Patrick Kelly's Blog

It’s the season of giving. Here’s a free short story for all you dog lovers.

A Merrier Terrier Christmas features a kidnapped Westie named Sport, the retired detective Bill O’Shea, and a Wintergreen dance called the Snow Ball. Follow the link to download your free copy and share it with your friends!

Free download is here.

The story begins:

Bill O’Shea parked his Mazda in the lot below the Mountain Inn and glanced at his passenger, Cindy Quintrell, a neighbor and close friend. It was eight o’clock on a Saturday morning in early December.

“I appreciate you helping us decorate for the Snow Ball,” said Cindy.

“You bet.”

Cindy had sandy blond hair and a cute figure that made Bill’s heart quicken whenever he allowed his thoughts to wander. The two of them had become an on-again off-again couple soon after he moved to Wintergreen the previous summer. Lately, their relationship had seemed more off than on, so when Cindy asked Bill to help the dance committee decorate the ballroom, he cleared his calendar in a flash.

Barren oak and hickory trees surrounded the parking lot, but the Mountain Inn was decorated for the holidays with lights, garlands, and other trimmings. They crossed the driveway to reach the inn, and Bill noticed Teddy DeAngelis walking toward them with Sport, his West Highland White Terrier. Sport struggled against his leash to greet them, and Bill offered his hand for sniffing. Sport wagged his tail furiously, and Bill rubbed behind the Westie’s ears.

After exchanging greetings with Teddy, Bill said, “Sport is such a good dog. I bet he’s the merriest terrier on the mountain.”

“Could be,” said Teddy. “He certainly gets his share of attention.” Teddy was a tall, thin man with gray hair, who had retired to Wintergreen after an insurance career.

“Are you coming to the Snow Ball, Teddy?” said Cindy.

“Yes, I’ll be there. Although, frankly, dancing’s not my thing.”

Bill nodded. Bill and his ex-wife, Wanda, had taken ballroom dancing lessons in their forties. Bill hadn’t danced at all in a few years and was nervous about it, but not so nervous that he wouldn’t ask Cindy to join him on the dance floor. Oh, no.

He and Cindy waved bye to Teddy and Sport and entered the lower level of the Mountain Inn. Bill guessed the ballroom had space for two hundred guests plus a dance floor and a stage for the band.

Five other volunteers were on hand to help out, four women and one man. Being artistically challenged, Bill and the other man were assigned low-skilled tasks such as lugging boxes and rearranging furniture. Cindy met with the resort’s catering manager to make sure expectations were aligned regarding food and beverages. A small advance team for the band arranged equipment and performed preliminary sound checks. After working for two hours, the committee took a break and sat at a round table.

“So, why is it called the Snow Ball?” Bill asked the table at large. It was far too early in the season to rely on snowfall. The weather had been warm on the mountain that week, but temperatures were expected to fall below freezing overnight.

A woman with gray hair and a long nose raised her eyebrows and then glanced at the table’s glass centerpiece, which was filled with white indoor snowballs four inches in diameter. Bill picked up a snowball. It was airy and lightweight but firm enough for him to toss from one hand to the other. No one responded to his question directly, but Bill could guess the answer.

After another thirty minutes, the team finished their work, and Bill approached Cindy to see if she was ready to leave.

“I need to see the catering manager about one more thing,” she said. “Can you wait ten minutes?”

“Sure. I’ll wander around a bit and meet you in the lobby.”

“Great.”

Outside behind the Mountain Inn, the temperature had climbed into the mid-forties. Puffy clouds floated in an azure sky. A raven cawed loudly from the high branches of a nearby tree. Bill stretched his arms, breathed crisp air deep into his lungs, and was glad he no longer lived in a city. He strolled to the edge of the brick patio to observe the view. Condo buildings—including his own—lined a high ridge on the left. The barren ski slope before him was covered in brown grass, and the idle chairlifts waited patiently for ski season to arrive.

Off to the left, near the Timbers condos, Teddy DeAngelis came from behind the far side of a building. Teddy frantically glanced left and right. He seemed terribly agitated. Bill’s heartbeat accelerated, and he began marching toward Teddy. Teddy shook his hands in desperation, and Bill ran to reach him.

Bill took several deep breaths, then said, “What’s the matter, Teddy?”

Teddy’s head was on a swivel. His eyes searched behind the shrubs around the Timbers condo buildings.

“I . . . I can’t find Sport.”

“Sport? When did you last see him?”

“Soon after I saw you and Cindy out front. We walked to Discovery Ridge and back, and then I let him off his leash to play on the slope. He usually runs around a bit and then sniffs at the grass. Phyllis Spooner came by, and we chatted for a few minutes. But when I looked for Sport, he was gone.”

Oh, no. Not good. That was hours ago.

“Where’s Phyllis now?”

“She’s circling the main building. We’ve been searching for Sport all this time.”

“Wasn’t Sport wearing a GPS tracker?”

“Yes.” Teddy held his phone toward Bill. “I keep checking. The app says Sport is right here somewhere, but I can’t find him.”

Teddy’s chest heaved, and Bill touched his arm. “We’ll find Sport. Try to settle down. I’m worried you might faint.”

Teddy’s lip trembled. “I have to find him, Bill. I have to. He’s all I’ve got.”

“Okay. Let’s find Phyllis, and we’ll divide our efforts to cover more ground. He couldn’t have gone far.”

Teddy’s head hung low, and he covered his face with a hand.

At that moment, Phyllis Spooner came around the side of the closest Timbers building. Bill and Phyllis lived in the same condo building on the ridge. Phyllis waved and hustled toward them, but then something caught her eye. She stared at a nearby bench.

“Hey! Teddy. Bill. Look at this.”

Bill and Teddy hurried to join Phyllis. On the bench was a plain white envelope addressed in typed letters to Dog Owner.

Teddy’s eyes grew wide. He hesitantly reached for the letter.

“Let me do that, Teddy,” said Bill.

Bill did his best to open the envelope without disturbing any fingerprints the dognapper had left behind. The culprit demanded five thousand dollars in twenty-dollar bills for the dog’s safe return. If Teddy involved the police or the press, he would never see his dog again. Printed words below the typed text provided directions on where to leave the ransom money. They were to hide it in a specific place in the women’s restroom during the Snow Ball that night. The envelope also contained Sport’s GPS tracker.

Teddy collapsed on the bench. His face turned ashen, and his eyes lost focus.

Phyllis exchanged worried looks with Bill, shook her head, and touched Teddy’s arm.

“I have to go the bank,” said Teddy.

“Let’s think this through a minute,” said Bill.

“No, you read the letter. I have to get the money, or they’ll do something horrible to Sport.”

“Whoever took Sport is a professional,” said Bill. “This is a form letter, except for the instructions on where to leave the money. They’ve done this before. We should consult the Wintergreen police.”

Teddy shook his head. “No. No police.”

Phyllis bit her lip and cast Bill a doubtful glance.

“Okay,” said Bill. “We’ll figure it out.”

Who could have done such a thing? Not a Wintergreen resident, surely. Bill had lived in Wintergreen for six months and never heard of a kidnapped dog. The criminal was a visitor who knew of the Snow Ball. But that left a long list of suspects. The mountain resort attracted hundreds of visitors every weekend, and the Snow Ball was a widely publicized event.

Teddy stood and said once again, “I have to go to the bank.”

“Let me go with you,” said Bill.

The rest of the story is available free here.

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I’m excited to announce Murder in White, Book Three of the Wintergreen Mystery Series. Available now in print and ebook versions at Amazon and in ebook version at other online stores.

DISCOUNT PRICE ON AMAZON THROUGH NOVEMBER 15.

As president of the Old Virginia Gun Club, Cassandra Key calls for a trustees’ meeting at the beautiful ski resort of Wintergreen, Virginia. Cassandra–a huge fan of outdoor sports–ignores a harsh weather forecast to undertake a solo hike across mountainous terrain. But then she disappears.

