Showing posts with label fair/festivals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fair/festivals. Show all posts
Sunday, August 17, 2025
🎡Sunday's Short Stack🎡: Two Truths and a Lie by DJ Jamison
Games We Play #.5
Two Truths and a...wait, what?!
What happens when drunken idiots, aka your friends, use a silly drinking game to sideswipe you and your BFF with the truth bomb that you’re actually in love with each other?
Truman: You impulsively kiss the best friend you’ve been in love with for ages…then wake up with a hangover—and regrets.
Lyle: You freak out because you’re not gay or bi, before realizing the kiss wasn’t *actually* bad. Then you begin to wonder…should we do it again?
Two Truths and a Lyle is a cute, low-angst M/M romance with two oblivious best friends who are perfect for one another, a town full of quirky residents who get in everyone’s business, and a sweet demisexual awakening.
“Okay, the game is Two Truths and a Lie,” Kevin announced. “Who’s first?”
Calista and Darren put their heads together, conferring quietly. Then Darren straightened, gesturing to Calista. “Ladies first.”
“I’ve never been accused of being a lady before,” Calista said to a round of laughter. She was gorgeous, with curly hair that was a little wild and curves that attracted her a steady number of boyfriends. But she was also one of the crudest people I’d met, always down for a dirty joke or reckless adventure. “But sure, I’ll go first. Okay…two truths and a lie. Hmm. Oh, I’ve got it! Here goes: I’m a Scorpio. I once wrecked my dad’s car. And my two best friends are in love with each other.”
“You’re not a Scorpio,” Tru said.
“Wait, aren’t all the truths supposed to be about yourself?” I asked.
At the same time, Evan said, “I thought I was your best friend. I’m not in love with anyone!”
And that’s when it hit me.
She was talking about me and Tru.
“Drink up, Calista!” Kevin called. “They busted you on the lie. You’re not a Scorpio.”
I noticed no one was suggesting she told more than one lie. Or calling her on the fact she’d told a supposed “truth” that wasn’t her own.
“I’ll go next,” Darren announced gleefully.
My gut clenched. Somehow, I knew what was coming. I glanced around the group playing the game, all ranging in age from about eighteen to twenty-two, all long-time acquaintances or friends. Was this some type of organized effort? Evan hadn’t seemed to know it was going down. So maybe it was just Calista and Darren. But that was still too much.
“Maybe we should head out,” I said to Tru.
“Why? We haven’t even played yet.”
Before I could answer, Darren was announcing his truths and a lie. “I’m a Scorpio. I’m a virgin. And my roommate and his best friend totally need to bone because they are in luuuurrrve.”
There were shouts of laughter, and Calista smirked. “I know you’re not a virgin.”
Hold up now. Calista and Darren? Surely not. At the ooohs and ahhs they started to get, Calista flipped off the room. “Dude, he’s a slut. I don’t need to screw him to know.”
I dragged a hand down my face.
“Wait, hold on,” Tru said. “Ly is your roommate.”
Darren smirked. “Yep.”
“And…his best friend is…?”
Darren raised his brows. “Don’t you already know the answer to that?”
Tru frowned, glancing between me and Darren. “I thought I did. Now, I’m just confused.”
“Join the club,” I muttered, though I suspected we were confused about different things. My stomach was squirming with discomfort as half the eyes in the room fixed on Tru and me. Fucking Darren. I knew he was behind this. I didn’t know why, but I’d find out.
Part of me wanted to jump up and tell him to knock it off. The other half wanted to sink into the sofa and disappear rather than draw more attention to myself.
“Ah, I think I get this game now,” Evan said. “Can I go next?”
Sweet Evan. Sweet, naïve Evan. I sighed with relief. Finally, the game would move on, and everyone would forget Darren and Calista’s entirely deluded suggestions that Tru and I were anything but good friends.
Hell, I wasn’t even gay. Or bi. So how could I be in love with my male best friend? I barely dated women, much less men. I was too busy working my ass off, trying to prove myself at the construction company Truman’s dad had built from the ground up while my dad did his best to drink himself into an early grave.
