Book Tour Madness

By SJ Slagle

Jaynie Floyd, a celebrated mystery writer, has a book on the New York Times bestseller list. It’s wonderful news and her agent wants to send her on a book tour to promote it. However, Jaynie is newly widowed and doesn’t want to go. As she works through her grief, a myriad of problems arise with family and life.

Once she finally decides to go on the book tour, partially to escape, all hell breaks loose. One of the other authors on the tour is murdered and Jaynie’s instincts as a mystery writer are called into action. Soon she is chasing down leads and suspects, all the while avoiding requests from police and family to keep out of it. Her skills and curiosity take Jaynie into dangerous territory, from which she may not escape. Bodies pile up as she gets closer to the truth. Truth that could make sure she bothers the killer no more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SJ Slagle
• Release date: Apr 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798390838969

SJ Slagle

I'm the proud honoree of the 2018 B.R.A.G. Medallion for excellence in historical fiction. My book, London Spies, is the first of a trilogy about a young woman in military intelligence in WWII.I am an unabashed lover of mysteries. Sue Grafton, Sherlock Holmes, Lawrence Block, Walter Mosley, JA Jance and Tony Hillerman are just a few authors who have tantalized my imagination over the years and I reread their work whenever I need stimulation. And instruction. A writer goes to the master to learn that certain turn of phrase, a unique POV or how to kickstart the story reverberating in your head.I grew up in Illinois, moved to Arizona and, after college, toured some of the world including Puerto Rico, Florida and the Virgin Islands. I've traveled throughout my lifetime giving setting and tone new twists as my horizons expanded. My work as a teacher in Language Arts and video production have proven time and again to be superb launching pads for my writing.I write mysteries and historical fiction as SJ Slagle and western romances as Jeanne Harrell. My sister and I started writing children's books long ago and those are published under both our names: Sinda Cheri Floyd. The stories we write are loosely based on our collective experiences during childhood.Enjoy my books and happy reading!

Book preview

Chapter 1:

What’s it all about, Alfie?

1

Shit on a shingle!

It all happens at once, doesn’t it?

The good news is that my book hit the New York Times bestseller list.

The bad news is that my agent expects me to go on a book tour to promote it and I don’t want to go.

I just can’t.

My name is Jaynie Floyd and I’m an author who lives and works in Reno, Nevada. I didn’t start out in Reno, but through a series of life’s miscalculations, I ended up here, minus the first husband I’d married too young and minus the desire to become a writer because I needed money to live.

I became a teacher instead. Hard to tell if that was really a miscalculation, because sometimes I liked teaching and sometimes I didn’t.

Stay with me. I digress now and then, but I promise I’ll come to the point. Let me tell you the story as it unfolded two weeks ago.

The reason I don’t want to go on a book tour right now is because my husband of many years just died of cancer. Man, the emotions swirling through my head are too many to count. Laurence was such a good man. He’d been in the Navy and I gave him a military memorial. I remember the honor guard finished its twenty-one gun salute causing my gut to clench like an iron vise with every shot.

After the honor guard finished its riveting salute, a soldier in an Army uniform stepped forward to play taps. The notes from his bugle hit me between the eyes and shot straight down to widen the deep puncture in my heart. The scent of my son’s aftershave wafted my way. I breathed it in, happy to have something familiar to lock onto, because the sight before me was unbelievable.

No one expected Laurence to die. He was a strong man, but chemotherapy weakened his immune system. He was unable to fight off the pneumonia when it kicked in and wouldn’t go away.

My mind drifted as a man and woman in Navy uniforms folded the flag in front of me. Laurence had been on the Apollo 14 recovery team as a young Navy diver. Part of his duties was to secure the flotation raft around the space capsule so it wouldn’t sink into the ocean. He was proud of his long military career, and I was proud to have had him for my husband, my children’s father and our granddaughter’s doting grandfather. He was certainly the best of us and now he was gone.