A search mission ensues but fails to locate Cassandra, and the next morning, a ski patroller finds her buried in snow. She is deceased–shot twice in the chest by a high-powered rifle.

The short-staffed Wintergreen Police Department asks retired homicide detective Bill O’Shea to assist them with the investigation. After initial interviews, Bill has suspicions about several gun club trustees, but he can’t sort out how anyone shot Cassandra from four hundred yards in the middle of a snowstorm. Will Bill and his friends solve the mystery of a murder in white, or will a Wintergreen killer go free?

If you love beautiful mountain settings, a charming cast, and intriguing plot twists, you're going to love the Wintergreen Mystery Series!

Clean read: no graphic violence, sex, or strong language.

See the book page.

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I’m excited to announce The Overlook Murder, Book Two of the Wintergreen Mystery Series. Available now in print and ebook versions at Amazon and in ebook version at other online stores:

The rich entrepreneur Damian Susskind has recently survived a heart attack and quintuple bypass surgery. Suddenly aware of his own mortality, Damian summons his family and friends to Wintergreen to share the latest plans for his will. Unfortunately for Damian, one of those in attendance bears him malicious intent, and by the end of the day, Damian is dead.

Retired police detective Bill O’Shea is asked to help the short-staffed Wintergreen police department investigate an accidental death. Forensic evidence soon convinces Bill that this was no accident. There is plenty of motive to go around and more than a few suspects–the difficulty is tying a single killer to the crime. Will Bill and his friends solve the case, or will a Wintergreen murderer go free?

If you love beautiful mountain settings, a charming cast, and intriguing plot twists, you're going to love the Wintergreen Mystery Series!

Clean read: no graphic violence, sex, or strong language.

JOIN MY READERS CLUB TO HEAR ABOUT NEW RELEASES

I’m excited to announce Book Two of the Wintergreen Mystery Series. Available for pre-order at a discount price through June 10th. Read three short excerpts here:

Near sunset, a soft breeze rustled maple leaves on a suburban street in Charlottesville. The homes were brick, some painted white and others a natural red. Idle chimneys extended above the shingled roofs. A large two-story home was decorated with shuttered windows and a dark front door. On either side of the house, camellia bushes and holly trees provided lush greenery while summer flowers bloomed brightly in the landscaped yard: chrysanthemum, pansy, begonia, and foxglove.

A jogger rounded the street’s corner at an easy pace. The residents were either away or inside, and no one noticed the jogger. Not that anything alarming was to be seen, for the jogger regularly passed that way.

Digitalis purpurea.

In the eighteenth century, an English herbalist made a concoction of twenty different herbs that promised to rid the body of unwanted fluids. A doctor named William Withering identified the concoction’s magic herb as foxglove, and he began using it experimentally with patients who suffered from dropsy. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. The dose spelled the difference between medicine and poison.

The jogger paused, kneeled over a shoelace, and surveyed both sides of the empty street. After removing small scissors from a pocket, the jogger dashed across the lush lawn to the flower bed.

Stay calm. Make sure you get enough.

The jogger quickly harvested green leaves from the blooming foxglove plants. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. The jogger placed the leaves in a plastic bag and then tucked the bag into a pocket.

These will help things along.

With a quick glance to verify no one was watching, the jogger returned to the street and soon disappeared around the next corner.

***

Thank you for reading Chapter One of The Overlook Murder, book two of The Wintergreen Mystery Series.

Earlier that morning when Bill peered over his balcony railing, Mr. Chips was nowhere to be found. Perhaps the groundhog had slept in. After the interview with Frieda Chang, Bill strolled down to his condo building to get his car. Once he passed Cindy’s building, he glanced right toward the ridge’s edge and spied Mr. Chips nibbling on greens near his burrow entrance.

Bill waved. “Wait there, Mr. Chips. Be right back.”

Inside his condo, Bill picked up a bright red beefsteak tomato and then hustled outside again. Having set the goal of getting a little closer to Mr. Chips every day, Bill now hoped to cross the ten-foot line. He held the tomato high and jiggled it to capture the groundhog’s attention. Mr. Chips stood straight and dropped the greens.

Bill then repeated the routine he had established. Slow steps toward the target. No sudden moves. Everything was going according to plan. Twenty feet. Fifteen feet. Ten feet. Bill’s heartbeat accelerated.

But suddenly, Mr. Chips stood straight and turned his head as if to listen for something. Bill frowned.

“Take it easy, Mr. Chips. I have a nice fat fruit here, but you only get it when you let me come a few feet closer.”

It was as if Bill had said nothing at all. Mr. Chips turned his head farther to the side and lifted his nose to sniff. What in the heck? Mr. Chips pulled his head back, and then his whole body jerked. In the next instant, the groundhog rushed to his burrow entrance and disappeared.

“Dang it,” said Bill. He stomped toward the entrance and leaned over to snarl. “What is your problem? You were happy to wait yesterday. Don’t think I’ll drop this tomato for you to eat at your leisure. These things aren’t free, you know. This is a two-way street.”

But then Bill heard a noise coming from beyond the drop-off of the hill. The grasses on the slope rustled. He sensed movement and got the unmistakable impression that another life-form approached. Then, a dark furry form rose above the slope not ten feet away. His heart pounded, and his eyes bulged.

Holy Peter, Paul, and Mary! It’s a bear!

Bill dropped the tomato and fell on his butt in the grass.

But the bear kept coming. The mammal moved leisurely, one huge paw in front of the other. The black omnivore would reach Bill in a few instants.

Bill crab-walked backward, his eyes glued to the bear. The bear sniffed Mr. Chips’s burrow entrance, pawed at it once, and noticed the tomato. Bill kept scrambling, his arms and legs a blur. The bear sat on its haunch, grabbed the tomato with both hands, and lifted it for a close inspection. Bill managed to stand and continued to increase his margin of safety. After sniffing the fruit, the bear decided it made for a suitable snack, and the tomato disappeared down the bear’s gullet in the next instant.

Wait a minute. Bill knew that bear. The same varmint had stolen his coffee and danish a few months earlier. Bill didn’t harbor any ill will, although he was glad the bear had settled for Mr. Chips’s tomato. On that other occasion, Bill’s neighbor, Mrs. Spooner, had laughed at Bill and delighted at the bear’s presence. She even had a name for the bear. What was it?

Ms. Betsy.

Bill waved. “H-hey, Ms. Betsy.”

In answer to his greeting, Ms. Betsy rose and ambled toward him.

“You can stay there if you want to,” said Bill.

Nothing doing. Ms. Betsy had places to go, and Bill stood in her path. He hustled to the sidewalk and then up the steps toward his building. Fortunately, Ms. Betsy paid him no mind. She sniffed his car door but apparently detected nothing of interest. After examining two other vehicles in the lot, she made her way into the woods and was soon gone from view.

Inside his condo, Bill poured a glass of water and sat at his dining table to wait for his heart to settle. Good lord. He lived in a wilderness area. What had ever possessed him to leave the safe confines of a civilized city? But in the next moment, he knew the answer. No matter how hard humans tried to create artificial structures of beauty, the results paled compared to what lay a few strides from his door. City dwellers scurried about in a frantic search for their next thrill. Better to take a walk in the woods.

Cindy drove Bill down Laurel Springs Drive to a point where a uniformed officer directed traffic around a growing number of vehicles parked on the side of the road. Two Wintergreen police squad cars were already there, along with Evan Hale’s Land Rover, a Ford Escape, and Alex Sharp’s pickup. Cindy stopped her SUV briefly, and Bill hopped out. Interim Chief Alex Sharp had just arrived, and the two men met at the trailhead.

The Old Appalachian Trail branched from the road in a southwesterly direction. Speckles of sunlight broke through the forest canopy high above them. The air smelled lightly of decaying leaves from prior seasons. Lichen-patched boulders the size of cars and tiny houses lay on the mountainside, discarded carelessly by an ice age’s retreating glaciers.

