About the Book

Persephone (Percy) Cole saves the life of a senator’s granddaughter but had no idea how much her own life was going to change as a result. There’s the unwanted fame, reporters hounding her mercilessly, and past enemies crawling out of the woodwork. Worse yet, our 5’11” lady shamus now has to dress the part of the successful PI! Then an unknown murderer tries to frame Percy for his killing spree, leaving deadly clues pointing to her. Worse yet, these are followed by death threats against her and her family.

But who? And why?

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Excerpt

“Persephone,” Pop called out. “You got your name in the paper again. Might mean something.”

Percy Cole turned in her chair and faced her father, sitting behind his rolltop desk. He in turn, had pivoted in his chair to face her.

He may have been dressed in a blue work shirt and plain cotton slacks but everything on him was freshly pressed. She glanced down at her own khaki shirt and trousers, wrinkled but comfy. They had never seen an iron and probably never would.

Her sharp, green eyes continued to stare at Pop. Or rather, the newspaper held in front of his face, so close she could almost reach out and touch it. It was just another reminder of the ongoing problem of Cole Investigations outgrowing its space. The business already took up half the parlor, and it still wasn’t enough.

But on the bright side, it did mean Percy could read Pop’s newspaper from where she sat. The date, Monday, April 26, 1943, jumped out at her, along with the front-page headlines, “Easter Riots Break Out in Sweden” and “More Boys Deployed to Europe!”

Two neighborhood boys were already missing in action, another wounded. That didn’t count Pearl Harbor. Even Rendell, their assistant, had been sent back from the front lines after losing his right hand.

“So, Pop,” she said, picking up where they’d left off, “talk to me. What’s my name doing in the New York Sun? Did I win the lottery or something?”

But her father was quiet.

“Pop?” Still no response.

“Answer me, Pop. Pretty please with sugar on top.” She was in the throes of teaching her eight-year-old son, Oliver, that you can make all the demands you want, but to use the word ‘please’.

Pop shook the paper, folded it in half and then into a quarter. He gave his eldest daughter a smile. “It’s nothing, Persephone. I should have read it through first. Not worth mentioning.”

“But let’s mention it. What’s up?”

Her father still said nothing but let out a sigh. He reached across the short distance between them and handed the newspaper to Percy.

“Page fifteen, second column, the personals.”

Percy took the paper and went to the page as instructed. Finding the piece, she read aloud:

“Persephone Cole, Hotshot Investigator. Investigate this: Wilma Markovich: fifty-eight years old. Widow.”

Percy finished the brief ad, then looked into her father’s eyes. The blue of his shirt matched them exactly. “What’s this?”

“Just foolishness, Persephone. After that piece about you finding the senator’s granddaughter was in the papers, crackpots are coming out of the woodwork. Pay it no mind. That’s the price of being a celebrity,” he said. His words were smooth, but his sixty-four-year-old face had worry lines added to the ones time already put there.

“It was one crummy article, Pop.”

“Front page of every newspaper in the country for days on end,” he emphasized.

“The most important thing was the senator’s grandkid was safe.”

“And you’ve made some enemies in your time, child,” he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. "Now their attention is drawn to you.”

Before her father could say more, the phone rang. Lately, over half the callers were reporters trying for a story on the “little lady” detective who captured three villains and rescued a nine-year-old child. She didn’t talk to any of them.

But Rendell, who usually fielded incoming calls, was out trailing a battered wife’s husband. The wife was a friend of Percy’s kid sister, Pop’s younger daughter, Sera. Not the sort of work either Percy or her father wanted to take on, but Sera begged until they gave in. Percy reached over and answered the phone.

“Cole Investigations, Percy Cole speaking.”

“Hey, Perce, it’s Ken.”

She and Homicide Detective Kenneth Hutchers had been “stepping out” for some time, and she no longer addressed him by his surname. But he still called her by the one-syllable nickname of Perce, as if saying the name Persephone or even Percy was too much effort.

“Haven’t heard from you in a while,” she said. “It’s barely nine a.m. What are you up to?”

“Up to my neck in murder, and understand you knew the victim.”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“Wilma Markovich. Beat over the head with a tire iron in her midtown apartment. We got an anonymous tip about her...and you,” he added.

Shocked at hearing the name right after reading it in the newspaper, Percy tried to buy time while she collected her thoughts. “What makes you think I know this Wilma Markovich?”

Half listening to the conversation, Pop’s head snapped in Percy’s direction at the mention of the woman’s name. He said nothing.

“Come on, Perce,” Ken said. “You’ve been sent a love letter about her in the personals of the Sun. Just this morning.”

Percy glanced at the newspaper. “Doesn’t mean I know her.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t, neither. I figure she was one of your clients. You got quite a few these days.”

“Not so many where I don’t know the names. There’s no Wilma Markovich.”

