Welcome to my Friday Feature, in which my Quick Take Tuesday guests regale us with tasty and tantalizing morsels of their work. 

Feast your eyes on today’s excerpt… From Tokyo to toilette slippers....Please click on this link from author Wendy Tokunaga!

Murder Is A Family Business  by Heather Haven

Chapter I

The Not-So-Perfect Storm

(excerpt)

I tried to focus my mind on Mr. Portor Wyler, said perpetrator, and the singular reason for all my misery. I kept coming back to this burning question:  Why the hell is a Palo Alto real estate mogul driving 42-miles roundtrip two to three times a week to a beat-up, San Francisco warehouse on the waterfront?

After that, I had an even better one: What the hell am I doing here? Oh, yeah. Thanks, Mom.

My name is Liana Alvarez. It’s Lee to my friends, but never to my mother. I am a thirty-four year old half-Latina and half-WASP PI. The latter, aforesaid relatives, drip with blue blood and blue chips and have been Bay Area fixtures for generations. Regarding the kindred Mexican half of me, they either immigrated to the good old US of A or still live in Vera Cruz, where they fish the sea. How my mother and father ever got together is something I’ve been meaning to ask Cupid for some time.

However, I digress. Back to Portor Wyler or, rather, his wife, Yvette Wyler. It was because of her I was in possession of a cold, wet butt, although I’m not supposed to use language like that because Mom would be scandalized. She has this idea she raised me to be a lady and swears her big mistake was letting me read Dashiell Hammett when I was an impressionable thirteen year old.

My mother is Lila Hamilton Alvarez, of the blue blood part of the family, and CEO of Discretionary Inquiries, Inc. She’s my boss. Yvette Wyler has been a friend of my mother’s since Hector was a pup, so when Mrs. Wyler came crying to her, Mom thought we should be the ones to find out what was going on. That didn’t seem like a good enough reason for me to be where I was, assigned to a job so distasteful no self-respecting gumshoe I hung out with would touch it, but there you have it. Leave it to my mother to lay a guilt trip on me at one of my more vulnerable times. I don’t know who I was more annoyed with, Mom or me.

Furthermore, I had no idea what my intelligent, savvy, and glamorous mother had in common with this former school buddy, who had the personality of ragweed and a face reminiscent of a Shar-Pei dog I knew once. Whenever I brought the subject up to Mom, I got claptrap about “loyalty” and “friends being friends.” So naturally, my reaction to the woman made me aware of possible character flaws on my part. I mean, here Mrs. Wyler was, one of my mother’s life-long chums, and I was just waiting for her to bark.

But the long and short of it was pals they were. Discretionary Inquiries, Inc. was on the job, and I was currently freezing my aforementioned butt off because of it; thank you so much.

From DO THEY KNOW I'M RUNNING? by David Corbett

 

 

It was daybreak and the rancher, standing at his kitchen window, watched two silhouettes stagger forward through the desert scrub. One clutched the other but they both seemed hurt. The porch light, the rancher thought, that’s the thing they been walking toward all night. See it for miles. All the way from the footpaths snaking through the mountains out of Mexico.

Rooster lurched at the end of his chain, hackles up, that snarl in his bark, trying to warn the strangers off. They just kept coming. All right then, he thought. Not like you wanted this. He set his coffee in the sink and went to the door leading out to the porch and collected the shotgun kept there, racked a shell into the chamber, stepped outside.

Streamers of winter cloud laced the sky, pale to the east, purplish dark to the west. A cold parched wind keened in the telephone wires. The landscape bristled with nopal, saguaro, cholla. Black ancient ironwood cropped up here and there among the mesquite and Joshua trees.

Before he could close the door behind him, his wife called his name. She eased forward unsteadily out of the hallway shadow, robe cinched tight. The gaunt face, once framed with steel- gray hair pulled back and braided into a rope, now seemed all the more stark with her pallor and the stubbled baldness. The treatments were savaging her bone marrow too. He wondered sometimes whether the cure wasn’t worse than the disease—wondered as well whether he’d be anywhere near as brave when his time came.