Obviously anxious, Alex set a quick pace on the trail. He wore khakis and a light jacket, making Bill feel self-conscious in his catering outfit. The trail followed the contour of the mountain on a generally upward slope. The overlook was a little more than half a mile from the road, and they covered the distance in ten minutes. As they drew nearer, sunlight from the right brightened the forest.

Damian Susskind’s guests—Tanya Stafford, Lacey Akin, and Evan Hale—stood in a quiet cluster forty feet from the overlook with an officer named Rodríguez. Their faces were drawn. Lacey looked pale.

Alex waved Rodríguez over.

“What’s the story, José?” said Alex.

José pointed to where the trail continued south. “Officers Gentry and Hill went to search for a way to the bottom to see what can be done. EMS is on the way—should get here soon.” José consulted notes on his phone. “It’s not exactly clear what happened. The victim fell off the cliff—they all agree on that. But they were not together when he fell. The man—Hale—was standing back in the woods with Lacey Akin. Everyone agrees that Tanya Stafford and Susskind were out there on the rock.”

An offshoot from the main trail broke through the trees and met the solid rock at the mountain’s edge. The overlook itself was a ledge that ended abruptly in the open air. It stood alone now and peaceful, as if to proclaim its innocence—gravity deserved the blame. Wind blew up the mountainside and rustled the treetops.

“Here’s the real problem,” said José. “According to Lacey Akin, Tanya Stafford pushed Susskind off the cliff.”

Thank you for reading short excerpts of The Overlook Murder.

Read the book description.

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When my friend Duffy recommended that I read A Man with One of Those Faces by Caimh McDonnell, I knew I was in for a treat. Duffy has exquisite taste in crime fiction. But this time Duffy outdid himself because this novel is nothing short of fantastic.

Paul Mulchrone is in a terrible jam. He performs community service every week by visiting terminally ill hospital patients. Unfortunately for Paul, a murderous criminal believes Paul heard incriminating evidence from a dying man’s lips. This same criminal is now determined to kill Paul to keep his secret a secret. Paul doesn’t understand the information he’s received, and he doesn’t know who’s trying to kill him. To save himself, he’ll have to solve a thirty-year-old mystery while dodging harrowing attempts on his life.

Paul is a curious young man who remains unemployed by choice and lives on five hundred euros a month. When Paul figures out that really bad people are determined to kill him, his first instinct is to run. But with no money and no car, where will he go and what will he do when he gets there? Fortunately for Paul, he has two allies.

Nurse Brigit feels guilty because she introduced Paul to the dying man who got Paul into trouble in the first place. As an avid reader of crime fiction, Brigit desperately wants to help Paul solve the mystery. Her nursing skills come in handy more than once during the story, but it’s her quick mind and sharp tongue that endear her to the reader.

Bunny McGarry is perhaps the best tough-cop character I’ve ever encountered. He’s loud, crass, usually drunk, and always carries a hurley. (For non-Irish readers, a hurley is a wooden stick used in the game of hurling. Search for hurling up on Youtube. It’s awesome.) Bunny only cares about one thing: the citizens of his little corner of Dublin. Though they are at odds now, Bunny still counts Paul as one of those citizens, and Bunny will use his hurley however and whenever he needs to keep Paul safe.

Bunny trusts very few people, certainly not the police. Paul doesn’t trust anyone, although Brigit is growing on him. Despite nearly constant conflict between them, these three characters must work together to have any chance of surviving the next chapter let alone the end of the novel.

McDonnell never goes cheap on characters, even when they have only bit parts to play in the overall story. Each character gets their own backstory and emotions and most importantly, their own ax to grind. Oh, and the chief villain? He’s a worthy adversary you’re going to love to hate.

The author’s riveting prose kept me turning the pages. The dialogue and narrative are some of the funniest I’ve ever encountered in a crime story. I giggled. I chuckled. I laughed out loud.

The setting is blue-collar Dublin for the most part. I don’t know Dublin, but reading this novel makes me want to visit just so I can hear the locals talk. The dialogue is nothing short of genius. Witty. Crisp. To the point and always fresh.

Some popular crime novels are all about the plot. First, something happens. Then something else happens. Then this other thing. I keep turning the pages to find out what happens next, but occasionally, I wonder why I’m bothering. Not so with Caimh McDonnell. Reading this novel felt like having favorite guests over to my house for a long and entertaining visit. I never wanted it to end.

So, it was great to discover that McDonnell has written ten other novels I have yet to read, including four more in this series.

This is the best crime novel by a living author I’ve read in a long time. If you enjoy well-written crime stories with fascinating characters, I highly recommend that you read A Man with One of Those Faces. 

The black and white image above is called The murder of William the Silent from The Story of Mankind by Hendrik Willem Van Loon, 1921.

This backstory vignette recently appeared on the Novels Alive book blog.

When you read The Mountain View Murder, one of the characters will mention Frieda Chang’s encounter with Ms. Betsy in passing. The detailed version of that story is here:

#

Frieda Chang and her poodle Curly pulled into the lot and parked near their condo unit in Wintergreen, Virginia. They had been grocery shopping in Waynesboro and badly needed a break, so Frieda grabbed the important groceries from the back seat and left the rest in the trunk of her soft-top convertible. After stashing the foodstuffs in the fridge and cupboard, Frieda and Curly took a quick spin around the condo building and went back inside.

Curly found his usual perch on top of the bed overlooking the parking lot. The window was open, which allowed for his favorite activity, barking at neighbors who came and went. The neighbors had long ago learned to ignore Curly.

As for Frieda–and this is relevant to the story—she was preoccupied with the looming deadline for her next spicy romance novel. So, she completely forgot about the remaining groceries in the convertible’s trunk. On the drive up the mountain, Frieda had worked out the next scene in her mind, and she was soon tapping keys on her laptop at great speed. Indeed, she was so immersed in her fictional world that it took an extra minute for her to notice Curly had barked at the same neighbor for some time. Dang it.

“Curly! Blast you. I’ve lost my concentration.”

But then Frieda grew puzzled, for her raised voice generally quieted the poodle. Not this time. Curly barked and barked, and not in his usual banter voice. No, he was downright angry. Frieda pushed back and stood. Being the offspring of two professional basketball players, Frieda was tall and strong and not easily intimidated. And so, when she came to the window and saw a black bear sniffing around her convertible, she grew agitated.

“Hey, you! Black bear! Get away from my car!”

The bear weighed several hundred pounds and had small eyes, rounded ears, and a long brown snout. Ignoring Frieda’s demand, the bear soon focused its attention on the trunk.

“Oh. My. Gosh,” said Frieda. “The dog food.”

To be specific, a twenty-pound bag of turkey-flavored Doggie Dinner had now drawn the attention of a voraciously hungry omnivore. The bear placed its front legs on the trunk and began bouncing Frieda’s convertible in an apparent attempt to get inside. When that failed, the bear climbed onto the soft top and easily ripped a large hole in the roof. Frieda reached for her phone.

“Wintergreen Police. Krista Jackson speaking. How may I help you?” said the woman who answered Frieda’s call.

“This is Frieda Chang in The Ledges Condos. I need help immediately. A bear is destroying my car.”

“Oh, dear, that’s awful. Please do not approach that bear, Ms. Chang. Now hold the line.” Moments later, Krista returned. “Officer John Hill is on the way.”

“I hope so. Gracious, the bear is ripping up the seats.”

“My. My. Those bears do get determined. By any chance, is there something inside the car that the bear could eat?”

Freida’s face grew warm. “Um, there might be some dog food in the trunk, but it’s inside a bag.”

“Dog food, huh? Unfortunately, bears can’t read.”

The bear dug furiously at the back seats of the convertible.

Frieda’s eyes bulged. Curly, perhaps awed by the bear’s ability to enforce its will, stopped barking.

Having apparently gained access to the trunk from that direction, the bear began eating dog food with its fat butt sticking out of the car.

At that moment, a Wintergreen police cruiser pulled into the lot.

“Thank goodness,” said Frieda. “Your colleague has arrived.”