I’d always thought Truman would be right there by my side on the crew, making the back-breaking labor more fun. He had a way of turning everything in life into a big laugh. I hadn’t even realized how much he made me smile until he was gone and every day was just one dreary slog after another.
“Two truths and a lie,” Evan said. “Okay. I’m creating my own app.”
That was undoubtedly true. Evan was a classic tech geek, and at eighteen, he already did freelance work for a handful of companies. He didn’t need a degree, evidently, because he’d taught himself everything he needed to know in his spare time.
Evan continued, “I’m dating a girl.”
There was an immediate snort of laughter. Evan had been out as a gay boy for years.
“And…” He glanced guiltily in my direction. Oh no. Not him too. “Lyle and Truman are totally couples goals. If they could only see it for themselves.”
“Et tu, Evan,” I said.
Beside me, Truman gasped. “Evan, you’re dating a girl?”
Evan looked floored. “What? No?”
“The game is two truths and a lie,” Tru said. “If you’re not dating a girl, you told two lies.”
Evan shook his head. “Sorry, guys. But I’m still gay.”
“Well, I’m not,” I said shortly, standing and dragging Truman up by the arm. “I think it’s time to call it a night.”
DJ Jamison writes romances about everyday life and extraordinary love featuring a variety of queer characters, from gay to bisexual to asexual. DJ grew up in the Midwest in a working-class family, and those influences can be found in her writing through characters coping with real-life problems: money troubles, workplace drama, family conflicts and, of course, falling in love. DJ spent more than a decade in the newspaper industry before chasing her first dream to write fiction. She spent a lifetime reading before that and continues to avidly devour her fellow authors’ books each night. She lives in Kansas with her husband, two sons, one snake, and a sadistic cat named Birdie.
Saturday, August 16, 2025
🎡Saturday's Series Spotlight🎡: Food Truck Warriors by Beth Bolden Part 2
Lennox’s favorite escape is the Food Truck Warriors . . .until it needs his protection.
Ash isn’t running from his past—he’s already left it way behind. He’s built a business from scratch, using all the lessons that his father taught him, and every day at his food truck is a challenge he was born to tackle.
But when a stalker appears, hinting that he knows the secrets Ash has tried so hard to bury, he needs more help than his food truck friends can provide. He needs a professional.
Lennox is a mystery. He’s been coming around the Food Truck Warriors for months now, and nobody knows if that’s even his real name. But Ash is fascinated by the man, and the feeling seems to be mutual.
When the threat to Ash becomes a little too real, Lennox intervenes, and finally, the electricity between them transforms into something very much like love. But now their safety—and their hearts—are on the line.
Shaw isn’t his friend—until Ross discovers he’s so much more.
Ross Stanton is having a bad week—a bad month—really, a bad year. But the last thing he wants, after the betrayal of his friend and business partner, is for anyone else to know just how much he’s fighting for survival.
He’s struggling to keep his food truck and to maintain appearances, but what Ross doesn’t realize is that Shaw Finley, the bartender from the Funky Cup, has seen right through his charade.
Shaw offers the couch in his apartment over the bar, suggesting that saving money on rent might help salvage Ross’ failing prospects.
Even though he doesn’t really consider them friends, Ross discovers that Shaw is great to talk to, easy to look at, and he likes him. Late nights and lazy mornings and evenings with only the polished wood of the bar between them lead to an attraction that Ross can’t deny—and that Shaw doesn’t even try to.
But falling in love isn’t as easy as falling into bed together, and Ross isn’t even sure what he feels is love, until he figures out that it couldn’t possibly be anything else.
Can Ren’s bad boy heart be wooed and won?
Ren Moretti likes his life—and his hookups—just the way they are: fast and loose.
He only ever hooks up with someone once, and relationships? Forget it. Never gonna happen. No guy has ever persuaded him to bend, break, or alter his one date and one night rule.
Until Seth Abramson.
