About the Book

METH, MURDER, AND EXPLOSIONS OF THE HEART

In the heart of tranquil, lavish Brandywine Valley, Detective Parrott confronts a meth explosion, a dismembered corpse, and an intricate trail of deceitful secrets that shake up many lives -- including his own. When celebrity hostess Claire Whitman’s renovated barn explodes into flames, Parrott delves into the privileged lives of all who are affected. Tension from Parrott’s personal life crosses over into the case, and secrets, deceptions, and crimes create an even bigger explosion. Third in the Detective Parrott Mystery Series, Crystal Blue Murder explores the complexities of life in an entitled world where many of America’s wealthiest and most powerful elite have their own definitions of right and wrong.

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Excerpt

The day after working all night investigating the meth explosion in Claire Whitman’s barn, Parrott was awakened from a nap by smells of pineapple chicken and warm Hawaiian rolls. His mouth watered as if every cell were screaming to be fed. He hurried into the kitchen to confirm. “Mmm, I could eat ten plates full.”

“Here,” Tonya said, popping half a buttered roll into his mouth. “I knew you’d be hungry. Go wash up and sit yourself down.”

“Don’t have to ask twice.” Parrott patted Horace on the head through the birdcage on the way to the washroom. He called over his shoulder, “You’ve been a busy woman.”

When he returned to the table, Tonya set a bowl of sauteed green beans and a casserole dish with aromatic pineapple chicken in front of him. “That’s what happens when I don’t have art class. I find another way to be creative.”

“You ask me, this is one luscious work of art, on its way to my stomach.” The first bite was heaven-on-earth delicious, with the sweet, tangy sauce cloaking the juicy chicken and soaking into the tender grains of rice beneath. Parrott shoveled bite after bite into his mouth.

Tonya’s lips curled. “I love watching you attack your food when you’re hungry. You might be named after a bird, but you eat like the king of the jungle.” She picked up her own fork and knife and began eating. “When you come up for air, I’d love to hear how your afternoon went. If you can talk about it, that is.”

“Tell me about yours first.” He was stalling while deciding how much he could share with his wife. He wasn’t worried about confidentiality. Tonya, as a former Navy SEAL, knew how to keep information private, and at this point, he didn’t have much information to share, anyway. He was more concerned about what might fire up her PTSD. She had made progress with counseling and therapy, but setbacks could happen anytime. He’d learned that the hard way.

Tonya’s eyes met his in a look that said, “I know why you’re delaying,” but she went ahead as if they were an ordinary couple having an ordinary conversation. “I washed your clothes, cooked the chicken, fed Horace, and read a couple of chapters in a historical novel. Oh, I googled Herman’s construction business. He’s got a neat website, lots of testimonials.”

Parrott raised his eyebrows. “Glad to hear it, but you can’t trust everything you learn from Google.”

“I know. I thought of asking around. Construction people talk about each other. There’s also Dunn and Bradstreet and the Better Business Bureau.”

“I admire your tenacity, but I’d stay away from asking people we know. We don’t want it getting back to Mama that we’re suspicious of her boyfriend.” Parrott pulled apart a roll and used a piece to sop up the pineapple sauce from his plate. “Bad manners, but I can’t let a drop of this good sauce go to waste. Good thing I’m here at home and not at Claire Whitman’s house.”

“Claire Whitman, the party lady?” Tonya set her utensils on the side of her plate and took a long drink of water.

Parrott stared, amazed that Whitman’s fame had extended to someone like Tonya, who was raised in a totally different environment. “Long-ago party lady. She had a TV show.”

“I know. My grandmother watched it while she was ironing. Granny thought Mrs. Whitman was the perfect lady. She used her name as an example of good manners for us, growing up.” She began stacking the dishes at the table. “How do you know her?”

“That’s whose barn burned. Where I was this afternoon—at her house in Brandywine Valley.” Parrott rose and patted his stomach. “Thanks for this outstanding meal. I feel like a new man. Let me clean up the dishes.”

“Really? America’s Miss Manners lives in Brandywine? My granny would be so excited.” Tonya jumped in, as Parrott took the dishes to the sink. “I’ll take over from here. You’ve had a long day. Besides, you’re going to need your strength in dealing with Claire Whitman. As Granny would say, ‘You’d better mind your p’s and q’s with her.’”

Parrott wrapped his arms around his wife and gave her a hug. “If you’re sure about cleaning up, there’s something else I want to do tonight.”

“I’m sure. Hardly any leftovers to put away, no big deal. What’re you going to do now?”

Parrott pulled back and wiggled his eyebrows at his wife. “Follow your lead, Mrs. Parrott. I’m going to make friends with Mr. Google.”

About the Author

Saralyn Richard is the author of award-winning mysteries that pull back the curtain on people in settings as diverse as elite country manor houses and disadvantaged urban high schools. An active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America, Saralyn teaches creative writing and literature. Her favorite thing about being an author is connecting with readers like you. Follow Saralyn and subscribe to her monthly newsletter at http://saralynrichard.com.

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