Krista said, “Excellent. Let me just say before you drop off, Ms. Chang, that I absolutely love your novels. Steamy? My word. And that Hawthorne, he is both a dreamboat and a disaster. How do you come up with these characters?”

As a successful writer, Frieda always tried to go the extra mile for her readers, but these were extenuating circumstances, so she kept it short. “Ah, yes, thank you, Ms. Jackson. Please stop by for a signed copy. Now I must see Officer Hill before the bear completely ruins my car.”

Frieda ran to join Officer Hill next to his cruiser.

“Please, do something,” she cried.

“Not much we can do,” said Hill. “Ms. Betsy will eat until there’s nothing left.”

“Ms. Betsy?”

“Oh, yeah. Ms. Betsy’s a regular and a sweetheart, too. She’ll move along soon. You watch.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?”

Hill scratched his head. “Well, maybe. Have you got your keys?”

And then, to Frieda’s amazement, Officer Hill donned gloves and opened the trunk. He watched Ms. Betsy for a few moments, then said the bear could not access the whole bag from that direction. In just a few seconds, he lifted the partially ripped bag from the trunk, hauled it to the middle of the lot, and returned to his squad car. Soon after that, Ms. Betsy extracted herself from Frieda’s convertible and lumbered to the bag. With freer access, she shortly worked through the rest of the food and then ambled into the nearby forest.

With head in hands, Frieda examined the carnage.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” said Officer Hill. “The damage is cosmetic, and we’ve found insurance generally covers it. After your deductible, of course.”

*  *  *

This encounter became fondly known to full-time Wintergreen residents as the Ms. Betsy incident. Read The Mountain View Murder: A Wintergreen Mystery to learn whether Bill O’Shea and his new friends can solve a head-scratching mystery.

The paperback is available on Amazon.

The ebook is available at all the major sites:

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/3wrRuOm

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/3gqnBIx

Everywhere else: https://bit.ly/3pUHoTC

Add it to your Goodreads Want to Read list now.

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No one. His wife, grown children, and best friends all attended the service, but no one shed a single tear. Poor Lou. He was out for his morning walk when a crazed driver knocked him out of life. Crazed? With no car, no driver, and no witnesses, it’s difficult to say. Was it an accident or intentional?

Until that morning, Bill O’Shea was living the dream. After a career of fighting crime in the big city, Bill bought a condo in the beautiful mountain resort community of Wintergreen, Virginia. When he met his attractive new neighbor, Bill knew his retirement was off to a great start. But then the short-staffed police department asked Bill to help them investigate Thorpe’s death.

Soon, Bill fell into an old routine. Interviewing suspects. Checking alibis. Everyone had a secret to hide, but Bill lacked evidence to tie any of the suspects to the crime. He was missing something--like he had an itch he couldn’t reach to scratch.

Will Bill and his new friends solve the case, or will the murder of Lou Thorpe remain a mystery forever?

If you love beautiful mountain settings, a charming cast, and intriguing plot twists, you're going to love this new series!

Clean read: no graphic violence, sex, or strong language.

The paperback is available on Amazon.

The ebook is available at all the major sites:

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/3wrRuOm

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/3gqnBIx

Everywhere else: https://bit.ly/3pUHoTC

Add it to your Goodreads Want to Read list now.

JOIN MY READERS CLUB TO HEAR ABOUT NEW RELEASES

Guess who cried at Lou Thorpe’s funeral. No one.

If you love beautiful mountain settings, a charming cast, and intriguing plot twists, you're going to love this new series!

Read the first two chapters now.

In the dead of the summer night, harsh winds blew from the north into the Shenandoah Valley. The cold front passed through Winchester and New Market and Harrisonburg, bringing relief from the steamy July heat that had gripped the valley for weeks. The chilling weather marched through the smaller cities of Staunton and Waynesboro. From Waynesboro, the front spread into a finger valley to the south and then through cornfields and chicken coops. Cows huddled together for warmth. Windows rattled on old farmhouses. The wind hit the east side of the small valley, sang through the forests of oak and hickory and maple, and rolled over the rounded tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

At fifteen minutes after three o’clock in the morning in the mountaintop resort community of Wintergreen, a seventy-four-year-old man woke in bed next to his slumbering wife. No more sleep for him that night. Insomnia. Wind whistled through an unlocked window in another room. He rose, stopped briefly in the bathroom, and dressed for his morning walk down to the Mountain Inn. The old man prided himself on maintaining his physical condition long after most of his contemporaries had given up. They were lazy and allowed wine and steaks and desserts to add to their figures year after year until they could no longer enjoy the greatest thrills life had to offer. Though the sun rose early that time of year—before six—he often returned from his exercise in time to make coffee and observe the day’s dawning from his back deck.

The old man exited through the summer home’s front door carrying a flashlight, but he kept it turned off. Even though clouds had rolled in, there was enough ambient light to distinguish the forest from the paved road. He lumbered a quarter mile up Hemlock Drive and crossed Devils Knob Loop into the Westwood Condos. At the end of the parking lot, he cut through the woods on an asphalt trail. Close-set trees snuffed out the remaining light, and he flicked on the flashlight to pick his way through wet spots on the path. He cursed the intermittent showers that had plagued Wintergreen for a week now—they mucked up the golf course roughs and made the greens slow.

He crossed Wintergreen Drive and soon came to the fitness center parking lot. Next to the mail hut on the left, two sports cars with weather covers waited for their owners to return to the mountain. On the right, a lone SUV sat parked under the branches of an oak tree. The shadows were dark, so he couldn’t tell for sure, but the SUV’s outline resembled that of a Honda Pilot.

At the far edge of the lot, the old man cut back onto Wintergreen Drive and began to make his way down the steep decline of that side of the mountain. At that early hour, he was more likely to see a raccoon or an opossum than a passing car; even so, he kept to the left side of the road. A gust of wind rustled leaves on the hardwood trees at his side. The exercise kept his core warm, but his neck and face and hands were exposed to the chill, so he zipped his windbreaker to his chin and tightened the Velcro straps at his wrists.

Back at the parking lot, the Honda Pilot engine turned over, and the headlights illuminated the mail hut. The driver engaged the transmission and pulled out. Then the Honda Pilot turned left on Wintergreen Drive, passed Devils Knob Loop on the right and Blue Ridge Drive on the left, and headed down the hill.

The old man heard a vehicle approaching from a distance. Who could be out this early other than another poor insomniac? Perhaps a worker with an early shift down in the valley? No. Few workers lived up here on the mountain. Maybe a Wintergreen patrol officer making the rounds? Yeah. That was more likely. Headlights appeared behind him, and though he stayed on the safe side of the road, the old man drew comfort from knowing he wore a bright reflective vest.

The engine came closer, disturbing the peaceful darkness of his routine. The old man would be glad when the car was gone. His heart beat faster, and he subconsciously touched his chest. No worries there. Not yet. Not like many of his buddies—high cholesterol, hypertension—who lugged with them everywhere a ticking disaster in waiting.

Headlights swerved into the trees on his left. Why? The vehicle’s engine raced. It was insane to speed down this road, for the shoulders were narrow and the ditches deep. The old man turned to the uphill slope, and the headlights blinded him. He raised a hand to his eyes. The vehicle turned crazily to the other side of the street and then back toward the old man. His heartbeat thrashed in his ears. Signals rushed to his brain, and he clutched his chest. A terrifying noise of screeching tires pierced the air.

The grille of the Honda Pilot struck the old man, and he took flight. His body shot across the ditch toward the forest and hit the thick trunk of an old hickory. A sickening thwack echoed among the trees and down the nearby ski slope. The old man fell to the ground, and blood seeped from his skull onto dead leaves from the prior season.

The Honda rested three feet past where the old man had stood. The driver stepped from the SUV and shined a powerful flashlight into the ditch. Not seeing the old man, the driver stepped off the road and onto the muddy ground. The flashlight panned slowly across the area beyond the ditch until it found the reflective orange of the vest. There he was. A dark and shiny wet patch stained the ground beneath him.

Dead. Definitely dead.