Seth has always tempted Ren—but it’s not a secret that Seth won’t settle for just one night. A few dates won’t cut it, and he’s not interested in playing around. He wants it all, and he intends to win Ren’s heart.
But that’s the one thing Ren’s never given up. He guards it closely and fiercely, until one day, when he realizes it’s no longer his to protect, it’s belonged to Seth all along.
Full Speed Ahead #4
After climbing into the truck, Ash set his coffee on the counter and checked his watch. His delivery should be here any moment, if they were on time, which . . . Ash had learned practically from the cradle what to do with suppliers who wouldn’t keep to their timelines or couldn’t be relied upon.
They really didn’t want to be late today.
Ash wasn’t in the mood for it.
He glanced out the front window, and froze.
There was a piece of paper taped to it—something that had definitely not been there when he’d closed up last night.
Ash stared at the words, printed in damning black and white.
It was an interview that his father had done—likely one of hundreds, if not thousands, he’d done over the course of his illustrious career. But in this one, he had mentioned his son, Oliver. Who, Stephan Atkinson had said with some humor, liked to be called Ash.
A silly affectation, his father told the interviewer, that he would grow out of.
Ash had been . . . maybe thirteen or fourteen if he remembered correctly, when this article had come out, and he’d been furious. It had been one of the many things he’d been pissed at his father for.
Now someone had found it, dredged it out of the bowels of magazine hell, had photocopied it, and taped it to his window. Not facing outwards, so anyone could see it, but inwards, so only Ash could.
Fury flashed with a frightening power through him. He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his keys, and with shaking fingers, locked up behind him. Walked around to the front of his truck, tore the paper off, leaving the edges trapped by the neatly placed tape fluttering in the early morning breeze, and forgoing his bicycle, took off for the one place that he’d told himself he would not go.
Who else could have done this? Ash thought angrily as he stormed towards his destination. It was still so early the streets were essentially empty. He’s the only one who knows.
The building that Tony had described was only a few blocks away.
It had been remodeled, with a glass-front office on the lower level, and a living space on the top. There were a separate set of stairs leading to a discreet door on a wrought iron landing.
A discreet black-lettered sign, matching the wrought iron of the stairs and contrasting with the freshly painted taupe stucco of the building itself, indicated that this was the offices of Protectorate.
It might be early, but Ash could see a figure already in the office below.
Tony had mentioned offhandedly that Lennox was a workaholic, always in the office, so it was not a huge stretch to imagine that it was him, up early, and already working.
Ash walked over to the door, and pulled it, fully expecting it to be locked, but to his surprise it opened easily.
Even though he must have been the one to unlock it, Lennox looked up with shock as he walked in.
Ash imagined they probably didn’t get much foot traffic.
He stomped over to where Lennox sat at a desk, and slapped the paper down in front of him.
“What the fuck is this?” he demanded to know.
Lennox stared at the writing. He took his time answering, clearly reading through the words on the page once, and maybe even twice. Finally he looked up. “It looks like an interview that your father did, talking about his restaurants, and also his son.” He hesitated. “You.”
“Yes, thank you, I can read just as well as you can,” Ash bit off. “What I mean is why was it taped to my truck’s front window this morning?”
“Taped to your . . .”
“And not facing out, but facing in,” Ash interrupted. “So I would see it, but nobody else. Someone wants me to know they’ve figured out who my father is.”
“And you think that’s me.”
Ash gestured wildly, pacing between Lennox’s desk, and the other, currently unoccupied. “Who else could it be?”
“Do you really think I needed to do this to get your attention?” Lennox asked, his tone dry.
Wheels Down #5
Shaw removed his glass, replaced it with a full cup of water and ice, and then a moment later he was back, with a plate full of delicious-smelling food.
“Steak and mushroom hoagie, with horseradish aioli,” Shaw said, depositing it in front of him, “and our famous sweet potato fries.”
“They’re famous?” Ross wondered, even as he realized he had heard people talking about them.
“According to our Yelp reviews,” Shaw said. “Can I grab you anything else?”
