Blush & Bone

By Sarah Neofield

The day before her extravagant celebrity wedding, Artie goes missing. But the police refuse to investigate her disappearance. Distraught, mother of the bride Carolyn turns to private investigator Jim Hardy to find Artie before the big event. Hardy is like a dog with a bone, relentlessly sniffing out clues and digging up leads, desperate to collect the payout Carolyn has promised.

But amid the blush and the tulle, the silk and the diamonds, there’s a bigger mystery at play. Who is Artie – and why won’t the authorities get involved?

Fans of Number Eight Crispy Chicken, Propaganda Wars and AutoCEO will love this genre-defying mystery novella from Sarah Neofield.

Get your copy of Blush and Bones today!

‘You’d be barking mad to go past Sarah Neofield’s novella, Blush & Bone.
You may think you have a grasp on her style of writing... right up until the very finish you think you know exactly what was going on, you got this, it’s just another typical mother-daughter wedding story. You. Are. Dead. Wrong. This case is harder to crack than a diamond choker!
Blush & Bone is different to Neofeld’s previous novels, but you still get the amazingly complex storyline we have come to love with this author.
An amazing tail with twists, turns and designer tulle that will keep you hooked from start to finish.
Do yourself a favour and grab a copy, get comfy, and enjoy!’ - Zoë Markham (VN, AVN, RVN), author of 'Pain Sucks'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Neofield
• Release date: Dec 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781922362094

Sarah Neofield

Sarah Neofield grew up in regional South Australia before living in Japan for a year. Always fascinated by language, she completed a PhD in applied linguistics in 2010. She has written extensively on the topics of intercultural communication, how we communicate online, and language learning.At the age of 30, Sarah resigned from her position as a university lecturer to travel, and since has visited over 60 countries. She blogs about the connection between language, money, and social justice at enrichmentality.com, and about reading, writing, and creativity at sarahneofield.comSarah’s debut novel, Number Eight Crispy Chicken, follows the misadventures of an immigration minister stranded in a foreign airport. Her most recent release, Propaganda Wars, is the tale of two cousins - a propagandist and an advertiser - who swap lives.You can find Sarah Neofield on Pinterest, or on Instagram @SarahNeofield

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 – CAROLYN

‘What’s her full name?’

‘Artichoke Olivia Trebecket-Ellison.’

Tears pricked Carolyn’s eyes. Thank goodness for waterproof mascara.

‘Artichoke, eh? One of those trendy names.’

Carolyn felt her spine arch. The little blonde hairs on her gym-toned arms stood on end.

Stewart must have felt her bristle. He placed a hand on her leg. Not as a comfort, Carolyn thought. As a warning.

‘We usually call her Artie,’ she smiled, lips pulled tight over her newly-white teeth.

‘And when did you last see Artie?’ Detective Morris asked.

‘She was definitely here when the florist left, at ten-thirty,’ Carolyn sniffed. ‘I remember Artie practically inhaled the roses.’ She paused, setting her teacup and saucer down on the table with a clatter. She couldn’t stand the sound they made as her hands trembled. ‘Then, I’d just finished helping her out of her dress when the caterers started to set up in the marquee outside. They made so much noise!’

Chaos. That’s what her morning had been. And all due to that idiotic caterer Kara, and her equally idiotic staff.

First they’d insisted upon setting up the wine tasting station before the installation of the dance floor was complete. And then, to add insult to injury, the napkins they’d brought were all wrong! They had cat paw prints on them, for heaven’s sake!

A tear slid down Carolyn’s cheek, collecting a layer of powder as it ran.

‘I see. Your husband mentioned you had others – before Artie? Can you tell me about them?’

Carolyn sniffed, nodded her head.

It was true. She’d had other babies before Artie. She wore their birthstones on a chain that circled her left wrist, their names engraved on a heart that sat just above her own.

Their remains were in silver urns on the mantle, each with a candle she lit on the holidays, and on their birthdays.

‘The first was a boy,’ Carolyn began. ‘He came along not long after we got married. He was so energetic. Loved to play. As soon as Stewart would walk in the door, he’d jump all over him.’

In a brief moment of respite from her grief, Carolyn grinned with the memory.

‘How did you lose him?’

‘It was a car accident.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Then there was our girl. She was quieter. Long, chestnut hair, and these gorgeous eyes.’ Like pools of chocolate, Carolyn thought.

‘When did you lose her?’

‘She’d just turned thirteen.’

