The second book, Tarnished Remains, is finished and being edited as we speak. It will also be up for the $0.99 pre-order in January with a release date of Febrauary 10th.
The third book Deady Aim, is getting stewed and brewed in my head as I work on the house. I'll be ready to hit the keyboard when I finish the house and get that book ready for release March 10th.
For my historical western fans, the third and last Halsey book, Claiming a Heart, will be out the middle of 2015. Though there may be a Christmas novella with Shayla, Colin's sister to let everyone know how Colin and Livie fared in England.
Here is the blurb and an excerpt for Double Duplicity:
On the eve of the biggest art event at Huckleberry
Mountain Resort, potter Shandra Higheagle finds herself in the middle of a murder
investigation. She’s ruled out as a suspect, but now it’s up to her to prove
the friend she’d witnessed fleeing the scene was just as innocent. With help
from her recently deceased Nez Perce grandmother, Shandra becomes more confused
than ever, but just as determined to discover the truth.
Detective Ryan Greer prides himself on solving crimes
and refuses to ignore a single clue, including Shandra Higheagle’s visions. While
Shandra is hesitant to trust her dreams, Ryan believes in them and believes in
her. Together they discover the gallery owner wasn’t the respectable woman
she’d portrayed. Can
the pair uncover enough clues for Ryan to make an
arrest before one of them becomes the next victim?
The
Bluetooth in Shandra Higheagle’s Jeep rang, interrupting the memories and drumbeats
swirling in her head. She shook the past couple days off and pushed the green
phone icon on the radio screen.
“Shandra.”
“Hi
Shandra, this is Paula Doring. I know this is short notice, but I really would
like to speak with you if you’re coming down off your mountain today.”
Shandra
rolled her eyes. Of all the gallery owners in Huckleberry, Paula was her least
favorite. The woman didn’t understand artists and thought only of the dollar.
“I
am off my mountain. I should be rolling into Huckleberry in about twenty
minutes.”
“Perfect.
Could you swing by my gallery? I have a new acquisition, and I think a couple
of your vases would look wonderful partnered with it. See you in twenty.” Paula
hung up.
“Great!
One more thing to interfere with getting my vases to Ted and Naomi.” Ted and
Naomi Norton, owners of Dimensions Gallery, were expecting her to deliver more
vases for the art event beginning tonight. They were her best supports and showcased
her vases in their gallery.
She
only had one piece at Paula’s gallery, aptly named after her, Doring Art
Gallery. Paula was known to only take in artists she felt would propel her
gallery to a status, rather than taking in artists that she liked. But she’d
insisted on having at least one piece of Shandra’s art so she could also say
she had one thing from all the local artists.
As
much as she didn’t care for Paula, who was a backstabber, she did want her
pieces seen and having more than one in the Doring Gallery for the upcoming art
event that was the most publicized show in the Pacific Northwest was a good
move on her part. Her latest gourd-shaped pieces were recently the focus of a
story in the Northwest Art Magazine. The
exposure had garnered her more sales and attention. While she liked traveling
to shows, right now, her heart was at home with her animals and her clay.
The
resort village of Huckleberry Mountain sat fifteen miles off Idaho I-90 at the
base of the Bitterroot Mountains. Shandra turned onto Huckleberry Highway and
soon slowed to turn right toward the town. Turning left would take her to the
Ski Lodge. Art collectors who had gathered at the resort for the event would be
dining at the Lodge’s five-star restaurant tomorrow night after schmoozing over
cocktails and appetizers with the local artists.
Shandra
didn’t care for the schmoozing, but the people who bought the high priced art
sold in the galleries wanted to be on a first name basis with the artists who
envisioned their pieces.
She
obeyed the twenty miles per hour signs driving down Huckleberry Street. The
speed felt like she was crawling after keeping the cruise on seventy most of the
way from Nespelem and her grandmother’s funeral. Driving fast hadn’t dislodged
the uneasy feeling her grandmother had requested she attend the seven drum
ceremony for a reason. “But what reason?”
Shandra
parked the Jeep at the curb across from the Doring Gallery. She caught a
glimpse of her friend Naomi, jogging across the side street.
Where could Naomi
have been coming from?
“The bank, the bakery?” Shandra said out loud as she’d become accustom to
talking to herself from hours spent alone with her animals as she crafted her
art.
She
stepped out of the Jeep, straightened her leopard print, tiered skirt, smoothed
a hand over her denim shirt, and shifted the concho belt around so the dangling
end was at her right hip. She slung the fringed leather bag over her shoulder
and headed across the street, dodging the slow moving traffic. Her cowboy boot
heels echoed when she stepped onto the tiled entryway of Doring Gallery. The buzz
of her entry died in the stillness.
“Paula?
Paula, it’s Shandra.” She continued through the middle of the partitions
spattered with various sized paintings and prints, and pedestals honoring
handcrafted masterpieces.
“Paula?”