Ross was about to ask for napkins, because the sandwich looked absolutely delicious but also messy, but then one appeared next to him, like Shaw had known he’d need it.
“I think I’m good, thanks,” Ross said, and picked up the sandwich. It had a surprising heft to it, and he had to give Jackson and Shaw credit—they’d revamped the kitchen and the work they’d put in showed. When he took a bite, he was even more impressed, half a dozen flavors exploding across his tongue as he chewed spiced sliced steak working in perfect complement to the earthiness of the mushrooms.
“You’re nodding over there,” Shaw said, his voice teasing. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”
Ross finished chewing and swallowed. “Really good,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
“Wow,” Shaw said, looking surprised. Too surprised.
“Am I really that notorious?” Ross asked, before he thought better of it. He ate a handful of sweet potato fries and they were really good too. “That picky?”
He didn’t really want to hear the answer; he really didn’t want to hear Shaw’s answer.
“Not exactly notorious,” Shaw said, returning to slicing his lemons.
“Then what exactly?”
Shaw sighed and put down the knife.
“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he said with resignation.
“I am?”
Ross almost told him to forget it. After all, hearing the truth was probably not going to be all that enlightening and might actually make the next few months of living together uncomfortable.
Shaw smiled then, and it wasn’t the same smile he gave to all the random guys at the bar. It was softer, sweeter, more genuine somehow. Ross had never seen it before, and it hit him somewhere deep, a place where he hadn’t felt much of anything in years.
Maybe the last time had been when his grandmother had smiled at him, over pots and pans and pie dishes.
“You gotta know that you’ve got the best food at that whole lot,” Shaw said. “Objectively. The other food there is good, don’t get me wrong, but those guys? You know why they keep you at arm’s length? They’re all terrified of you, though they’d rather die than admit it. You’re brilliant. You should be working in the best, the fanciest, the most expensive restaurants, and instead you’ve got this food truck and it’s just amazing. Every time I go to Basket, I’m blown away.”
“And,” Shaw continued, leaning over, his blue eyes twinkling again, and Ross’ breath caught in his throat, “you’re gonna get me in trouble, because Jackson would have my ass for not thinking Alexis serves the best food on the lot.”
Ride or Die #6
“You gonna order?” Ren asked. Hoping that he understood exactly what he meant. And he wasn’t talking about sandwiches.
“Oh yeah, I definitely am,” Seth said, and Ren’s stomach fluttered.
There was something so decisive and grown up about this guy.
Like he’d throw Ren over his shoulder and cart him back to his bedroom.
“What can I get you?” Ren asked.
Me. I can get you me. And you’d enjoy every second of it. Trust me. I’m delicious.
“That’s a real good question,” Seth said.
“I’m going to get lunch,” Lennox announced, and nobody was surprised to see him head off towards Ash’s food truck.
“Well, if you want a recommendation,” Gabe said, and Ren wished that his cousin would go do anything else right now, “you can’t go wrong with the Thai meatball crunch wrap.”
“Does everything have balls or buns?” Seth wanted to know.
Oh, Ren wanted to show him.
So badly that he deployed the smile that he usually saved for closing the deal. But then, he was closing the deal right now, wasn’t he? He could feel it in his bones.
Specifically one bone in particular.
“Yes,” Ren said.
“Straightforward,” Seth said, taking a step nearer, and now Ren could really get a good look at him. He was even sexier in higher definition and he’d made Ren’s mouth water even without the close-up look. “I like it.”
“See anything else you like?” Ren decided there was no point in delaying. They were both clearly interested. “Lucky for you, I just happen to be free tonight.”
Somehow, impossibly, Seth’s own closing smile was even more devastating than Ren’s own.
Ren was unmoored. Blown away. Blown apart.
What would it be like to be under him, when he smiled like that?
What would it feel like to kiss that smile off him?
He was going to get to find out. Ren could feel it. Could nearly taste it.
“Really straightforward,” Seth said, not sounding like he hated that at all.