The old man’s face was turned up. His mustache and upper lip had been torn from his face, leaving his mouth open in a sickly grin.

Not so handsome now.

The driver searched the road in both directions. No cars approached, and the driver climbed back into the Honda and drove down the mountain.

Thank you for reading Chapter One of The Mountain View Murder. In Chapter Two, you’ll meet Bill O’Shea, a retired police detective who is drawn into the investigation of a hit and run homicide.

The paperback version is available on Amazon now. Here. The ebook version will be available for pre-order on June 15.

Add it to your Goodreads Want to Read list now.

Read the book description.

After his morning walk, Bill O’Shea strung binoculars around his neck, grabbed a mug of freshly made coffee, and ambled onto his condo balcony dressed in running pants and a quick-dry T-shirt.

The crest of the hill across the wooded valley rolled softly down from the right. The curved line of the hill resembled a woman lying on her side, wider at the shoulders and the hips, narrower at the waist, beautiful and mysterious at the same time. The Mountain Inn lay at the top of the valley on the right. Idle chairlift towers and cables ran up the cleared ski slopes. Hidden ski runs cut sweeping lines through the forests. Silence hung heavy and comfortable, broken only by the intermittent chirping of small birds.

Stepping to the balcony rail, Bill leaned out and scanned the line of condo buildings along his side of the valley. To the right, more buildings climbed the ridge of the hill. The sides of the small gorge met farther down the mountain and leveled out into the Rockfish Valley. Off in the distance, a soft blue haze hovered over the rounded peaks of the Blue Ridge.

Sheesh. Would he ever tire of that view? Never. Hopefully never. He had bought the condo a month earlier for two reasons: the vista and the low upkeep. Having lived his entire life in the city of Columbia, South Carolina—not a big city, but a city nonetheless—he relished residing in a sparsely populated part of the world, a place where beauty reigned over human conflict. Practically speaking, the ongoing costs of the twelve-hundred-square-foot condo fit well within his policeman’s retirement budget. Even better, he had left behind the irksome and endless tasks associated with yard and house maintenance, the taste for which he had lost long ago.

Wait. There they were—Ricky Bobby and Cal—the American goldfinches Bill had nicknamed after observing them frolicking in roller-coaster patterns near his third-floor balcony. On first sighting, he had no clue as to their species, so he had given them names from a comedy about a race car driver. The crazy loops they flew in reminded him of the fast turns drivers made around the tracks. Ricky Bobby and Cal had inspired him to order the Birds of Virginia Field Guide, which is how he had learned their common name.

Ricky Bobby and Cal swooped from right to left and then returned to land on a branch at the forest’s edge, half a football field away. Bill trained his binoculars on the tree limb and searched until he found one of the birds. The bird’s yellow feathers puffed out and then settled. Ricky Bobby nervously searched the skies above him and then opened his beak to speak.

“Hello!”

Bill flinched and pulled back from the binoculars.

Lord. Did Ricky Bobby say that?

Bill’s eyes returned to the binoculars and scanned the branch once more. Ricky Bobby had flown.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice hailed to someone from close by. Bill glanced at the building to the right. A hundred feet away, a woman waved at him from her third-floor balcony. Bill approached the railing and immediately felt self-conscious about his balcony’s appearance, for hers was a lush airborne garden with hanging pots and colorful flowers and lots of other greenery. She was blond, medium height, and shapely. From that distance, he guessed her age at late fifties to early sixties.

“Hi,” he called.

“Are you my new neighbor?” She waved at the condo buildings that lined the ridge. “Most of the owners come on weekends or rent their properties out to vacationers. Only a few of us live here full time.”

Her voice was clear and confident and cheerful. She stood with her weight forward, her elbows pressing against the rail. One foot lifted playfully behind her, as a child’s might when idly chatting with a friend. She wore jean shorts and a T-shirt. He couldn’t see her face clearly at that distance, only that she smiled and had curly hair.

“Yes,” Bill said. To his ears, his voice sounded hesitant, so he tried to speak more clearly. “I moved in two weeks ago and plan to live here year round.”

The woman opened her arms and gestured toward the valley. “Welcome to heaven.”

He laughed, for he found her exuberance contagious. “Thank you. By the way, I love your balcony garden.”

She glanced at the overflowing pots around her and said, “It’s a time-consuming hobby, but it keeps me happy. I try to have something blooming all the time, like these geraniums and begonias.” Turning her gaze back his way, she said, “Yours needs work.”

“Yes, I know.” He examined his own balcony, barren save for two patio swivel chairs with a drinks table between them.

“Whatever you do, don’t plant tomatoes,” she said. “Last year, I grew two beautiful cherry tomato plants. They were laden with juicy red fruit, and then one night, a raccoon climbed up and ate them all. That bastard.” Her full-throated laughter filled the air between them.

“Oh, no.”

He stood taller and took a deep breath. In that instant, it appeared—to Bill at least—that the day grew brighter.

When her laughter subsided, she extended a hand toward him and said, “We should become properly acquainted.”

Then his doorbell rang, and he shot a look inside his condo.

Darn. Who on earth could that be?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Someone’s at the door.”

“Well, aren’t you popular?”

“I can’t imagine who. I don’t know a soul.”

“Never mind. I’ve got to get ready for work anyway. We’ll do it later. Bye.”

His shoulders sagged slightly, and he frowned, thinking, perhaps irrationally, that the best part of his day had already come and gone.

He hurried inside, set his mug on the kitchen counter, and reached for the door handle.

This had better be good.

At the entrance to his condo stood Alex Sharp, acting chief of the Wintergreen Police Department.

“Morning, Bill. Sorry to barge in on you like this. We have a situation.”

Thank you for reading Chapter Two of The Mountain View Murder. The paperback version is available on Amazon now. Here. The ebook version will be available for pre-order on June 15.

Add it to your Goodreads Want to Read list now.

Read the book description.

JOIN MY READERS CLUB TO HEAR ABOUT NEW RELEASES

Guess who cried at Lou Thorpe’s funeral. No one.

If you love beautiful mountain settings, a charming cast, a bit of romance, and intriguing plot twists, you're going to love this new series!

Read the first three pages now.

In the dead of the summer night, harsh winds blew from the north into the Shenandoah Valley. The cold front passed through Winchester and New Market and Harrisonburg, bringing relief from the steamy July heat that had gripped the valley for weeks. The chilling weather marched through the smaller cities of Staunton and Waynesboro. From Waynesboro, the front spread into a finger valley to the south and then through cornfields and chicken coops. Cows huddled together for warmth. Windows rattled on old farmhouses. The wind hit the east side of the small valley, sang through the forests of oak and hickory and maple, and rolled over the rounded tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

At fifteen minutes after three o’clock in the morning in the mountaintop resort community of Wintergreen, a seventy-four-year-old man woke in bed next to his slumbering wife. No more sleep for him that night. Insomnia. Wind whistled through an unlocked window in another room. He rose, stopped briefly in the bathroom, and dressed for his morning walk down to the Mountain Inn. The old man prided himself on maintaining his physical condition long after most of his contemporaries had given up. They were lazy and allowed wine and steaks and desserts to add to their figures year after year until they could no longer enjoy the greatest thrills life had to offer. Though the sun rose early that time of year—before six—he often returned from his exercise in time to make coffee and observe the day’s dawning from his back deck.

The old man exited through the summer home’s front door carrying a flashlight, but he kept it turned off. Even though clouds had rolled in, there was enough ambient light to distinguish the forest from the paved road. He lumbered a quarter mile up Hemlock Drive and crossed Devils Knob Loop into the Westwood Condos. At the end of the parking lot, he cut through the woods on an asphalt trail. Close-set trees snuffed out the remaining light, and he flicked on the flashlight to pick his way through wet spots on the path. He cursed the intermittent showers that had plagued Wintergreen for a week now—they mucked up the golf course roughs and made the greens slow.

