The Thriller Book Killer (A Killer Among Us Thriller, Book 1)

By Shirley Spain

League of Utah Writers Award Winner!

Somebody’s murdering authors of thriller books. Guess what? You’re next.

SynDee Unser, a fitness instructor and writer of thriller novels, dreams of becoming a bestselling author. Since the death of her husband, she also dreams of finding another Mr. Right, falling in love, and once again embarking on that “living happily ever after” journey. Thus far, however, based on her experience of slow book sales and the lack of dating action, she deems both dreams just that. Pie-in-the-sky dreams. But that’s about to change.

Circumstances draw three bachelors into SynDee’s life. Aimes, a poet she recently met at MeetUp; R.C., a retired Navy SEAL she knows from the Spin class she instructs; and Bart, the owner of the Fiddle and Grub restaurant she frequents. While aroused in the presence of Aimes and R.C., uneasiness settles over her when she’s near Bart. She’s certain more than once he’s secretly snapped photos of her while she was dining.

A serial killer, tagged the “Thriller Book Killer” by a group of amateur cyber sleuths, murders female authors of thriller novels. Indeed, he has mastered the ultimate publicity stunt to catapult authors of thrillers out of e-book obscurity and onto best seller book lists by bringing the writer’s killer to life then murdering the author exactly as described in her book. When the media reports the murder details and the connection to the novel, the dead author’s book rockets to “best seller” status overnight.

SynDee fits “The Thriller Book Killer’s” victim profile perfectly. Perhaps too perfectly. Evidence stacks up. The killer is someone close to SynDee. Could the “Thriller Book Killer” be Aimes? R.C.? Bart? Or...?

Will SynDee identify the real “Thriller Book Killer” before she becomes another of his bestselling dead authors?

Download the award-winning “The Thriller Book Killer” today to explore the “A Killer Among Us” series of killer-good stand alone novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shirley Spain
• Release date: Sep 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311528490

Shirley Spain

An animal lover, fitness instructor, and author of dark and chilling thrillers...Shirley strives for what she calls, "plausible realism" in her books and garners critical details from her "police ride along" experiences as well as educating herself by attending and graduating from the West Jordan Citizen's Police Academy and receiving training as a CERT member (Community Emergency Response Team). She is currently a West Jordan Police Department VIPS (Volunteer In Police Service).​When researching Ultimate Trust (book 2 in the Jewels Trust M.U.R.D.E.R. series) her antagonist built a bomb and consequently blew up a house. To ensure the scene was "plausible" she met with the fire chief and a SWAT arson investigator who helped her "build a better bomb" for her story!"Thinking up and plotting the dastardly deeds of demented killers is a challenge," Shirley says. "However the real fun begins when figuring out how my heroine--and her studly hero, of course--will turn the tables, outsmart the twisted murderer, and survive."In real life, Shirley has been a victim of human predators more than once, yet lives by the motto: No matter what horrible circumstance life hurls at you, choose to survive and become stronger because of it. She uses that maxim as a guide when writing her novels.Shirley often wrangles friends into "role playing" when researching scenes and admits she "experiments" on herself and has done so with some of the tools her bad guys use, including duct tape, a variety of rope, and handcuffs. She even locked herself in the trunk of her car and attempted to escape. Hmmm. Knowing this, you may wonder how many of the stunts described in her books she tried on herself ... but she'll never tell!

Book preview

The Thriller Book Killer

Contents, copyright © 2015, 2020 Shirley A. Spain

All Rights Reserved

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Amazon purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction.

The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

Website

Email: [e-mail]

Facebook: https://facebook.com/authorshirleyspain

Books By Shirley Spain

Jewels Trust

M.U.R.D.E.R. series

Mistaken Trust

Ultimate Trust

Relucant Trust

Deadly Trust

Endangered Trust

Regretful Trust

Pepper Jackson Thrillers

The Bulls-Eye Killer

Caught in the Middle

Countdown to Murder

Murder Retreat

Full Moon Trilogy

Werewolf Awakening, the Hunt Begins (FREE download)

Werewolf Rising, the Hunt Escalates

Werewolf Legacy, the Hunt Resumes

Tumble Lake Thrillers

Buried at Tumble Lake

Abducted at Tumble Lake

Betrayed at Tumble Lake

Deceived at Tumble Lake

Dedication

To John Spehler

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.