“Why bother pretending that you don’t just want a sandwich?” Ren shrugged. “We’re both interested. I’m free tonight, and I know we’d both enjoy ourselves.”
“What about tomorrow, then?”
Ren had learned the hard way that it was better to always be honest about his intentions. But this guy, even if he didn’t do one-night stands, was so hooked that Ren knew there was no way he’d ever turn him down.
Ren could feel the other side of the hook, buried in him, tugging him even closer, and he dared anyone to try to resist that completely irresistible pull.
“What about tomorrow?” Ren asked archly. “Why do we have to worry about tomorrow?”
“I’m all about the tomorrows,” he admitted with a shrug. “I’m not here for just the tonights. I want to know there’s going to be a tomorrow, too.”
Ren frowned. “I don’t do tomorrows. Not when tonights are so freaking great.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to make do with just a sandwich.” Seth sounded genuinely regretful, which was why Ren didn’t even register the rejection right away. He’d been so goddamned nice about it. Like he hadn’t wanted to say no.
Beth Bolden
A lifelong Pacific Northwester, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with her supportive husband. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just as weird in Raleigh.
Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. She’s published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / CHIRP
Ride or Die #6
Kitchen Gods Series
Charleston Condors
Rainbow Clause
Los Angeles Riptide Series
Food Truck Warriors
Star Shadow
Friday, August 15, 2025
🎡📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘🎡: Sticks & Scones by Diane Mott Davidson
Goldy Bear Culinary Mystery #10
Celebrated for her unique blend of first-class suspense and five-star fare, Diane Mott Davidson has won scores of fans and earned a place on major bestseller lists across the country. Now she dishes up another dangerously tasty treat of murder and mystery.
For Colorado caterer Goldy Schulz, accepting a series of bookings at Hyde Castle is like a dream come true. It’s not every day that she gets to cook authentic Elizabethan fare--especially at a real castle that was brought over from England and reassembled stone by stone in Aspen Meadow. Goldy is determined that everything will go right--which is why, she figures later, everything went terribly wrong.
It begins when a shotgun blast shatters her window. Then Goldy discovers a body lying in a nearby creek. And when shots ring out for the second time that day, someone Goldy loves is in the line of fire. Suddenly the last thing Goldy wants to think about is Shakespeare’s Steak Pie, 911 Chocolate Emergency Cookies, or Damson-in-Distress Plum Tart.
Could one of her husband Tom’s police investigations have triggered a murder? Or was her violent, recently paroled ex responsible? With death peering around every corner, Goldy needs to cook up some crime-solving solutions--before the only dish that’s left on her menu is murder.
CHAPTER 1
Nighttime noises are torture. When a midnight wind shrieks through our window jambs, or footsteps clomp past the house, I think, It could be anything. Once a snow bank slid from our roof and thundered onto the deck. I awoke, heart pounding, convinced I'd been shot.
It isn't logical, of course. But living with terror for seven years had not made me the most rational of thinkers, least of all when roused from sleep. A sound could be anything? No.
It was something.
When I awoke at four o'clock on Monday morning, February ninth, those years of dread were long over. Still, I was certain I'd heard a tiny scraping noise, like boots chafing against ice. Think, I warned myself. Don't panic.
Heart pulsing, throat dry, I waited for my brain to clear, for the sound to come again. My husband Tom was out of town. Even when he's at home, noise rarely interrupts his slumber. Tom is a big hulking cop, and isn't afraid of much.
I shifted in the chilled sheets. The temperature outside was close to zero. Frigid air poured through tiny leaks in our bedroom windows. The noise had come from outdoors, from below, of that I was fairly certain.
Now all was quiet. No sound emanated from Arch's room down the hall. Two months from turning fifteen, my son slept so soundly even a howling blizzard would not rouse him. On the first floor, our bloodhound, Jake, was not growling or pacing in his enclosed area next to the kitchen. These were good signs.