He crossed Wintergreen Drive and soon came to the fitness center parking lot. Next to the mail hut on the left, two sports cars with weather covers waited for their owners to return to the mountain. On the right, a lone SUV sat parked under the branches of an oak tree. The shadows were dark, so he couldn’t tell for sure, but the SUV’s outline resembled that of a Honda Pilot.

At the far edge of the lot, the old man cut back onto Wintergreen Drive and began to make his way down the steep decline of that side of the mountain. At that early hour, he was more likely to see a raccoon or an opossum than a passing car; even so, he kept to the left side of the road. A gust of wind rustled leaves on the hardwood trees at his side. The exercise kept his core warm, but his neck and face and hands were exposed to the chill, so he zipped his windbreaker to his chin and tightened the Velcro straps at his wrists.

Back at the parking lot, the Honda Pilot engine turned over, and the headlights illuminated the mail hut. The driver engaged the transmission and pulled out. Then the Honda Pilot turned left on Wintergreen Drive, passed Devils Knob Loop on the right and Blue Ridge Drive on the left, and headed down the hill.

The old man heard a vehicle approaching from a distance. Who could be out this early other than another poor insomniac? Perhaps a worker with an early shift down in the valley? No. Few workers lived up here on the mountain. Maybe a Wintergreen patrol officer making the rounds? Yeah. That was more likely. Headlights appeared behind him, and though he stayed on the safe side of the road, the old man drew comfort from knowing he wore a bright reflective vest.

The engine came closer, disturbing the peaceful darkness of his routine. The old man would be glad when the car was gone. His heart beat faster, and he subconsciously touched his chest. No worries there. Not yet. Not like many of his buddies—high cholesterol, hypertension—who lugged with them everywhere a ticking disaster in waiting.

Headlights swerved into the trees on his left. Why? The vehicle’s engine raced. It was insane to speed down this road, for the shoulders were narrow and the ditches deep. The old man turned to the uphill slope, and the headlights blinded him. He raised a hand to his eyes. The vehicle turned crazily to the other side of the street and then back toward the old man. His heartbeat thrashed in his ears. Signals rushed to his brain, and he clutched his chest. A terrifying noise of screeching tires pierced the air.

The grille of the Honda Pilot struck the old man, and he took flight. His body shot across the ditch toward the forest and hit the thick trunk of an old hickory. A sickening thwack echoed among the trees and down the nearby ski slope. The old man fell to the ground, and blood seeped from his skull onto dead leaves from the prior season.

The Honda rested three feet past where the old man had stood. The driver stepped from the SUV and shined a powerful flashlight into the ditch. Not seeing the old man, the driver stepped off the road and onto the muddy ground. The flashlight panned slowly across the area beyond the ditch until it found the reflective orange of the vest. There he was. A dark and shiny wet patch stained the ground beneath him.

Dead. Definitely dead.

The old man’s face was turned up. His mustache and upper lip had been torn from his face, leaving his mouth open in a sickly grin.

Not so handsome now.

The driver searched the road in both directions. No cars approached, and the driver climbed back into the Honda and drove down the mountain.

Thank you for reading Chapter One of The Mountain View Murder. In Chapter Two, you’ll meet Bill O’Shea, a retired police detective who is drawn into the investigation of a hit and run homicide.

The paperback version is available on Amazon now. Here. The ebook version will be available for pre-order on June 15.

Add it to your Goodreads Want to Read list now.

Read the book description.

After his morning walk, Bill O’Shea strung binoculars around his neck, grabbed a mug of freshly made coffee, and ambled onto his condo balcony dressed in running pants and a quick-dry T-shirt.

The crest of the hill across the wooded valley rolled softly down from the right. The curved line of the hill resembled a woman lying on her side, wider at the shoulders and the hips, narrower at the waist, beautiful and mysterious at the same time. The Mountain Inn lay at the top of the valley on the right. Idle chairlift towers and cables ran up the cleared ski slopes. Hidden ski runs cut sweeping lines through the forests. Silence hung heavy and comfortable, broken only by the intermittent chirping of small birds.

Stepping to the balcony rail, Bill leaned out and scanned the line of condo buildings along his side of the valley. To the right, more buildings climbed the ridge of the hill. The sides of the small gorge met farther down the mountain and leveled out into the Rockfish Valley. Off in the distance, a soft blue haze hovered over the rounded peaks of the Blue Ridge.

Sheesh. Would he ever tire of that view? Never. Hopefully never. He had bought the condo a month earlier for two reasons: the vista and the low upkeep. Having lived his entire life in the city of Columbia, South Carolina—not a big city, but a city nonetheless—he relished residing in a sparsely populated part of the world, a place where beauty reigned over human conflict. Practically speaking, the ongoing costs of the twelve-hundred-square-foot condo fit well within his policeman’s retirement budget. Even better, he had left behind the irksome and endless tasks associated with yard and house maintenance, the taste for which he had lost long ago.

Wait. There they were—Ricky Bobby and Cal—the American goldfinches Bill had nicknamed after observing them frolicking in roller-coaster patterns near his third-floor balcony. On first sighting, he had no clue as to their species, so he had given them names from a comedy about a race car driver. The crazy loops they flew in reminded him of the fast turns drivers made around the tracks. Ricky Bobby and Cal had inspired him to order the Birds of Virginia Field Guide, which is how he had learned their common name.

Ricky Bobby and Cal swooped from right to left and then returned to land on a branch at the forest’s edge, half a football field away. Bill trained his binoculars on the tree limb and searched until he found one of the birds. The bird’s yellow feathers puffed out and then settled. Ricky Bobby nervously searched the skies above him and then opened his beak to speak.

“Hello!”

Bill flinched and pulled back from the binoculars.

Lord. Did Ricky Bobby say that?

Bill’s eyes returned to the binoculars and scanned the branch once more. Ricky Bobby had flown.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice hailed to someone from close by. Bill glanced at the building to the right. A hundred feet away, a woman waved at him from her third-floor balcony. Bill approached the railing and immediately felt self-conscious about his balcony’s appearance, for hers was a lush airborne garden with hanging pots and colorful flowers and lots of other greenery. She was blond, medium height, and shapely. From that distance, he guessed her age at late fifties to early sixties.

“Hi,” he called.

“Are you my new neighbor?” She waved at the condo buildings that lined the ridge. “Most of the owners come on weekends or rent their properties out to vacationers. Only a few of us live here full time.”

Her voice was clear and confident and cheerful. She stood with her weight forward, her elbows pressing against the rail. One foot lifted playfully behind her, as a child’s might when idly chatting with a friend. She wore jean shorts and a T-shirt. He couldn’t see her face clearly at that distance, only that she smiled and had curly hair.

“Yes,” Bill said. To his ears, his voice sounded hesitant, so he tried to speak more clearly. “I moved in two weeks ago and plan to live here year round.”

The woman opened her arms and gestured toward the valley. “Welcome to heaven.”

He laughed, for he found her exuberance contagious. “Thank you. By the way, I love your balcony garden.”

She glanced at the overflowing pots around her and said, “It’s a time-consuming hobby, but it keeps me happy. I try to have something blooming all the time, like these geraniums and begonias.” Turning her gaze back his way, she said, “Yours needs work.”

“Yes, I know.” He examined his own balcony, barren save for two patio swivel chairs with a drinks table between them.

“Whatever you do, don’t plant tomatoes,” she said. “Last year, I grew two beautiful cherry tomato plants. They were laden with juicy red fruit, and then one night, a raccoon climbed up and ate them all. That bastard.” Her full-throated laughter filled the air between them.

“Oh, no.”

He stood taller and took a deep breath. In that instant, it appeared—to Bill at least—that the day grew brighter.

When her laughter subsided, she extended a hand toward him and said, “We should become properly acquainted.”

Then his doorbell rang, and he shot a look inside his condo.

Darn. Who on earth could that be?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Someone’s at the door.”

“Well, aren’t you popular?”

“I can’t imagine who. I don’t know a soul.”

“Never mind. I’ve got to get ready for work anyway. We’ll do it later. Bye.”