Again and again the flag was folded into a thick triangle, handed off to a Naval officer in full dress uniform who handed it to me. I blinked rapidly as he spoke words of consolation. I didn’t hear them. I watched his mouth move as he slowly handed me the folded flag. The reality of what had happened slapped me alongside the head and it took effort to remain still. I didn’t want to accept that flag, the note of finality in this tragic situation. I thanked the officer; he saluted the flag and, I suppose, me, since I was sitting there.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my son struggle with his composure, tears leaking from watery eyes. His girlfriend stared straight ahead with her hand clutching his. Next to her was my daughter, not even trying to stem the flow of tears. Her jerk of a husband was actually in attendance, for once. He was usually in the betting parlor of a local casino losing most, if not all, of his paycheck.

I’ll get back to him later.

2

No one ever tells you what life is like after your husband dies. Maybe people were afraid I’d ask for money. Nope. We made our own and planned for what might happen. Cancer can give you foresight when it comes to living and dying. Laurence was a good man; he didn’t want me to suffer financially after he was gone.

I considered myself fortunate to have survived public school teaching to become a published author. I retired early from teaching when Laurence was first diagnosed with cancer, and began my writing career in earnest. Some of my early work wasn’t particularly noteworthy, but I kept at it, and my latest book hit the bookstores a month ago. My agent, Ahmed, was already telling me about rumors he had heard in the trades. I might have more marketing to do for this book, maybe even a book tour. Reminding him that I was recently widowed didn’t clue him in to whatever I might be feeling. He saw dollar signs instead of sympathy cards. Maybe he was right: maybe being out on the road was better than wallowing on my couch in front of the TV. Maybe.

Not a week after the memorial service, when my head was still reeling in shock, my daughter called with the news: she’s pregnant with their second child.

Incredible. Everyone knows her husband isn’t paddling with all his oars in the water. Everyone but her. Actually, she wasn’t thrilled with the news either. Their money was tight—I wonder why—and a new child was causing more stress than joy. For once, I held my tongue and asked how I could help. Unusual I know, but maybe I could learn a few new tricks.

Mom? Are you listening?

Of course, honey. I twisted my wedding ring around on my finger. What did you say?

I knew it! she said accusingly.

Sarah, I’ve been a bit distracted. Dad just died, remember?

Sorry, Mom, I know. She sounded contrite. But I’m in a pickle.

I swallowed my comment about the multiple forms of birth control that were available and scoured my brain for an appropriate response. I knew she was indeed in a giant pickle. Perhaps in a whole barrel of pickles.

How can I help?

Sniffles became louder. I knew my daughter. She needed help as much as I did. We were a real pair; one grieving for a lost loved one, one despairing a new life.

I feel like such a heel, but could you watch McKenzie tonight? I want to talk to Dash without any interruptions.

Sure, honey.

Dash. Every time I heard his name, I thought of Dashiell Hammett, the mystery writer from the ‘30s. But that Dash was creative and earned his living. Sam Spade was one of my favorite fictional characters. Her Dash was a pale imitation of what a husband should be. Although a handsome man, Dash Connors was always reaching for the brass ring and failing to grasp it. Laurence and I never understood why our lovely daughter, who had many boyfriends in high school and college, picked Dash over all the others. She’d been a star swimmer in college and a runner-up on the Olympics team. She even made more money as a software engineer than her husband with his failing sporting goods store. Could that be because he hired teenagers to run the store while he was off at the nearest casino?

Mom?

Still here. What time will you bring her over?

Six?

Fine. Can’t wait to see my grandbaby.

That much was true. The one good thing my ne’er-do-well son-in-law had managed to accomplish successfully was their sweet little daughter. Although Dash took all the credit for McKenzie, Sarah had quietly confessed that he wasn’t thrilled when she told him she was pregnant. He’d said a child would stop them from having fun, but they didn’t have much, as far as I could tell. Dash could always be found gambling when he was supposed to be home with his family.

Little McKenzie—Mac, we called her—would be fun to play with tonight and would keep me from staring at all the clothes in my husband’s closet.

I couldn’t decide. When is the right time to empty the closet? What do I do with all those clothes? How can I part with that blue shirt he wore to our granddaughter’s christening? I gave him the green sweater last Christmas and I could still smell his aftershave on it. I wisely closed the closet door.