Maybe I was imagining things. I'd gone to bed too late, after cooking all evening for today's catered event. And I was stressed out, anyway. In December, our family life had been in an uproar. My in-home commercial kitchen had been shut down, and Tom and I had ended up involved in a homicide case at a nearby ski area. To make things worse, on New Year's Eve, right after the official reopening of my kitchen, I'd catered my first party in months. It had gone very badly.
Wait. Another unmistakable scrape was followed by a tiny crack. It was like . . . what? Elk hooves shattering ice? A pine bough creaking under its burden of snow? Like . . . someone opening a suitcase across the street?
Who unpacks bags at four in the morning?
Henry Kissinger said, Even a paranoid has real enemies. With that in mind, I decided against getting out of bed and peering out a window. My eyes traveled to the bedside table and I reached stealthily for the portable phone. In addition to being paranoid, I sometimes suspected I was an alarmist, or, as the ninth-grade tough guys at Arch's school would say, a wimp. Now, I bargained with myself. One more sound, and I would speed-dial the sheriff's department.
I shivered, waited, and longed for the heavy terry-cloth robe hanging in my closet, an early Valentine's present from Tom. Caterers need to rest after cooking, Miss G., he'd said. Wrap yourself in this when I'm gone, and pretend it's me.
Of course, I would have much preferred Tom himself to the robe. For the past week, he'd been in New Jersey working a case. There, he reported, the weather was rainy. In Aspen Meadow, I'd told him in our evening calls, each day had brought more snow. Arch and I had made a morning ritual of shoveling our front walk. But daytime temperatures in the mid-thirties had melted our man-made snow banks, and the nightly freezes transformed the sidewalk into a sheet of ice.
So. If someone was on our sidewalk, he or she was on a very slippery slope.
I propped myself up on my elbow, yanked up the bedspread, and listened intently. In the neon light cast by the street lamp outside, I could just make out my own reflection in our mirror: blond curly hair, dark eyes, thirty-four-year-old face just a tad round from an excess of chocolate. It was a face that had been happy for almost two years, since I'd married Tom. But now Tom's absence was an ache.
Back in my old life, my ex-husband had often stumbled in late. I'd become used to the drunken harangues, the flaunted infidelities, the midnight arguments. Sometimes I even thought his girlfriends used to follow him home, to stake out our house.
Of course, I absolutely believed in Tom's fidelity, even if he had been both secretive and preoccupied lately. Before he left, he'd even seemed low. I hadn't quite known how to help. Try as I might, I was still getting used to being a cop's wife.
Five minutes went by with no sound. My mind continued to meander. I wondered again about Tom. Six a.m. on the East Coast; was he up? Was he still planning on flying back this morning, as he'd promised us? Had he made any progress in his investigation?
The case Tom was working on involved the hijacking—on a Furman County road—of a FedEx delivery truck. The driver had been killed. Only one of the suspected three hijackers had been arrested. His name was Ray Wolff, and he was now in the same cell block as my ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman. The Jerk, as his other ex-wife and I called him, was currently serving a sentence for assault.
During Arch's weekly visit, John Richard had boasted to his son of his acquaintance with Ray Wolff, the famous killer-hijacker. How low things had sunk, I thought, when a father reveled in his own criminal infamy.
I shivered again and tried not to think of the threats my ex-husband had sent from jail. They'd been both implied and overt. When I get out of here, I'll set you straight, Goldy. To Arch, he'd said, You can tell your mother your father has a plan. I guess I wasn't surprised that those tiny signs of remorse John Richard had shown at his trial had all been for the benefit of the judge.
I jumped at the sound of a third, louder crack. Downstairs, Jake let out a tentative woof. I hit the phone's power button as an explosion rocked our house.
What was that? My brain reeled. Cold and trembling, I realized I'd fallen off the bed. A gunshot? A bomb? It had sounded like a rocket launcher. A grenade. An earthquake. Downstairs, glass crashed to the floor. What the hell is going on?
I clutched the phone, scuttled across the cold floor, and tried to call for Arch. Unfortunately, my voice no longer seemed to be working. Below, our security system shrieked. I cursed as I made a tripping dash down the unlit hall.