Where does the promise go when it leaves you, he wondered. He wished the years had made them calm and strong and wise, but here they were, her sick, him afraid, trying to protect each other—their stake owned free and clear but now little more than a borderland throughway, shadows scurrying past the house at night, sometimes trying the door, shattering a window, hoping for shelter or water or food. Same problem everywhere: the Stanhope girl—raped last spring. Old woman Hobbes—robbed at knifepoint, truck stolen, the fridge ransacked and the house turned upside down for cash before the culprits scurried off, leaving her tied up in her garage. Enough, everybody said. Things’re only getting worse across the border. We’ll form patrols. We’ll make an example out of every goddamn tonk we catch.

But there’s more to “enough” than the saying of it, too much terrain to patrol and too many who still slip through to make an example mean anything. Ask the two lurching forward. The promise hadn’t left them just yet. It was as simple as a steady light glowing at the foot of a mountain pass with the black desert floor beyond. He felt the pump gun’s weight in his hands, a commensurate weight on his soul. It was that second burden that haunted him.

“They don’t look too good,” she told him, feeling her way forward, hand to the wall.

He met her eyes. “They do that sometimes.”

“Is that how we think now?”

“Not because we want to. Remember that part.”

Riversong by Tess Hardwick

She slept fitfully that night and woke late the next morning, hot under her bed covers.  The air reeked of smoke.  Her sunburned skin stung.  She threw back the covers, longing for the feel of water on her scorched arms and legs.  She dressed in a ratty pair of shorts and t-shirt.  On her way down the hall she paused in front of her mother’s room, leaning for a moment on the closed door.  A bird’s summer song drifted in through the open hall window.  Her mother snored softly inside the room.  She put her hand on the doorknob to go in like she did every morning but then hesitated.  The familiar sadness crept in but she forced the feelings inside, scratching her sunburned arms with her fingernails, drawing blood.  The river beckoned to her, as if it called her name.  She withdrew her hand from the door and walked away, down the hall and the creaky stairs, all the while hearing a call to the river, knowing that she would not look back again.

In the yard the sky felt long and hazy, different than the day before.  She knew it would be a scorcher, unusual for June.  She walked the path towards the swimming hole.  At the swing, she paused, holding the rough rope between her fingers, wondering what it felt like to fly over the river and then plunge into the mystery of its waters without fear or hesitation.  She took the worn path to the water, slipping several times but going on anyway, determined to be brave.  At the river’s edge, she inched in, her overheated skin shocked at the cold.  When the water reached her shoulders she moved her arms in a circular motion, pretending to swim, keeping her feet anchored to the sandy floor.  Then she bent her knees, closing her eyes and submerging her head under the water.  She stayed like that with her eyes scrunched closed until the coolness seeped in through her skin and reached the place inside her where hope and despair lived side by side.  She imagined the pain of her childhood diminishing to flecks of ice.  Her feet came off the ground and she opened her eyes.  She was floating.  Her hair streamed out in front of her as her t-shirt ballooned around her body like a safety device, bubbles escaping from her shorts.  The gray floor of the river hosted several red crawfish and a school of minnows swam around her.  Infinitesimal specks of fluorescent algae drifted through the water, illuminated by the pelting sunlight.  She felt triumphant.  She was refreshed, cool at last.

Blood Over Badge by Wayne Farquhar

The cop sounded desperate. He looked and saw a gun pointed right at his head.

“Yes sir. I ... I’m sorry. Please officer, please don’t shoot.” He had lost the advantage; he’d waited too long. He placed his hands on the wheel, leaving the gun buried in the crease. He needed to calm this cop down, get him to put his gun away. Then he could go for his gun.

The cop held his flashlight and gun, both arms extended. He could almost feel the site aimed at his right ear. The cop was semi-crouched so he could see into the car.

“Put your hands on top of your head, nice and slow, now!”

He complied. How do I get a drop on this asshole? Shit! I need a new plan!

“When I tell you to, take the keys from the ignition with your right hand, and drop the keys out the driver side window.”

The cop’s voice was still serious, but he was calming down. Compliance was working.

“Do it now, very slowly.”

He carefully removed his right hand from the top of his head, spread his fingers and slightly turned his palm toward the cop so he could see he had nothing in his hand.

“Yes sir. I’m real sorry; I’m doing it right now.” He reached down and slowly removed the keychain holding the shaved ignition key. He’d filed it himself, so it would work in plenty of locks and ignitions. If the cop saw that key, the game was up. He cupped the shaved key in his hand so the cop wouldn’t see it.