Thank you for appearing (via an author’s Meetup, no less) at the exact time I needed your no nonsense wisdom and gentle spirit in my life.

Acknowledgements

I could not be living my dream as an author were it not for the relentless support and patience of my fabulous husband, Curtis Spain, and my dear friend, Peggy Beach, along with the cheers and words of encouragement from so many others. I am blessed and humbled to have so many wonderful people in my life who accept and love me despite my quirkiness.

Author’s Note

IF YOU'RE FAMILIAR with the gritty writing style I employed in my other books, you’ll find The Thriller Book Killer is a bit tamer. Unlike my stories in the Jewels Trust M.U.R.D.E.R. series novels, which I would deem R-rated for strong language, intense depictions of violence, and some sexual situations, The Thriller Book Killer is my first attempt to write what I would consider a PG-13 rated murder mystery.

Please don’t misunderstand. There are still plenty of hair-raising scenes of dastardly deeds to rev up your heart rate and induce cringes and gasps of dread, they’re just less penetrating. Meaning, no F bombs, no graphic descriptions of violent crimes, and no detailed sex scenes. Plus, it’s a League of Utah Writers Award Winner!

Regardless, with the thousands of terrific authors in the world and literally millions of books to choose from, I am honored and sincerely grateful you have chosen The Thriller Book Killer for your entertainment.

No matter if you discovered this novel based on the recommendation of a friend, or if you’re a fan of my other books, or if you simply happened to be perusing selections and found the story description intriguing, THANK YOU for purchasing this book.

I wish you a killer good entertaining experience.

Shirley

P.S. Please visit my website to receive your FREE ebook copy of my stand-alone novel, Forever Breathless, from my Killer Among Us collection of psychological thrillers.

Table of Contents

Cover

Books by Shirley Spain

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Author's Note

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Sixty-Six

Sixty-Seven

Sixty-Eight

Sixty-Nine

Seventy

Seventy-One

Seventy-Two

Seventy-Three

Seventy-Four

Seventy-Five

Epilogue

From the Desk of Shirley Spain

About the Author

Books by Shirley Spain

Prologue

SYNNNN-DEEEE. ESCAPE IS IMPOSSIBLE, he bellowed, his eyes feasting on his fleeing victim.

She didn’t break stride. Or look back.

He was crumpled on his knees at the side of the car’s open trunk, sputtering blood into the gravel. Glimpsing at the outdated all terrain vehicle parked under a wooden lean-to, he smirked. Recapturing her was a given.

"You are the one," he muttered, appreciating her courage and resourcefulness. Anticipating the overload of sleeping pills he used to drug her would be enough to keep her sedated, her liveliness caught him off guard when he popped the trunk.

Catapulting herself out of the trunk, a shoe in each hand, SynDee wielded the stilettos like ice climbing axes. In a blur, she unleashed a vicious attack stabbing at his face. Delivered one blow with such force the shoe punctured his cheek, penetrating so deeply the heel cap gouged his tongue. She twisted the shoe, further mangling his flesh.

Stunned by her unexpected assault and reeling in blinding pain, rather than counterattack, he leaped back in retreat. Grabbed his face with both hands. Stumbled. Lost his balance and crashed to his knees.

Confident the eight foot fence enclosing the compound would contain her, he withheld immediate pursuit. Gaining control of the pain she had inflicted was priority.

He swiped his tongue over his lips. Pressed his gloved palm against his throbbing cheek, temporarily plugging the hole. After holding his hand in place for about ten seconds, he peeled it away. Thick crimson liquid blotted the beige leather of his tactile glove.

Drawing the handkerchief he always carried from his back pocket, he wiped off his hand. Placed his left palm flat on the side of the dusty sedan and struggled to his feet. Stabilizing his stance on the gravel, he brushed dirt from his Dockers.

More amused than pissed, This is gonna leave a mark, he chuckled, dabbing the wound with the hanky. Removing the cloth, his tongue probed the ragged wound. Estimated the hole to be the size of a dime. Maybe a nickel. Lips compressed, he could suck air through the puncture.

The cool evening breeze wasn’t soothing. Felt like a searing bayonet ramrodding his cheek. He wrinkled his nose and squinted his left eye. With a growl, he hacked up a kidney bean-size glob of blood.

He flung open the front passenger door and retrieved a duffle bag. Extracted a bottle of water and a pocket-size pair of binoculars. While gulping the water, some trickled from his ruptured cheek. Wiping the dribbles against his shoulder, his attention honed in on the writer soon to become a household name. All thanks to his unique and proven method of launching novels onto bestseller lists.