The noise had been a gunshot. It had to have been. Someone had shot at our home. At least one downstairs window had been shattered, of that I was certain. Where is the shooter now? Where is my son?
"Arch!" I squawked in the dark hallway. Dwarfed by the alarm, my voice sounded tinny and far away. "Are you all right? Can you hear me?"
The alarm's wail melded with Jake's baying. What good did a security system do, anyway? Alarms are meant to protect you from intruders wanting your stuff—not from shooters wanting your life. Yelling that it was me, it was Mom, I stumbled through my son's bedroom door.
Arch had turned on his aquarium light and was sitting up in bed. In the eerie light, his pale face glowed. His toast-brown hair had fanned out in an electric halo, and his hastily donned tortoiseshell glasses were askew. He clutched a raised sword—a gleaming foil used for his school fencing practice. I punched the phone buttons for 911, but was trembling so badly I messed it up. Now the phone was braying in my ear.
Panic tensed Arch's face as he leaned toward the watery light and squinted at me.
"Mom! What was that?"
Shuddering, I fumbled with the phone again and finally pushed the automatic dial for the Furman County Sheriff's Department.
"I don't know," I managed to shout to Arch. Blood gurgled in my ears. I wanted to be in control, to be comforting, to be a good mother. I wanted to assure him this was all some terrible mistake. "Better get on the—" With the phone, I gestured toward the floor.
Still gripping the sword, Arch obediently scrambled onto a braided rug I'd made during our financial dark days. He was wearing a navy sweat suit—his substitute for pajamas—and thick gray socks, protection from the cold. Protection. I thought belatedly of Tom's rifle and the handgun he kept hidden behind a false wall in our detached garage. Lot of good they did me now, especially since I didn't know how to shoot.
"We'll be right there," announced a distant telephone voice after I babbled where we were and what had happened. Jake's howl and the screaming security system made it almost impossible to make out the operator's clipped instructions. "Mrs. Schulz?" she repeated. "Lock the bedroom door. If any of your neighbors call, tell them not to do anything. We should have a car there in less than fifteen minutes."
Please, God, I prayed, disconnecting. With numb fingers, I locked Arch's door, then eased to the floor beside him. I glanced upward. Could the glow from the aquarium light be seen from outside? Could the shooter get a good purchase on Arch's window?
"Somebody has to go get Jake," Arch whispered. "We can't just leave him barking. You told the operator you heard a shot. Did you really think it was from a gun? I thought it was a cannonball."
"I don't know." If any of your neighbors call . . . My neighbors' names had all slid from my head.
The front doorbell rang. My eyes locked with Arch's. Neither of us moved. The bell rang again. A male voice shouted, "Goldy? Arch? It's Bill! Three other guys are here with me!" Bill? Ah, Bill Quincy . . . from next door. "Goldy," Bill boomed. "We're armed!"
I took a steadying breath. This was Colorado, not England or Canada or some other place where folks don't keep guns and wield them freely. In Aspen Meadow, no self-respecting gun-owner who heard a shot at four a.m. was going to wait to be summoned. One man had even glued a decal over the Neighborhood Watch sign: This Street Guarded by Colts. Although the county had sent out a graffiti-removal company to scrape off the sticker, the sentiment remained the same.
"Goldy? Arch?" Bill Quincy hollered again. "You okay? It doesn't look as if anybody's broken in! Could you let me check? Goldy!"
Would the cops object? I didn't know.
"Goldy?" Bill bellowed. "Answer me, or I'm breaking down the door!"
"All right!" I called. "I'm coming!" I told Arch to stay put and tentatively made my way down the stairs.
Freezing air swirled through the first floor. In the living room, glass shards glittered where they'd landed on the couch, chairs, and carpet. I turned off the deafening alarm, flipped on the outside light, and swung open the door.
