About the Book
Lissa Charney is the showroom manager of a ladies’ swimwear line in the California Apparel Mart. Since Lissa didn’t think any of the rules applied to her, she had no problem breaking them all. From job stealing to dumping a boyfriend when he needed her the most, selfish and self-centered Lissa’s list of enemies rivaled those of Al Capone. So, when Lissa is murdered, no one on the swimwear aisle was particularly surprised…the only surprise was what had taken so long.
Who wanted Lissa Charney dead? The list was as long as your
arm….but which one actually killed her? The last thing Mermaid Swimwear sales
exec Holly Schlivnik expected to find when she opened the closet door was nasty
competitor Lissa Charney’s battered corpse nailed to the wall. When Holly’s
colleague is wrongly arrested for Lissa’s murder, the wise-cracking, irreverent
amateur sleuth sticks her nose everywhere it doesn’t belong to sniff out the
real killer.
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Excerpt
I came to with a splitting headache, trussed up the same as a
rodeo calf, and tied to one of the cutting tables with a gag in my mouth. Was I
out long? Maybe a few minutes; but long enough for Roddy to wrap me tight as a
mummy. Remarkably, I appeared still alone, but not for long. Curious to be
lashed to a cutting table and not in his truck on my way to certain death by
now? Maybe he stopped to get a sample crate to stuff my body into? That must be
the reason. I inhaled a deep breath through my nose and a piercing pain
encircled my ribcage as the oxygen filled my lungs. My head pounded with the
strength of a jackhammer while I tried to wriggle out of my bonds. The wounded
shoulder ballooned to the size of a small boulder and stars flashed in front of
my eyes from the pain. Roddy wrapped me from my shoulders to my shins and used
strips of swimwear fabric to lash me to the cutting table. But swimwear fabric
is made of spandex and nylon. It stretches if it's pulled and easily
manipulated. All I needed were two free hands.
A pair of cutting shears lay tantalizingly close, but out of
reach. An experienced boater same as me, Roddy used a reliable bowline knot to
lash me to the cutting table. Fortunately, I honed the skills of a master
knotter. To live on a houseboat safely and securely, it was a necessity.
Roddy’s bowline knot was virtually impossible for an amateur to undo, but an
easy one to untie, even one-handed if you knew the trick. Unfortunately, a
complication arose that the nautical knotting instruction book failed to cover.
The blood oozing from my wound traveled the length of my arm to my hand. My
blood-sticky fingers slicked slippery as an oil patch, preventing a good enough
grip on the shiny fabric to work the knot out. I stretched my fingers as far as
they’d go and wiped them dry on my jeans, and worked fast before more blood
leaked onto my hand.
My head hurt too much to lift high enough to see my progress as I
worked the knots. I depended on a sense of touch and memorization of the way
the knots formed to untie them. I twisted my wrists inward as far as they
turned and worked the knots with my index fingers and thumbs to loosen them
from the centers outward. The left hand popped free in thirty seconds. I untied
the right hand with my left. I sat up and ignored the pain and the stars
flashing behind my eyes. I used the cutting shears to slit the ties binding my
torso.
I craned my neck in an arc to get an updated lie of the land. Loud
voices came from the direction of Annette’s office. Roddy and Annette. Arguing.
Preoccupied and not concerned with me. Good news, but for how long? With some
luck, a few minutes tops.
I pulled the gag out of my mouth, and as I slid off the cutting
table, I nicked my wound on the sharp corner. The stars flashed again behind my
eyes. Drenched in the red stuff and in agony from the pain, the throbbing wound
oozed, making me woozy from the loss of blood. I shuddered, remembering Snip’s
lecture on the impact on the body if it loses too much blood. I needed to
staunch the bleeding and fast. I cut three-wide pieces of fabric and wrapped
them tightly for maximum pressure and stretched them around the wound. I used
the strips Roddy bound me to the table with to secure the bandages. Not exactly
the primo first aid, but it would do for the time being. After a few minutes,
the throbbing subsided noticeably. I moved without seeing stars, but taking a
deep breath? Still out of the question.
Anyone with a brain runs out of the building and ditches this
deadly popsicle stand. But a Mensa, I’m not. I grabbed one of the anvils by the
handle off the cutting table and crept across the room. I hid behind a metal
set of shelves filled with sewing supplies outside of Annette’s office. I
leaned around the shelves and peered into her open door.
About the Author
She reads, writes, and speaks Spanish, albeit with an accent
that sounds like Mildred from Michigan went on a Mexican vacation and is trying
to fit in with the locals. Since life without pizza and ice cream as her core
food groups wouldn’t be worth living, she’s a dedicated walker to keep her
girlish figure. A voracious reader, she’s also an avid stamp collector. Susie
lives with a highly intelligent man and has one incredibly brainy but
smart-aleck adult son who inexplicably blames his sarcasm on an inherited
genetic defect.
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