Tossing the empty bottle into the car, he slammed the door. Eyed her through the binoculars.

The skirt of her skimpy black dress was hiked up around her waist, a high heel clenched in each fist of her pumping arms. Shapely legs propelled her down the earthen road deeper into the sparsely wooded forest.

The curls of her formal updo had unraveled. Coils of auburn locks bounced up and down the middle of her back like elegant springs.

Even though the pain was intense, he created a megaphone with one hand cupped around his mouth. "Synnnn-Deeee. Oh, Synnnn-Deee. Thanks to me, your novels will be bestsellers," he taunted, enduring the knifelike pain induced by the movement of his jaw.

She glanced back. Eyes peeled wide. Lips misshapen in alarm. Terror warped her features. Her voice shrill with hysteria, Nooooooo!

Her fear invigorated him. Adrenaline stoked his muscles. Anticipation pounded his heart in his ears. He couldn’t wait to breathe life into the fictional Cupcake Monster. Couldn’t wait for SynDee to become the first real victim of a brutal murderer conjured from the dark corners of her own twisted mind.

Poetic justice exemplified. An arrogant smile twitched the corners of his lips.

Depositing the binoculars onto the car roof, he glanced into the backseat at the briefcase. "Tools of your fame," he declared, thinking of the killer’s murder kit described in her novel. Handcuffs. Clothesline. Branch pruners. Heavy rubber mallet. Fancy paper doilies. Colorful plastic cupcake toppers of circus animals.

Intentionally he inhaled another breath through the rift in his cheek, heightening the intensity of his misery. He relished the stinging pain and savored the bitter coppery taste of the fresh blood continuing to swell in his mouth.

A light wind skimmed his face. Rustled the dried leaves scattered on the ground. Wafted the smell of pine through the air.

In the distance a lone crow cawed.

Flies buzzed, touching down on the open wound on his cheek. He flicked his head and brushed his chin against his shoulder, temporarily shooing away the persistent winged insects.

He strode to the ATV and started it.

The off road vehicle coughed to life, belching white smoke.

The perfect day for the ultimate publicity stunt. He revved the engine, its piercing metallic whine foretelling his intention.

Popping a wheelie, he rocketed down the gravel road in hot pursuit of his next bestselling author, SynDee Unser.

One

ONE WEEK EARLIER.

AT THE FIDDLE AND GRUB DINER.

I think this novel could be your ticket out of obscurity. Nannette tapped her finger against the plastic box containing the manuscript.

Seriously? SynDee gasped at her editor. Best friend. The woman she couldn’t be closer to or love more had they been born twins, though appeared opposites. Nan was a big busted version of a fifty-year-old Jamie Lee Curtis, with super short salt and pepper hair and a model worthy body. SynDee, five years Nan’s junior, could pass for an incarnation of Jane Russell with long flowing auburn hair and an iconic hourglass figure.

SynDee and Nannette sat across from one another at the back of the boxcar-size restaurant in the booth dubbed thriller corner, each enjoying a monster breakfast burrito in celebration of the first edit.

Since SynDee always chose that booth, the table was loosely named in her honor. The location was ideal. Spacious. Private. Conveniently close to the restroom. A feature especially important for days when Nan and she spent hours brainstorming novel rewrites over bottomless refills of Coke.

"Nan, you think this book is that much better than Bolts or Murder in —"

Oh my gosh, did you hear about the slaughter of that author? Mackenzie screeched from the middle of the diner.

SynDee and Nannette shook their heads in unison at their anorexic waitress who preferred to be called Kenzie.

She usually sported an eyebrow-raising Gothic vibe with spiked red and black hair, dark makeup and leather jewelry. Today, wearing denim shorts and a yellow T-shirt, Kenzie appeared to be dressed normal. Especially if the nose ring was overlooked. And the snagged fishnet stockings. And the combat boots missing laces.

Mackenzie hustled her toothpick legs down the vacant section of the hash house toward thriller corner. She dodged the bright orange cone with a handwritten CLOSED sign taped to it.

Bart, the Fiddle and Grub’s owner, kept the section closed except during the evening dinner hours. However, had given SynDee permission to ignore the sign.