It wasn’t like Paula to leave the gallery unmanned, or as the case may be
unwomanned. If Paula wasn’t here, where was Juan, her assistant? A shiver
slithered up Shandra’s back as she moved deeper into the building.
A
display of Native American art caught her attention. Vibrant photos of
twenty-first century ceremonial dancers covered one partition while paintings
of historical depictions covered the other. The crease in the partition at the
apex of the V reminded her of the world she’d just come from at the reservation.
Her grandmother’s funeral had been half modern and half the old ways. It had
been the ceremony of the old ways that lightened her sad heart.
An
abstract horse and rider stood four feet tall in the middle of the V-shaped
display while two four-foot tall warriors stood guard on either side. One held
a bow, the other a spear. The convergence of the abstract modern piece and the
steadfast, solid bronze statues that depicted the way Native Americans are seen
in history mirrored her life.
Shandra
dismissed the pondering about her roots and pulled her gaze from the bronze
six-pack on the warrior with the spear and headed toward the office. She had to
give Paula credit; the gallery owner knew how to display art to its fullest
advantage.
“Paula?”
A light shone around the edges of the partially open office door. Shandra
pushed the door open. “Why aren’t you answer—”
Paula’s
arms hung splayed away from her body that was cradled in her leather office
chair. A large red patch spread across her body and lifeless eyes stared up at
the ceiling.
Shandra
backed out of the room. She couldn’t swallow for the lump of fear and vileness
she’d just witnessed.
“Think…
Call the police.” She punched in 9 as sirens shrieked and grew louder. “Maybe
they’re coming here.” They had to be
coming here. This town is too small for there to be two incidents where the
cops are needed at the same time.
She
put her phone in her bag and strode toward the front of the building. The door
buzzed, and a young officer she’d never seen before burst into the building
with his gun held in front of him.
“Stop!
Put your hands in the air!” he shouted.
Shandra
squeaked and raised her arms.
“Did
you call the cops?”
“No.
I—”
He
advanced on her so fast she didn’t know what was happening until he wrenched
her arm behind her back.
“What
are you doing?”
“I’m
detaining you until I can search the premise.” He cuffed her and started to
haul her to the door.
“Oh,
no, you don’t. I’m not going into a squad car and looking like a criminal when
I’m not. I just arrived and found Paula in the office. I was starting to call
nine-one-one when I heard the sirens.” Shandra dug in her boot heels. There was
no way she’d have the whole town see her sitting in a cop car. She’d done
nothing wrong.
“Who’s
Paula?” He tugged on her, but she refused to be humiliated for nothing.
“The
owner of the gallery. She’s in her chair in the office. Dead.” That stopped the
zealous officer.
“We
received a phone call of suspicious activity.” He changed course, pushing her
ahead of him to the back of the building and the office.
Shandra
complied. She’d rather stand by the office door while he did his thing than be
seen in a cop car.
At
the office, Blane, his name tag said, stood her next to the door. “Don’t move.
You’re still a suspect.”
She
nodded. She’d stay here all day if she didn’t have to look at Paula again.
He
entered the office. “Holy shit.”
Shandra
couldn’t have said it better. She heard him moving around before he came back
out. He pushed the button on the radio receiver clipped to his shoulder.
“Dispatch,
this is Blane. We’ve got a homicide over at Doring Gallery on Huckleberry
Street. I have a suspect in custody.”
“Now
wait a minute—”
He
silenced her with a swipe of his hand through the air.
“Don’t
let anyone else enter and don’t leave the premises until a detective gets
there.” The excitement in the dispatcher’s voice reminded Shandra this resort
town rarely had excitement of this magnitude.
This
was big news for Huckleberry. Sad news, but big news. She didn’t like to think
someone from their small town could be a murderer. She knew most of the locals.
She’d
purchased the old Whitmire ranch thirty miles north of town two years ago. That
was a month after she’d graduated from college and received enough of an
inheritance from her maternal grandmother to try her hand at pottery. Her
search for a place had taken a while. One of the reasons being she needed land
with a certain type of clay soil. She found it on the ranch. The clay was her
signature in her pottery.
Officer
Blane yanked on her arm. “I’m gonna sit you in the extra chair in the office.”
“Oh
no, you’re not. You bring that chair out here. I’m not sitting in there and
staring at Paula. The one glimpse I had is enough to haunt me.” She glared at
the man, thankful he was only a few years past puberty and she stood several
inches taller than him, making it easier to intimidate.
He
ducked into the room, pulled the extra chair out, and Shandra gladly sat down.
For all the bravado she showed the officer, her knees were knocking together.
She was his only suspect for the killing. She was innocent. But growing up,
she’d witnessed more than one Native American person be railroaded. It was the
reason her mother and stepfather forbid her to talk about her father’s family.
They felt she would be persecuted. The small ranch community in Montana where
they lived was tolerant of very little.
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2 comments:
Congrats, Paty, on your upcoming new release! Good luck! <3
Thanks, Karen! I'm really excited about this series. I hope it does well.
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