Four grizzled, goose-down-jacketed men stood on my front step. I was wearing red plaid flannel pj's and my feet were bare, but I told them law enforcement was en route and invited them in. Clouds of steam billowed from the men's mouths as Bill insisted his companions weren't budging. As if to make his point, Bill's posse settled creakily onto our frosted porch. The men's weapons—two rifles and two pistols—glinted in the ghostly light.
Bill Quincy, his wide, chinless face grim, his broad shoulders tense, announced that he intended to go through the house, to see if the shooter had broken in. I should wait until he'd inspected the first floor, he ordered, pushing past me without further ceremony. Bill stomped resolutely through the kitchen and dining room, peered into the tiny half-bath, then returned to the hallway and cocked his head at me. I tiptoed behind him to the kitchen. He shouted a warning into the basement, then banged down the steps. If the intruder was indeed inside, there could be no mistake that my neighbor intended to roust him out.
Jake bounded up to Arch's room ahead of me. Scout, our adopted stray cat, slunk along behind the bloodhound, his long gray-and-brown hair, like Arch's, turned electric from being suddenly roused. Following my animal escort, I silently thanked God that none of us had been hurt, and that we had great neighbors. The cat scooted under the bed used by Julian Teller, our former boarder, now a sophomore at the University of Colorado. Arch asked for a third time what had happened. I didn't want to frighten him. So I lied.
"It just . . . looks as if some drunk staggered up from the Grizzly Saloon, took aim at our living-room window, and shot it out. I don't know whether the guy used a shotgun or a rifle. Whatever it was, he wasn't too plastered to miss."
My son nodded slowly, not sure whether to believe me. He shouldn't have, of course. The Grizzly closed early on Sunday night.
I stared at the hands on Arch's new clock, a gift from his fencing coach. The clock was in the shape of a tiny knight holding a sword, from which a timepiece dangled. When the hands pointed to four-twenty-five, a wail of sirens broke the tense silence. I pushed aside Arch's faded orange curtains and peeked out his window. Two sheriff's department vehicles hurtled down our street and parked at the curb.
I raced back to Tom's and my bedroom and slid into jeans, a sweatshirt, and clogs. Had someone unintentionally fired a gun? Was the damage to our window just some stupid accident? Surely it couldn't have been deliberate. And of all the times for this to happen . . .
I started downstairs. Today was supposed to herald my first big job in five weeks, a luncheon gig at a Gothic chapel on an estate dominated by a genuine English castle. The castle was one of Aspen Meadow's gorgeous-but-weird landmarks. If things went well, the castle owner—who was hoping to open a conference center at the site—promised to be a huge client. I didn't want anything to mess up today's job.
Then again, I fretted as I gripped the railing, I was a caterer married to a cop, a cop working on a case so difficult he'd been forced to search for a suspect two thousand miles away. Perhaps the gunshot had been a message for Tom.
Outside, the red-and-blue lights flashing on snow-covered pines created monstrous shadows. The sight of cop cars was not unfamiliar to me. Still, my throat tightened as I wrenched open our front door. Bill and the other gun-toters looked at me sympathetically.
Why would someone shoot at the house of a caterer?
I swallowed hard.
Release Date: April 26, 2024
Release Time: 84 minutes
Director: Paul Ziller
Cast:
Nikki Deloach as Goldy
Andrew W. Walker as Tom
Jaycie Dotin as Marla
Riley Davis as Mason
Lochlyn Munro as Richard
Brock Morgan as Trach
Eric Breker as Gerard
Daxton Grey as Jake(as Daxton Gujral)
Britt Good as Emma Kensington
Maesa Nicholson as Olive
Graeme McComb as Charlie
Vincent Gale as Klaus
Tanis Dolman as Agatha Wynford
Ted Cole as Ivan
Andrew Kavadas as Sir Alistair
Charles Jarman as Baron Sweetwater
Philip Prajoux as Coach Pierre
Greg Rogers as Edmund
Jaleese Green as Federal Agent
Diane Mott Davidson is the author of seventeen bestselling novels. She divides her time between Colorado and Florida.
Series
KOBO / iTUNES / iTUNES AUDIO
Film
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