Mackenzie beat a frenzied shuffle against the wooden floor. Wildly she flapped her skeleton arms. Pointed to the other end of the restaurant at the ceiling-mounted television surrounded by kitschy tumbleweeds and cacti. "All the buzz going around S.H. is true. They’re discussing the dead author and her books on one of those national talk shows."

SynDee slid over a couple of feet and patted the brown vinyl seat, inviting the waitress to sit next to her. What’s S.H.?

"Shudder Host. It’s a secret network Bart hooked me up with a few weeks ago, but that’s not what’s important." Mackenzie scooted into the seat.

Shudder like a shiver, or shutter for a window? SynDee quizzed.

"Like the creeps. But I told you, that’s not what’s important," Mackenzie snapped.

Pardon me. By all means do proceed. A hint of aggravation slipped between SynDee’s words.

Okay. Mackenzie leaned over the table. Swiveled her head back and forth making sure no one could eavesdrop. Though not a soul within thirty feet, she lowered her voice. Proceeded as if telling a campfire story meant to scare the bejesus out of those gathered around.

"It happened about three weeks ago. In South Carolina. In a peaceful rural community. It was dusk. Alone, the novelist relaxed watching a CSI rerun. She sipped a glass of wine in the living room of her lakeside log home…"

Eyes widening, hands animated, Mackenzie increased the tempo of her storytelling. Her back door was kicked in. The door frame torn right off the wall. Splinters everywhere. There was overturned furniture. Busted up lamps. Even pictures ripped off the walls and smashed.

Poking her head forward, Mackenzie deepened her voice and slowed the pace, volume just above a whisper. The next day, in the woods just a few hundred feet from her back door, a group of Scouts on a hike made a gruesome discovery—

CRASH! The sound of glass shattering echoed through the diner like a heart-stopping gunshot.

The women jumped a foot out of their seats, clutching their chests. Heads jerking in the direction of the clatter.

Uh-oh. Must be Cody, the new busboy, Mackenzie surmised.

SynDee and Nannette exchanged glances, chuckling with relief.

Anyway, the kids found a woman’s body. Mackenzie paused before adding, All … chopped … up.

Mackenzie pulled back from the table and elongated her neck. Someone split her open starting at her chin… With her short thumbnail painted in glittering bright blue nail polish, she imitated the path of the knife and drew out a gurgling sound as her thumb descended down her neck … between her breasts … over her stomach … disappearing under the table.

He strung her up, like a dead deer. Kenzie shot her arms straight above her head and crossed her hands at the wrist as if bound. With the tips of her toes barely touching the ground, he gutted her while she was still alive. She mimed the actions while explaining, Then he draped her gooey intestines on some of the tree branches like Christmas garland. Skewered her liver, kidneys, and heart like ornaments, dripping—

Do you mind? Nannette glimpsed down at her breakfast. "We are eating."

Oops. Sorry. Mackenzie giggled and dropped her hands to her lap. "Anyway, she was murdered. Her body hacked apart and entrails displayed exactly the way the serial killer butchered his victims in one of her books."

SynDee recoiled. That’s dreadful. Who was the author?

Eyes roving to the ceiling for the answer, Mackenzie made a sputtering sound. Jasmine … uh … don’t remember her last name. She published a few e-books on Amazon. Didn’t sell a lot. You know, like you, Syn. Her voice and posture perking up.

A distorted expression revealed SynDee’s insult.

I didn’t mean it bad, Hon. It’s a fact you keep telling everyone, Mackenzie claimed in defense.

SynDee’s brows jumped. The gal had a point. She did wear her woes of dismal sales on her sleeve. Openly lamented her plight as a diversion. If she spoke of her lagging book sales, folks rarely brought up the subject of her husband.

"And, there’s more, which is why I thought of you, Syn," Mackenzie said.

Oh?

She had long brown hair, like you. Was pretty and sexy, like you. Single, like you. And wrote bloody thrillers, like you.

And was an unknown, like me, SynDee silently finished. Without mortgaging the house and wiping out her savings for an intense media blitz, how does an indie author attract readers when she’s in competition with millions of novels worldwide?

Wild ass publicity stunt, SynDee wordlessly answered, hearing the advice of her brother, Steve, a successful commercial photographer. Over a year ago she consulted her eccentric sibling for ideas to promote her books. Gimme a little time, SynDee-rella. I’ll come up with a headline-grabbing stunt to make you a household name, she remembered him promising. To date she hadn’t heard back. Figured he forgot.