His shoulders sagged slightly, and he frowned, thinking, perhaps irrationally, that the best part of his day had already come and gone.

He hurried inside, set his mug on the kitchen counter, and reached for the door handle.

This had better be good.

At the entrance to his condo stood Alex Sharp, acting chief of the Wintergreen Police Department.

“Morning, Bill. Sorry to barge in on you like this. We have a situation.”

Thank you for reading Chapter Two of The Mountain View Murder. The paperback version is available on Amazon now. Here. The ebook version will be available for pre-order on June 15.

Add it to your Goodreads Want to Read list now.

Read the book description.

JOIN MY READERS CLUB TO HEAR ABOUT NEW RELEASES

In the story On to Toowoomba, a dishonest land dealer tries to lure a young Sheila Wright into paying much more for a sheep farm than it’s worth.

Sheila Wright boarded the train from Brisbane to Toowoomba and took a seat by the window. The railcar had eight rows of four seats each and was nearly full. Outside, the city buildings gave way to homes and little shops, and then fields and trees.

Excitement kept her eyes glued to the window. What had she done? Traded a safe but boring life at home for adventure in Queensland. Yes, and she would make the same trade again. She’d never cared much for boredom. Though nervous about her uncertain future, she was not scared. If her plan failed, she could always return to Sydney.

In 1935, a woman of Sheila’s young age, eighteen, did not leave a safe home and embark on a journey with the intention of buying a sheep farm. She had always craved excitement swimming and sailing in the waters around Sydney Harbor. She’d even tried the new sport of surfing and found it exhilarating. Still, this was a more serious adventure, and she might never have undertaken it, but she had come into some money and then she’d seen the advertisement in the newspaper.

Sheep Farm – Four Hundred & Fifty Acres

Darling Downs, Queensland

£3400 pounds (includes livestock)

Financing Available

Queries to Mr. R. Sloan

51 Neil St, Toowoomba

So two days earlier, her mother had accompanied Sheila to the central train station in Sydney. Her father had given her a stiff hug on the front porch of their home, but he was still upset and did not come to the station. Neither did her brother Tim. They both considered her plan rash and a waste of money.

“You should go to university,” said her father, “like your mother suggested.”

Of course, her father had opposed the idea of her pursuing further education until she decided to buy a sheep farm. How interesting.

“You haven’t a clue about livestock,” said Tim. “You’ll lose your money before next summer.”

As always, her mother, Mary, had defended her in front of the men. “She’s eighteen, a full-grown woman, and it’s her money.” But when the two of them were alone, Mary had expressed her own doubts. “What about dingoes and other wild animals?”

“It’s a farm,” Sheila had said, “not the outback. Most of the dingoes were pushed out long ago.”

“But who will protect you? What about strange men?”

“I’ll protect myself.”

Her mother frowned.

“And the men who work the farm with me,” Sheila quickly added. “They will also protect me.”

“You don’t know them or where they come from.”

“I never met a bad-hearted farmer.”

“You’ve never met any farmer.”

“It’s like you always say, Mum. Most people are good. I’ll trust in that.”

The train had taken eighteen hours to reach Brisbane. Once there, she had booked a hotel for a night’s rest and continued her journey the next morning.

The train stopped on the outskirts of Brisbane to pick up more passengers. A plump, short man dressed in a suit and a bowler hat sat next to her. He had a gray mustache and cheerful blue eyes.

“Afternoon, Miss,” he said.

She nodded.

“You headed home?”

“No, I’m going to Toowoomba. I have business there.”

He raised his eyebrows, perhaps surprised such a young woman would have any sort of business to attend. He brushed his mustache with his fingers.

“Well,” he said, “it so happens I live in Toowoomba. If you can stand my company, we’ll be traveling companions for the next few hours.”

“I’m Sheila Wright,” she extended her hand for him to shake as she’d seen her father do many times when he met someone new.

“Frank Yates,” said the man. He shook her hand lightly. The train’s wheels engaged, which jerked the car forward, and they pulled from the station.

She should learn what she could from Frank Yates, for the farm she planned to buy was not far from Toowoomba.

“What do you do for a living?” she asked.

“I’m a lawyer, the best in Toowoomba, although the other two might dispute my claim. What’s your business in our fair town?”

“I’ve come to buy a sheep farm.”

He blinked several times as if he believed he might have misheard her. He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again, gnawed the inside of his cheek, and nodded. “It’s a good time to buy. Farmland is still cheap. If you need legal assistance with your purchase, please call on me. My office is on Ruthven Street a block from city hall.”

“Thank you. I’ll remember.”

She asked Frank Yates many questions about Toowoomba and the surrounding area. She asked about the farming business, about how products got to market, and about standard practices for the buying of commercial goods. She asked about the people, the schools, and the size of the town.

“Toowoomba is growing quickly,” he said. “We have three good restaurants, two hotels, and a wonderful theatre. There are many interesting social activities for a young woman like yourself.”

“I won’t spend much time in town,” she said. “I’ll have work to do on the farm.”

He smiled at her. “I believe you.”

They ran out of things to say, and Mr. Yates read his newspaper. The train passed through forests of eucalyptus trees, not unlike those around Sydney. Soon the gentle rocking and the clacking of the wheels on the track lulled her to sleep.

At the Toowoomba station, she said goodbye to Frank Yates and arranged for a porter to transport her trunk. Then she walked the few blocks to the Hotel Victoria on Margaret Street, where she had booked three nights’ stay. She figured she would either own a farm in three days or be headed back to Sydney.

The town was hillier than she imagined, and greener too. She had an hour before her appointment, so she strolled to Queens Park and the Botanic Gardens. The sounds of city traffic receded in the park, and she enjoyed walking through the late summer flowerbeds. Birds sang from the nearby trees. So far, Queensland suited her just fine.

She returned to the hotel five minutes early for her two o’clock appointment with Mr. R. Sloan, the seller who had placed the advertisement in the Sydney paper. A dirty flatbed truck sat parked outside the hotel. A tall aborigine dressed in gray overalls and a brown hat leaned against the truck. He had strong shoulders and forearms.

She would have to get used to seeing aborigines, for her research had indicated they performed much of the farm labor in Queensland. She looked at his face until she caught his eye.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

He startled when she spoke and said nothing in return, but he nodded slowly in response to her greeting.

Inside, a smartly dressed man sat in a lobby chair with his legs crossed. He was handsome, with a brown mustache and a strong face. A wide-brimmed hat rested on the couch beside him.

“Are you Mr. Sloan?” she said.

His nose wrinkled at her. “Yes.”

“I’m Sheila Wright.” She thrust her hand out for him to shake.

“You are?” He squeezed his eyes shut, then glanced left and right, as if he might find an explanation standing in the wings.

“Yes.”

“I expected someone . . .”

“Older?” she ventured.

He nodded.

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

Mr. Sloan frowned. “Please tell me this isn’t a lark. You do have the money.”

“Of course.”

His shoulders relaxed and he stood, gesturing with his hat toward the sitting room next to the lobby. “Let’s pull up a chair and discuss your land investment.”

Sloan went through the process. She would sign the paper—which he handed her without fanfare—and arrange for the transfer of two thousand pounds into his account at the Toowoomba Bank across the street. Upon conclusion of their business, she would become the lucky owner of a sheep farm in Darling Downs.

He offered her a pen.

Did he mean for her to sign the paper now? She took the pen. A line for her signature rested at the bottom of the page. It was simple, a quick signature and a transfer of funds, and she’d become a landowner. She closed her eyes a moment and imagined a creek running between green hills dotted with sheep. She almost signed.

But what if she didn’t like the land? What if there was no creek? What if the hills were brown?

She read the paper slowly. For two thousand pounds, she would receive all EQUITY. That plus other CONSIDERATION, defined in the ADDENDUM, gave her full STANDARD OWNERSHIP rights.

She rested the pen on the table.

“I should like to see the farm,” she said, “before we finalize our business.”

A flash of impatience crossed Sloan’s face, as if he was in a hurry, and she would slow him down. “I can’t possibly take you now. I have other business.”

