the water. Something was out there beyond the breakers. Something big. Like a dolphin or a shark. Only it wasn’t swimming. It was drifting with the current.

Curiosity had me rising to my feet. I brushed the sand and crushed shells from my Bermuda shorts and cupped my hands around my glasses. The dark shape appeared to be quite long, maybe six feet long was my guess. And it was definitely cylindrical, like a log.

The object approached the shore. It bobbed in the surf, slowly rolling over, a dark back, a light underbelly. That’s when it hit me. My upside-down life wasn’t completely ruined. Things could be a lot worse.

I could be the dead guy floating in the ocean.

Murder In The Buff

Murder In The Buff by Award-Winning Author Maggie Toussaint


Publisher: Muddle House Publishing
Release Date: Print: March 19, 2013
Genre: Mystery
Available Formats: eBook and Print
Hardcover: 9780983361466

Reporter Molly Darter must obtain the family-placed obituary of a dead nudist to keep her job at the weekly paper. With her husband’s infidelity stamped on her mind, she doesn’t want anything to do with naked people. But the dead woman is a friend, the nice lady from the Marshview organic produce stand.

The nudists insist Barbara Jean didn’t die of natural causes. Though their murder claim rattles Molly, she has no intention of looking into a law enforcement matter. She has enough trouble on her plate dealing with her cheating husband, taking care of her precocious son, and waging war on her trampy sister.

When revealing photos of her father and other community leaders consorting with Barbara Jean at the produce stand come her way, Molly must act. To protect her father, she delves into the dead woman’s past. Barbara Jean had former ties to the community and hidden wealth.

Things heat up when her estranged husband’s undercover drug ring investigation collides with her murder probe. While the sheriff eventually labels the death a homicide, Molly’s questions place her in jeopardy.

Who killed Barbara Jean? Was it the judge, the preacher, or the banker? Or was the killer someone she knew intimately? Only one thing’s for certain. The killer is watching every move Molly makes.

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Reviews

“MURDER IN THE BUFF is one of the best cozy mysteries I’ve read, and I read cozies frequently. Maggie Toussaint is a gifted author whose wit shines through to provide a fast-paced, hilarious read.” – Caroline Clemmons

“A highly entertaining read, written in a flowing style. I shall be looking out for more of Maggie Toussaint’s work.” – Lindsay Townsend

“Murder in the Buff starts like a cozy mystery and ends in high-tension suspense. Along the way, I often found myself smiling and chuckling. Great mix between, “Ha, I knew it!” and “Oh, wow!” Murder in the Buff is a well written, vivid, engaging and intriguing story. I’ll certainly be on the lookout for more of Maggie Toussaint’s books.” – E Parzefall

“A hilarious suspense novel. M. Toussaint kept me reading, laughing, and biting my nails until I finished MURDER IN THE BUFF. I highly recommend it.” – Mona Risk

“Maggie Toussaint blends humor, witty dialog and steamy love scenes perfectly in this well plotted mystery. MURDER IN THE BUFF is one laugh-out-loud, terrific read.” –Sharon Woods Hopkins

“Brilliantly Executed Southern Mystery. This is a guaranteed-to-please read by a skillful author…and that’s the naked truth.” – Suzanne Rogers

“Toussaint’s writing style is crisp and sharp. She engages the reader from the get-go. Her contemporary voice brings a rich authenticity to Molly and her predicament. Just when you think it can’t get any worse for the heroine it does. Toussaint keeps the reader on their toes with all the twists and turns in the plot.” –Stephanie Burkhart

“I loved this book! The American South was portrayed beautifully, the characters are quirky, and there are plenty of twists and turns. Not to mention laugh-out-loud humor – a real page turner.” – Ashantay1

“Murder in the Buff is a fun romantic mystery, only lightly sensual, and is full of quirky characters that will raise some eyebrows and provide plenty of entertainment.” –LK Hunsaker


Excerpt

© Copyright 2012 – Maggie Toussaint

We’d also heard the naturalists were retired call girls. No telling what went on back in these dark woods. Orgies. Wild rituals. Substance abuse. Anything was possible in such a remote location.

I checked the time again and sighed.

If I left right now, my mother would never know I’d been here. However, Ted would fire me if I returned without this family-placed obituary. Jobs were scarce in our county of ten thousand people, and with my changed personal circumstances, I couldn’t afford to lose this one. Air huffed out of my lungs, up my warm face, giving flight to the wispy bangs on my forehead.

I dried my sweaty palms on my jeans and ramped up the air conditioning another notch. What was taking so long? I rubbed the back of my neck to ease the stiffness.

Behind the stockade fence, briars and weeds flourished. Spanish moss and ropy vines choked the tops of the oaks, pines, and cedars, adding to the sense that anything could and would happen deep in that jungle of green.

Jungle love gone wild.

I grimaced at that carnal image. My gaze fell to the thick ground cover outside my door. I couldn’t see the sandy soil at all. I gulped. There were probably rattlesnakes galore out here.

Cottonmouths and copperheads, too.

And ticks.

I bet every tick known to mankind lurked within the dark green foliage, waiting for me to step out of my vehicle. I’d have to be diligent as I checked every inch of skin tonight for ticks.

Without warning, a narrow-faced woman with gray braided hair peered over the top of the fence and waved her bare arms. My heart sunk as her lips moved. Dang, she was talking to me. With my windows up, I couldn’t hear a word she said.

Please, dear God, let her have clothes on behind that fence.