Mackenzie’s eyes saucered. Now get this, since the cops announced the writer was murdered the same way as the victim in her book, sales have gone through the roof. According to those talk show broads, this author’s books are on all the bestseller lists now. Plus the internet is going nuts writing fanfic about the killer coming to life and murdering his creator. Mackenzie clacked her sparkling disco ball tongue ring against her teeth. "It’s a Frankenstein story … but real."

Nannette’s expression darkened. She grabbed the clear plastic tumbler with a double-handed grip. Sucked on the straw until making an annoying slurping sound after all the liquid had been guzzled.

A twinge of electricity zipped SynDee’s spine. Goosebumps pebbled her skin. "That’s taking the concept of a wild ass publicity stunt too far," she muttered, not intending her words to be audible.

Mackenzie heard them. She tapped SynDee on the forearm. No, no, no, Hon. I don’t think she planned her death as a publicity stunt. I doubt an author would hire someone to kill her just to sell books, you know.

Really? SynDee thought, unable to prevent her eyes from rolling and the corners of her lips from crooking.

Sagging her bony shoulders and exhaling, I mean, think about it, Syn, the waitress continued, shifting in her seat. Now that this author’s dead, she can’t enjoy her fame and the buckets of cash from her book sales.

"Back up, Kenzie. Is this Shudder Host a special club or society on the internet?" Nannette pushed her empty glass to the side.

Yep. We’re a by-invitation-only cyber squad of self-proclaimed homicide detectives. We research murder victims. You know, we have to look at obits from all over the country. Pick out single women. Find out if they were writers of thrillers, then read their books to determine if they died similar to their characters.

You read books? SynDee’s tone demeaning, which was not her intent.

Nannette shot a sideways glance at SynDee.

Mackenzie didn’t seem bothered by the comment. Well, not the whole book. You know, somebody reads the whole book then picks out the chapters describing the murder and passes them around.

Pirated e-copies, SynDee judged.

Not really. We don’t copy the entire book. Just the parts we need for our investigation.

"Oh. For investigative purposes. I guess that makes pirating okay," SynDee scowled.

Nannette lightly kicked SynDee’s shin under the table, indicating she should shut up. Tell us more, Kenzie.

SynDee gazed at her lap, half-listening. Her mind still swimming over Mackenzie spelling out why an author wouldn’t hire someone to kill her as a publicity stunt to sell books. How stupid does she think I am?

We’re pretty sure there are more murdered authors in the Midwest. It’s like this guy is moving across country, but the cops haven’t figured it out. You know, like put two and two together.

Go on, Nannette encouraged.

After deciding we had enough evidence for the South Carolina murder, E.T. sent an anonymous tip to the local cops. If it wouldn’t have been for us, the cops would have never made the book connection.

E.T.? Nannette echoed.

"Is he an Extra Terrestrial who wants to phone home?"

Mackenzie laughed. Good one Syn, but this E.T.’s short for Entozoon, you know, like a parasite. He worms his way into servers without anyone knowing.

Almost sorry I asked, Nannette groaned.

"None of us know him or her, if it is a her. We just know Entozoon has special talents and skills when it comes to hacking computers and putting two and two together."

Time out. SynDee held her hands up to make a T. "I’ll be honest, Kenzie. There’s something hinky about this E.T. character’s refined hacking skills and his remarkable ability to put two and two together—"

Kenzie! A man bellowed from the kitchen.

SynDee jerked her head up, glancing in the direction of the summons. The head poking around the corner was Bart’s. The well-built bald cook with bushy dark brows, thick moustache, and soul-piercing eyes, could pass for a steroid version of a forty-something G. Gordon Liddy of Watergate infamy.

Although SynDee didn’t know Bart outside the diner, her passing impressions pegged him as a loner. And odd. Chillingly so. Especially the way his eyes prowled over her. Several times she suspected him of taking photos of her with his cell phone, but never confronted him. Never told anyone, either.

To add to the cook’s bizarreness, he toted a black briefcase. Everywhere. When standing at the grill, the leather case was planted at his feet. Even when greeting customers at the entry, checking tables, or dashing into the restroom, the briefcase was in his hand. Bart guarded the satchel as if it contained blood diamonds … or balloons of cocaine.

Sometimes SynDee wondered if it was safe to eat the food Bart prepared. However generous servings of reasonably priced home-style meals eclipsed his peculiarities. And her concerns.