Sarah and Dash seemed to be getting along when they dropped off Mac and I was hoping for the best. I made McKenzie’s favorite dinner, mac and cheese, and we sang her favorite songs while stirring the noodles. I knew all the words to every verse of Puff, the Magic Dragon, but was pleasantly surprised that my granddaughter did too. A delightful child with long, dark curls down her back, she had a heart-shaped face with a chin poised to quiver if things were not to her liking. She really had us where she wanted us.

After dinner, she put on the pink tutu her mother had purchased on a trip to a software conference in San Francisco and danced around the kitchen to her own music while I put our dishes in the dishwasher.

Later, after she’d gone to sleep, I logged onto Facebook to touch base with my online friends. I’d been a cheerleader in junior high in a small town in Illinois, and I had reconnected with school friends from that time. One was a male friend I’d known since the fourth grade. We’d been corresponding for a while now and Laurence found it amusing that I still knew someone from elementary school. He was online tonight.

DM: How was the memorial?

Me: Sad.

DM: You keeping busy?

Me: Trying to get financial stuff done and my house needs serious repair work. Haven’t had time or the will to deal with it. What about you?

DM: Got some work to do for my boys. Keeping busy. Have you taken that interest inventory I sent you?

Me: No.

DM: Why not?

Me: Maybe I’m not interested.

DM: Funny but it may spark an interest you haven’t tried.

Me: Why would I want to spark an interest?

DM: You’re a regular comedian tonight but I’m serious. You need to keep busy.

Me: I’ll get around to it.

DM: Anything else going on?

Me: Yes. My agent wants to send me out on a book tour.

DM: Great! Your latest book is a winner!

Me: But I don’t want to go.

DM: Why in the world not?

Me: Don’t I sound depressed to you? I feel depressed.

DM: You have good reason to be depressed, but not for it to take over your life.

Me: But…

DM: Just think it over. This book is your most successful. Sometimes success brings sacrifice.

Me: Awfully philosophical tonight.

DM: Think about it.

Me: Okay, I will. Got to go. Bye.

DM: Good luck.

The phone rang and I shut down the computer. It was Ahmed, my agent, and he didn’t seem pleased.

Did you get my text?

No, why?

I need your answer pronto.

About what?

Read the text and call me back.

Why can’t you just tell me?

Because I sent you the clip.

What clip?

Read the text.

He hung up while I was drawing breath to yell at him for being so mysterious. Usually I love mysteries, but I wasn’t feeling it right now.

But as I was reading the infamous text with its fabulous news about Thanksgiving Storm hitting the New York Times bestseller list for fiction, my son called. I had no time for a victory dance around the living room.

We did it, Mom.

Who did what? It was apparently my day for cryptic phone calls.

Willow and I set a date.

Wonderful! You’re getting married! When?

June 15.

I swallowed hard. That was a month from now.

Mom? What do you think? I know it’s soon but…

His words trailed off and I wondered how to phrase this. Ah, Tyler? Can you get it all planned by then? That’s not much time.

Sure. No sweat. You’ll see.

Okay. Thanks for the heads-up. Have you spoken to your sister?

I tried, but that cretin answered her phone.

His name is Dash.

And what kind of name is that?

A unique one?

He laughed at my little joke. Gotta go, Mom. Love ya.

Love you too, son, I spoke to the dial tone.

3

Ah, a bestseller.

There’s nothing like good news, is there? It took a few minutes to clear the cobwebs from Tyler’s surprising, yet welcome announcement before I remembered that I was due a victory dance. Certain moments in your life are to be celebrated, and this was surely one.

I’d worked hard on Thanksgiving Storm, a murder mystery ranking right up there with Agatha Christie’s work, if I say so myself. Christie was the quintessential mystery writer, and Murder on the Orient Express was one of her best. Maybe one day, my book would be thought of as highly as hers. Grandiose thoughts perhaps, but they were necessary to keep me going as an author, a mystery writer and, let’s face it, a grieving widow.