“Okay sir, I’m gonna’ drop the key out the window.” He slowly moved his right hand across his body and extended it out the open window. The keys jingled when they hit pavement. He placed his right hand back on top of his head and listened. Suddenly, he realized the cop wasn’t talking to the other cop anymore. They had to be in sight of one another. He knew the closer together the two cops were to one another, the better for him once he started shooting.

The cop talked into the radio microphone clipped to his lapel. “Control Six-Nora Thirty-One,” The cop said.

He heard a female voice on the other end. “Six-Nora Thirty-One, go ahead.”

“Code Ninety-Nine control.”What the fuck is a Code Ninety-Nine? And why isn’t the other cop doin’ the talkin’ on the radio? It wasn’t making sense.

“Ten-four, Six-Nora Thirty-One, break ...”

He strained to hear the woman. “Unit to respond for Six-Nora Thirty-One?”

Suddenly, it clicked. Yes! The fucker’s alone! He’s calling for a backup. He heard: “Six-Nora Thirty-Three, roger, I’ll take the fill, ETA nine.” The radio crackled then fell silent.

He thought he knew what this meant: In nine minutes backup would arrive. But, what if he was wrong? What if there was another cop out there?

“When I say so, slowly open the door, step out and keep your hands on top of your head.” Now the cop was much calmer.

He turned and looked at him. “Yes sir. I’m sorry sir, anything you say.” He tilted his head sideways. The spotlight from the police car was less blinding that way. The cop diverted the flashlight so it wasn’t right in his eyes. He watched the shadowy figure outside the door. The cop hadn’t moved an inch. Good for me, he thought, bad for you. Just keep your big ass in the same spot. How much time had passed? Two minutes? Three? Either way, the cop had stopped talking to his partner. He was still unsure: one or two? Guessing wrong could get him killed.

Teenagers,College Scholarships and Financial Aid. Where do grandparents fit in?
Posted by Mimi on March 22, 2011 · 1 Comment 

Grandparents should be as supportive as a good recliner, and how better to help your college-bound teenage grandchildren than by doing some research for them regarding college scholarships?  The experts say even Freshman and Sophomore yrs. of high school aren’t too early to start checking out your options and what you need to do to get where you want to go.

I’m a huge Jean Chatzky fan, (Money Editor of the Today Show).  When I heard her mention that a gentleman named  Mark Kantrowitz, Publisher of the FinAid and FastWeb web sites owned by Monster Worldwide was the person to listen to regarding college students and financial aid I decided to check it out and pass it along to you.

 FastWeb is an acronym for (F)inancial (A)id (S)earch, and it’s a free online scholarship matching  and search service founded in 1995 by Internet pioneer Larry Organ.  FastWeb offers a myriad of services with stellar recommendations, and definitely sounds like the “go to” site for starting that college scholarship/financial aid journey.


This is what FastWeb offers:

Scholarship matching service – from a database of 1.5 million scholarships.

Alerts straight to your inbox – emails keeping you informed of every scholarship match.

Scholarships for everyone – whether you’re a college freshman or a returning adult. (Boomers too?)

Expert advice – from the nation’s leading financial aid expert, Mark Kantrowitz.

Student life guide – from decorating your dorm room to balancing work and school.

If you check it out, I’d love to hear what you think about FastWeb.

MAKING PEACE [Excerpt Mirror Talk]  by Barbara Alfaro

What strange thoughts surface at three a.m. After my good news about the MRI, I wake to the memory of the old woman who threw water on my brother and me and a few of our childhood friends because we were playing noisily in the courtyard beneath her apartment. The other children skedaddled but Bob and I looked up in surprise at the tiny woman leaning out of her open window who looked more like a friendly grandmother than a witch. She shouted an apology and invited us to come to her apartment. Hesitantly, we climbed the stairs and knocked on her door. I don’t remember what she said. I remember how dark her apartment seemed even though it was daytime. And it was this darkness that scared me more than the old woman. She took two beautiful African violets from her kitchen window sill and gave them to us. Why on earth would my unconscious gently push her forward?

Sister Margaret, a Franciscan nun with a soft brogue, sits on the sofa next to my chair. I babble, sigh and slow down. I tell her about a small yappy dog whose vocal cords were cut to keep the creature from bothering the neighbors. I say that is how I am in church. Voiceless. Sadness eats my voice away. Margaret tells how on September 11th, during the terrorist attacks, her whole body shook. I am surprised to hear this as I have a romanticized view of genuinely good people. I imagine they wander in a bubble of bliss even during unspeakable crises.