‘So young,’ Morrison frowned. Carolyn fixed him with an icy glare. The man clearly had no idea. ‘Do you have any photos of Artie you can show me?’

Carolyn continued to stare at Morrison, hoping that her look conveyed the full weight of the incredulity she felt.

How stupid was he?

Stewart had told her that Detective Morrison was one of the best investigators there was. So good, in fact, that he probably wouldn’t have time to deal with a case like this. But evidently, his powers of observation were sorely lacking.

There wasn’t a single wall in the Ellisons’ large sitting room that didn’t have at least one picture of Artie on it. Over the fireplace was the big oil painting Carolyn had commissioned from an up-and-coming local artist as a gift to Stewart last Christmas. Near the entrance hung a series of artistic shots in black and white taken by Emelio Nagawa. Surely Morrison had noticed them – Nagawa was known for the striking lines and bold shadows of his portraiture. And then – Carolyn’s breath caught in her throat – there was the wall.

The wall which featured candid pictures taken from every year of Artie’s life.

Originally, she and Stewart had envisioned it as a sort of family photo wall. But then there were never any presentable pictures of Olivia to put up. And of course, she’d had to take down the photo of Harris and his wife on their wedding day to accommodate Artie’s pageant photos from the last year. It couldn’t be helped – there were so many good ones, Carolyn could hardly be expected to choose just a few. Birthday parties, graduations, the holidays. Besides, you couldn’t really call the photo of Harris and that woman a ‘wedding portrait’, Carolyn sniffed. It was nothing like the sort of pictures Nagawa would be taking tomorrow – images worthy of a magazine deal.

‘Mrs. Ellison?’

Carolyn rolled the words around in her head, wondering how to politely tell this man that if his powers of observation were so poor that he hadn’t noticed the enormous painting, the striking photographs, the entire wall of pictures of Artie right in front of him, she seriously doubted his abilities to solve the case.

Stewart cleared his throat. He pointed to the wall.

‘These are-?’ Morrison left his unfinished question hanging in the air.

Now this, Carolyn thought, was the reaction she was expecting. Speechlessness. She felt it too, when she looked into Artie’s eyes. No matter where she looked, she saw them.

‘Yes,’ Stewart said.

Morrison turned, taking in the walls.

Finally, he spoke.

‘Well, Mrs. Ellison – Carolyn. It’s only twelve o’clock now. I’m sure Artie will turn up on her own. That’s what often happens in these cases. I’d advise calling around your neighbours, and if she hasn’t shown up by tomorrow morning, consider putting up a couple of posters. Ask around on the lost and found pages online.’

‘Tomorrow morning?’ Carolyn’s already red eyes felt even more sore and bulgy. ‘The wedding’s tomorrow! Didn’t you see the marquee in the garden? Artie is supposed to marry Chase tomorrow morning!’

‘As I’m sure you can appreciate,’ Detective Morrison continued, ‘there’s only so much we can do in matters like this.’

‘Do you have any idea how famous Artie is? How many followers she has?’ That usually worked to get free shampoo or lattes. But Morrison looked unimpressed. ‘Isn’t there someone else we can talk to?’ Usually, Carolyn would ask to speak to his manager. She was sure that detectives didn’t have managers, but for the life of her, couldn’t recall what the appropriate term was. She wasn’t going to have Artie’s beautiful face plastered over street poles like some pensioner’s lost dog instead of a social media starlet.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Morrison said. ‘We just don’t have the resources. Really, I shouldn’t be here.’ He struggled to get out of one of Carolyn’s over-soft chairs. She’d picked them out specifically with Artie in mind. ‘I only came as a personal courtesy to Stewart.’

Carolyn eyed the half-drunk coffee he’d left on the table, his quarter-eaten biscotti.

‘I wish there was more I could do. Really’. Morrison paused, reaching into his pocket for a card. ‘If she’s not back within the next day or so, give me a call.’

Carolyn turned the card over in her hands, worrying the edges and running her fingers over the glossy print as Stewart walked Morrison to the door. She strained to hear what they were saying in their low voices. Stewart was, no doubt, grumbling about her, apologising for calling Morrison in. Carolyn’s body filled with heat. Stewart hadn’t wanted to get the police involved. But if this wasn’t the time to call in personal favours, when was? What was the point of Stewart putting in all those hours at Marshall, Marshall and Williamson if he didn’t use the contacts he made?

Still, Carolyn had to admit. Stewart had been right. The police weren’t willing to do anything.

‘We