Such words conjure a woman dressed in black with a long, black veil obscuring her face, a face awash with tears. I glanced down at what I was wearing: plaid sweats with a bright red sweater. With my blondish hair tied back in a messy ponytail, my grieving widow-look didn’t cut it. Thinking of the clothes in my closet, I had only one black dress that didn’t fit me anymore—those pesky pounds have a way—and not one veil. Zilch. My mental widow-look needed a makeover.

But the bestseller. I could handle that thought.

I read the text from Ahmed again.

And once more for good measure.

The New York Times bestseller list was considered, certainly by me and by my agent, to be the preeminent list of best-selling books in the United States. It’s a trade secret how books are ranked and it means more than just the sale of books. I’d known for a while that my book was selling well, but that might not be an indication that it would land on the NYT bestseller list.

I gave myself a full five minutes to breathe in the rarified air of that information. To say I was happy was an understatement and I knew Laurence would have been over the moon. Since I’d been working on the book before and after he died, the book was meaningful to me in a number of ways. This was icing on the cake to a writer who had paid her dues and then some.

In my delirium, I called my agent.

Ahmed? Jaynie here. Thanks for the fabulously wonderful news! You’re going to have to scrape me off my ceiling.

I thought so. I could hear the smile in his voice. It’s an honor that should give your back catalog more visibility and help with sales.

I hope so.

Listen, since you’re already on the ceiling, I wanted you to know that I’m going to shop the movie rights while the book is hot.

Movie rights? I squeaked. You think there’s a chance a studio would buy it for a movie?

Why not? he said at once. It’s got all the key ingredients for a good film—murder, love, sex, and a fitting resolution.

No car crashes though.

Nearly. When the detective is chasing the limousine with the kidnapped girl down that icy stretch during a blizzard and slips off the road? He laughed. I think that might quality. It was certainly an exciting climax to a well-written story.

A smile stretched across my face and possibly part of the kitchen. My puffed-up ego slapped a high-five with my excited brain.

Thanks, Ahmed. Good luck with your shopping.

Talk to you later, Jaynie. Got another call. I’ll be in touch.

I know you will, I said to the dial tone. That had been happening to me lately. Hope it wasn’t a precursor of all my future phone calls.

4

So, a movie besides a book tour? Ahmed was making this hard for me. I’m feeling depressed because my husband died, my daughter is pregnant and in trouble, and my son wants to have his wedding in four weeks! How can I possibly take off for a week when my mind can’t seem to settle on any particular thought for more than a moment or two?

Take today. The day from hell.

If the world would quit rocking, I might be able to get the house painted. And the fence built. Or the trees trimmed. Too many home projects because I hadn’t been able to get anything done for a long time. I was too busy taking care of my sick husband. But if there was one thing that Laurence counseled…with constant repeats…was to do one thing at a time. He’d be pleased, I hoped, to know that I did just that. I’d pared the project list down to one item: the tree trimming. It had seemed to be the easiest task to begin with, but it sure didn’t turn out that way.

Not at all.

We had moved into this house when the kids were little. It wasn’t a fancy house, but was a basic three bedroom, two bath, with a large backyard where Tyler and Sarah could play. At one time, a swing set sat in one corner of the yard and an above-ground pool in the other corner. We’d planted bushes and grass and after a few years, we added a deck with a small garden off to one side. The place was homey and comfortable and we were happy here.

The realization that I’d never lived in this house without my husband fully exploded into my consciousness when the memorial was over. The kids had gone to their homes and so had my sisters who’d come out to help me in my initial grief. It had been a long time since I lived alone anywhere and now the house problems, which my husband used to tackle, were mine. I decided to start with the trees on the side of the house.

My best friend, Laura, had come by to take a look at the new compressor I’d had installed. Many years in this house and we’d never had central air conditioning. She had been nagging me for some time to have it put in, but this was our routine. She would suggest something and I would dig in my heels trying to deflect because whatever it was would cost money. I decided she was right, it was time and had central AC installed.

So where is it? On the other side of the house? she asked as