This is my first visit to the Washington Retreat House hosted by Franciscan sisters. I had “failed” at another weekend retreat in a suburb of Maryland, given by priests of a stricter order than Franciscans. “The Spiritual Exercises” of St. Ignatius of Loyola were used for that very structured retreat. If I remember correctly, in “The Spiritual Exercises,” one often refers to oneself as a “worm.” For someone like me with self-esteem issues, all this worm talk didn’t work well so I cut lectures, sat under a huge tree and began the first draft of a play. Margaret says I needn’t participate in every scheduled event and encourages me to write. I “show up” for confession and Mass and several lectures by the retreat leader, a young priest who tells excellent jokes and gives inspiring talks. In the months that follow, I visit the retreat house several times with my laptop, toothbrush and nightshirt. I stay in a corner room on the second floor, a room that is my favorite phrase from the Catholic Mass actualized:  “a place of comfort, light, and joy.” When you adopt a puppy from a shelter you are told not to let him have the run of the house right away but rather keep the little chap in one comfortable room so he isn’t immediately overwhelmed. That is the effect this little room had on my world-bruised spirit.

There was a time in my life much darker than the old woman’s apartment. I no longer believed in God. It was after my father died, I had a miscarriage, and I separated from my first husband. Accepting the two great soul-deadeners of the Seventies – the sexual revolution and recreational drugs – I lived in a way that makes my soul reverberate now. “That’s all baby-shit,” my husband comforts me, “Everyone does that stuff when they go away to college but you didn’t go away to college so you make too much of it.” Does everyone do that stuff? Am I a psychic version of medieval flagellants who couldn’t get enough back-whacking? Am I too scrupulous? I don’t think so. I simply recognize I did things when I was young that make me cringe now that I am no longer young. And I know if I had my life to live over again, when I got to this dark time I am alluding to, I’d run for the hills, with a rosary in one pocket and a book of poetry in the other.

                                                                                CHAPTER TWELVE      by Suzanne Rosenwasser

                                                                                        Calliope’s Spirit

 

Tragedy on a small Island cuts a deep swath.

On Stirling, the losses of years past still hang in the air because the human drama played out on such a narrow stage. Whether death came to a summer kid drag-racing on Old Post Road or a Scaler who tried to save a Centenarian from a burning house, it didn’t matter.  The whole Island grieved.  The land shivered, and time just stopped for a while.

The tragedy that struck the Island in 1970 was so great, however, it drove an Islander away.

            Luma Ortiz-Barnard had been hearing stories about Stirling Island since she met Nate Barnard at Boston College when they were students, but Nate had never brought her to the Island and, to Luma’s knowledge he hadn’t gone back there either.

            In their 20s, working at dull corporate jobs in Boston, something had begun to change between them that went past the platonic achievement they thought they’d accomplished. 

            Luma had always assumed Nate’s blood was far too blue to mingle with her fresh immigrant veins, so she never allowed herself to go beyond friendship.

            In time, each of them noticed disturbing sparks which pulsed upon brushing hands or they found themselves stopped in dopey pauses preceding magnetic pulls that felt a lot like passion. 

            When one of these moments left them both dizzy, Nate suggested Luma come to Stirling Island with him. 

            Luma said: “No!” - and she said it so emphatically that Nate was stunned.

            “It’s the only place we can make sense of what’s going on here, Luma.  I want to live there, and it’s not an easy thing to do.”

            “Why is it about where you want to live? And what’s this living together stuff anyway?  I haven’t even slept with you yet!” Luma bristled.

            “Well, I want you to live with me Luma, so of course, I want you to sleep with me,” Nate said softly.  “But if you’re to marry me, which I also want you to do, I have to know you can live on Stirling Island.”

           

            Two days later  Luma’s knees shook when Nate led her by the hand past the pilings at the East Ferry berth.  It was after dark on an April weekend.  Luma could smell the lilacs and apple blossoms and see glistening white anemones popping out from gardens as her eyes adjusted to the pearly glow of the Island.  

            Haloed light came from beams of the moon bouncing off white and pastel cottages lining Eastern Shore Road.  Nate and Luma strode along, stepping to the rhythm of the bay slapping on Stirling sands.

            “Is it paradise, Nate?” Luma whispered into the windsong.

            “Just at times, Luma,” Nate said.  “But then, at those moments, it’s more than that - it’s magical.”