But the detective was insistent. “This caller says he heard two people arguing behind an apartment wall.”

“What apartment wall?” Percy demanded.

“The wall of her fancy-schmancy apartment in Murray Hill.” His annoyance at her asking the question radiated through the phone wires. “Then he says he saw a big, redheaded woman wearing a man’s fedora run out the door and down the stoop. Sound like someone we know?”

“They got stoops in Murray Hill? I thought they were too fancy for that. Front porches, maybe. But I don’t remember seeing any.”

The detective ignored her comment. ”Doorman says so, too.”

“Doormen say anything they’re paid to say. Who’s the caller?”

“Didn’t give his name. Says he doesn’t live there but was delivering magazines to the building when he saw and heard all this. But didn’t want to get involved.”

“Doesn’t sound on the up-and-up to me. You trying to pull a fast one, Detective? Need someone to pin this on?”

“Don’t be like that, Perce. When it comes to our jobs, you know we go our separate ways. I work for the city; you work for the client. Now, you acquainted with the lady or not?”

“I’m telling you, no. Sounds like a setup. You don‘t even have an eyewitness. Just some voice on the phone who doesn’t give a name and a doorman who probably got handed a fin. Regardless, it wasn’t me.”

“I got to check this out, Perce.”

“Then come down and check the files, if you don’t believe me.”

“Persephone,” Pop said, after clearing his throat.

Percy looked at her father. Something in his face told her to pay attention.

“Hold on a sec,” she said into the phone, then dropped the receiver to her shoulder, covering the mouthpiece. “What’s up, Pop?”

“I knew that name sounded familiar when I read the ad.”

“Wilma Markovich?”

“Yeah. She sent us a letter a couple of days ago.”

“What did she want?”

“Can’t remember. It’s in the inbox. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you about it yet. You hardly been in the office.”

Percy raised the phone to her mouth. “You want to go through my files, Detective Hutchers? Get a search warrant.”

Guest Post

Heather Haven on Percy Cole

Bear with me if I've said this before, but The Persephone Cole Vintage Mysteries were born out of a challenge by my then editor to write a protagonist who looked and acted more like a real person, not a model. Could I do it? Did I even want to? Did I want a heroine who wasn't typical of many a detective story? After I thought about it, the answer was yes! I wanted to write about a smart woman who wasn’t Mad Men classically feminine. And of course, I wanted it all. She should like herself and be comfortable in her own skin.

So along came Persephone (Percy) Cole. Percy is 35 years old, considered middle-aged by '40s standards. She's also a single mother, overweight, and at 5'11" is extremely tall. When she tells people what she does, it usually raises a few eyebrows. Not too many women have her job. In fact, she’s the only one that she knows of. Percy once heard of a woman detective in Wyoming, but it wound up the lady in question was the sheriff’s wife. She did more laundry than detecting. If she was lucky, he let her file. Nothing our Percy would put up with.

That’s what makes Percy Cole a winner! As Winston Churchill said, "Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference." And Percy has attitude up the wazoo. She exudes self-confidence. She's smart and savvy. She's a no s--t lady. I just love her. And she’s taken to the gumshoe life completely, down to wearing her father’s fedora and customized men’s suits.

As for me, her creator, they say you don't know what you're writing until you've written it. Well, little did I know that by making Percy as large if not larger than many men of that era, she was able to compete in a man’s world in every way, including physical intimidation, a very pseudo '40s-PI-Noir thing. Percy doesn’t use physical threats all the time, but she’s not above it. Her grabbing some lowlife by the scruff of the neck and hauling him off to jail is just plain fun to write about. And readers seem to like her fearlessness, her sense of self, of not compromising, which is all done with humor, style, and a touch of whimsy.

Yes, Percy’s tough to the core, but I do try to show a bit of softness through her dealings with her mother, father, kid sister, and in particular, in the raising of her eight-year-old son, Oliver, the child that gives her life meaning. Frankly, it is a rare woman who does not deal with family and family matters, no matter how tough they are. Even Wonder Woman (see linked article). Of course, Wonder Woman is a real hottie. But Percy has her moments; she has her moments. There are men who fall for this redheaded broad with her wicked sense of humor, who knows how to make her way in the world. All very enticing. All very Percy Cole.

About the Author

Back in the Punic Wars, Heather wrote ad copy, comedy acts, and had several plays performed very Off-Broadway. Her novels include the Silicon Valley-based Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries, Manhattan-based Persephone Cole Vintage Mysteries, Love Can Be Murder Mysteries, Snow Lake Romantic Suspense, and standalone, Murder under the Big Top, inspired by her mother’s stint as a performer with Ringling Brothers’ Circus. Just to break up the monotony, her short stories are featured in here anthology, Corliss and Other Award-Winning Stories. She and her husband are allowed to live in the foothills of San Jose, California, with their cat, Ellie.

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