He glanced at the pen on the table, but she didn’t pick it up.

“It’s the best farm I own,” he said.

Apparently, he owned other farms and made his living in that fashion, but if so, why would he sell the best farm to her? His hand had felt soft, and his fingernails were clean.

“I can’t take you today,” he said. “Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day.”

“I want to go now.”

He pursed his lips. For a moment, she feared he might tell her to get lost, but then his face relaxed.

“Of course, my worker Tom could take you, so long as you don’t mind riding with a black.”

“Is Tom standing outside?”

“Yes. But if you want to wait for tomorrow or the next day, then I can take you.” A smile crept onto his face. He must have thought she’d sooner face death than ride with Tom.

She had seen aborigines in Sydney and studied their history in school, but she’d never met one in person. With his dark skin and worn clothes, Tom looked different than her, poor maybe, but not dangerous.

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll go with Tom.”

She strode from the hotel with Mr. Sloan in fast pursuit. Tom was still leaning against the hood, and she marched right up to him.

“G’day,” she said. “I’m ready to leave when you are.” With that, she opened the door and climbed in. The seat was covered with a coarse wool blanket, and a diagonal crack ran the length of the windshield.

Mr. Sloan loudly lectured Tom, “Show her the farm and return here without delay.” Then Sloan came to the open window at her side.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes. I’ll take a quick look, and then we can talk business.”

For the first few miles, neither she nor Tom spoke. She reflected on the conversation with Sloan. Something felt wrong. The paper conveying ownership included confusing terms: EQUITY, ADDENDUM, and CONSIDERATION.

But the view from the window soon distracted her. Firewheel trees with bright red flowers decorated the yards of homes. The first dairy farm appeared, followed by green sheep pastures interspersed with wheat fields and lush gardens. Her heart beat faster. She might soon own a farm!

“Tom, what exactly do you do for Mr. Sloan?”

His grip tightened on the steering wheel, but he said nothing. She waited for a response, but then grew impatient.

“Did you hear me?” she said.

He rubbed the back of his neck but kept his eyes on the road.

The air grew awkward in the truck’s cabin.

“What’s the deal?” she said. “Are you mute?”

He chewed his lip. Another smart remark came to mind, but she held her tongue.

Finally, he said, “I don’t talk to white women.” His eyes darted to her and then snapped straight again. “White men don’t like that.”

Oh. So that’s it. Prejudice.

She’d read about the whites’ abhorrent treatment of blacks but had thought it was a thing of the past. She had never encountered racism personally, and her mind didn’t work that way.

“Well, no white men are in the truck, and if I’m to learn what I want to know about the farm, I need you to answer questions. All right?”

The truck bounced on the road. His silence stretched. Maybe Sloan had told him not to say anything. She couldn’t make him speak, but then he did.

“Yes, Miss Sheila.”

“Not Miss Sheila. Just Sheila.”

For the next hour, she peppered him with questions about the farm. She learned that Tom ran the whole operation, except for the money side of things. He hired other laborers when needed, aborigines he knew, but Sloan paid them. Tom oversaw the shearing of the sheep and the bundling and transport of wool to market, but Sloan handled the sales. Tom maintained the fencing and the buildings on the property, but Sloan paid for supplies. She figured she could learn Sloan’s part quickly; Tom did all the hard work.

“So if I buy the farm, will you stay on and work for me?” she asked.

He swerved around a pothole and then rubbed his eyebrow. He opened his mouth as if to speak but then closed it again.

“What?” she said.

“Can my family stay?”

“Why, sure they can. Tell me about your family.”

His wife and three children, ages fourteen, twelve, and five, lived with Tom on the farm. They helped with the work too.

He turned right on a packed dirt road and drove a half mile through green pastures. Then they passed through a gate and approached a two-story white house with a porch across the front.

Tom told her Sloan occasionally stayed overnight at the house, but it stood vacant the rest of the time. He pointed to a cabin where he lived with his family fifty yards away. A woman stood from a garden and waved.

For the next two hours, they toured the farm. It was all she’d dreamed of and more. A thousand sheep grazed the four hundred and fifty acres. Occasional pines and silky oak trees provided shade. The skies above were an unmarred azure, and dark clouds cast rain on distant hills.

In addition to the sheep, the farm had two dairy cows, six goats, a couple dozen chickens, a rooster, and a friendly dog named King. Tom drove around the edges of the property and walked her through two sheds and a barn, both of which needed minimal repairs. King tagged along with them, barking occasionally, and wagging his tail whenever he came close to Sheila.

On the way back to town, she learned that Mr. Sloan owned six properties in total and that he had bought and sold most of them at least twice.

“Something must be wrong with the farms,” she said. “Otherwise, why would the new owners sell them back to Sloan after a couple years?”

Tom watched the road, his jaw muscles bulging.

“Right?” she said.

“Nothing is wrong with the farms. I know the farms. They are run as well as any other in Darling Downs.”

“Yeah? So what’s the story?”

With a little hesitation in his voice, he said, “Maybe there is something wrong with the papers.”

#

She met Sloan again late that afternoon. When he pressed her to sign the sale document, she asked him to give her the evening to consider the purchase.

“All right,” he said with reluctance, “but just one night. I have other interested buyers.”

“Fine,” she said. “Let me keep the documents. I’m too tired to read them now. I’ll look them over later.”

He pressed his lips between his teeth, and his eyes searched hers.

Then she said, “I can move the money to your account tomorrow. It’s already here in Toowoomba.”

That last statement was a lie, but only a little lie, and it worked, for he allowed her to keep the papers.

After Sloan left the hotel, she waited five minutes and then walked west on Margaret Street. She arrived at 443 Ruthven Street just in time to catch Mr. Yates before he closed his office.

#

The next afternoon, when Mr. Sloan came into the lobby bar of the Hotel Victoria, Frank Yates was sitting next to Sheila at a table.

“Frank,” said Sloan, “what are you doing here?”

“Representing my client, of course.”

Sloan glanced at her. She smiled.

“Your client?”

“Join us, Robert. I have a contract drafted for your signature. I’m sure you’ll find everything in order.”

Sloan scanned the paper, his face turning darker as he read. “You know darn well that farm’s worth more than twenty-five hundred pounds.”

Yates sat straight in the chair and gave Sloan a tight grin. “Your contract had it valued at far more. What was it, thirty-four hundred? Five and a half pounds an acre plus forty percent for livestock and buildings? Is that the price you’ve charged your other buyers? Then when they couldn’t pay the note, you took back the properties and kept their equity. Right?”

Sloan’s face grew pale, and his eyes scrunched as if in pain.

“We can negotiate the price,” said Sloan.

“We already have,” said the lawyer, “as well as the interest on the thousand-pound note Sheila will sign. Three and a half percent seems fair to me.”

“She’d never get that at the bank,” said Sloan.

“And we do appreciate your understanding,” said Yates. “Now let’s sign everything. We’ll get you the fifteen hundred tomorrow. Unless you want me to dig further into those other deals.”

“There’s nothing illegal about any of my land sales.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Robert. And I’m sure the newspaper will say the same thing in their front-page story. Should we meet with them together?”

Sloan sat hunched with a deep frown on his face. He glared at her. “I’ll never do business with you again.”

“Now, now, Robert,” said Frank. “Never is a long time.”

After Sloan left, she couldn’t stop smiling. They ate a fancy lunch to celebrate.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she said. “I could never have negotiated the right deal without your help.”

“You’re welcome. Call on me anytime. I’m the best lawyer in Toowoomba.”

END

The story On to Toowoomba is the first in a series of stories told by a widower to his young daughters to give them an example of a woman they could look up to and admire.

The stories begin in Australia in 1935. Sheila is a fearless lover of adventure. She buys a farm and learns to ride and shoot. But then comes the war. The bombing of Darwin. The invasion of Papua New Guinea. Sheila volunteers to drive an ambulance and sees the horrors of war first hand at an Army hospital. Again and again, life knocks her down, but every time, she gets back up again.

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