Mackenzie waved her hand acknowledging Bart, then focused on SynDee and Nannette. I have an order up and it looks like a couple customers just walked in. She slid out of the booth. I’ll come back in a few minutes with refills on your Cokes and tell you about E.T. and the Shudder Host investigations, she promised, tromping off.

Two

"SHUDDER HOST. ENTOZOON. The possibility of a serial killer stalking authors…" A flabbergasted phew finished Nannette’s sentence. She uncapped a bottle of Cholula, smothering her burrito in it.

"Wow. I suppose truth can be stranger than fiction. Speaking of fiction, SynDee eyed her manuscript, I’d like to get back to my novel. Do you think it’s my best work?"

"The cunning killer with honed crossbow skills in your first novel, Bolts, was intense and your demented Murder in the Milk slayer, even more so. Both nail-biters. Original. Had that creep factor readers of the genre crave. But this third one…" Nannette noshed a bite of burrito.

So I’ve grown as a writer. SynDee also drowned her burrito in hot sauce before digging in.

Nannette nodded. "It’s a riveting page-turner, though as you’ll see in my notes, I recommend you tone down, if not completely delete, most of the sexual detail in the prologue depicting momma’s fingers down there and—"

A little over the top, huh?

"No. Try a lot, Nannette emphasized with a snicker. And I have to tell you, Syn, I’m not sold on the name. She pulled a sour face. The Cupcake Monster? The title seems a tad too cutesy for me. Or maybe benign."

"What’s wrong with The Cupcake Monster? Disappointment more than curiosity underscored SynDee’s words. I thought the title was quite clever considering the killer cuts off his victim’s big toe, replacing it with a plastic cupcake pick."

"For me, the title conjures a vision of Sesame Street’s Cookie Monster, except with cupcakes."

Jeez. Talk about an imagination, Nan. SynDee collapsed her shoulders into the back of the booth. Hopefully by the time you finished reading the prologue your image of an endearing kiddie character was dispelled, as well as your appetite.

I’ll never look at one of those little plastic doodads the same again.

"I like the title—"

As I always say, it’s your book. You’re the author. You’re in charge. Nannette sipped her Coke.

I know. But I respect your opinion and know you would never steer me wrong. If you think the title doesn’t reflect the story appropriately—

Weren’t you supposed to be meeting with other authors through some online social network?

Yeah, yeah, SynDee huffed. The Meetup web site connects folks, based on common interests, for offline get togethers. But for me, it hasn’t worked. Duds. Four out of four in less than two weeks. She emphatically thrust both thumbs down. And last Friday’s Meetup was the worst group yet. Mostly newbies with a few chapters written.

Are there other Meetup writer’s groups you can try?

"I received an e-mail announcing a recently formed Meetup, called Indie Authors Exclusive which is supposedly open to independently published authors only, meaning no newbies and no one traditionally published."

Sounds right up your alley.

Their next meeting is at six tonight in New Greensburgh. Bindy Myers is listed as the organizer, but there’s no picture or other information about her, which is weird. And no authors have joined the group either, which doubles the weird factor.

How do you join?

Click the JOIN button which prompts you to add a photo and write a little about yourself.

Did you join?

No.

Well, there you go.

Valid point, Nan, but I looked this gal up on Amazon and couldn’t find her. If Bindy’s an indie author, she didn’t publish on Amazon. So I have major credibility issues.

Maybe she writes under a pseudonym. Or maybe she’s on Smashwords, or one of a dozen other e-book outlets.

I thought of that, too, but didn’t want to waste time playing cyber detective. SynDee paused, added, "Gee, maybe I should have Kenzie and E.T. track her down."

Nannette flashed a patronizing smile.

"I did consider attending tonight, but what if I’m the only one? Besides, it’s a good forty-minute drive and I teach an early morning cycling class tomorrow. SynDee twisted her face in indecision and seesawed her head. I don’t know if I want to travel that far and get home that late when I have to wake up at four in the morning. She carved another bite-size piece of the breakfast burrito swimming in hot sauce. Especially if it ends up being another dud."

Take Grim Reaper and you’ll be there in ten minutes, Nannette wisecracked, rounding up a stray pool of chili verde.

Very funny. SynDee rolled her eyes, thinking of the metallic black and silver Z06 Corvette purchased shortly after the passing of her husband, Jay. The car’s GRIMREAPR license plate was an inside joke. A bit of dark humor.

Over the years every time SynDee brought up the topic of buying a sports car, Jay nixed