So I wrote a short story for a fun little anthology that comes out this Sunday! It’s called On Beach Time and features Dashiell Allman--Dash for short--who loves long walks on the beach, Jimmy Buffett, and a good mystery, which is why she became a Private Investigator. When her latest client, Phil Turner, turns up dead in a botched robbery, Dash races against time and the police to catch his killer.
Want a taste? Keep reading!
My phone fell off the table while Jimmy Buffett serenaded me about looking for salt over my earbuds. I reached to pick it up but was stopped cold by a shiny, black loafer resting on the back of my only good hand, the right one. There was only one man I knew who wore Brunello Cucinelli loafers with tassels.
“Phil. Buddy. What’s up?” I asked, still doing an awkward version of Triangle Pose while waving my purple cast in the air. Good thing I’d opted to put on shorts that morning.
“Your time.”
I smirked and stood as he released my hand. “Seriously? That joke’s as old as you are.”
He gripped my throat with his left hand before I could back away. A freshly broken left wrist from a fall while chasing a bad guy last night had made me slower than normal. Too bad I hadn’t listened when the doctor instructed me to fill the prescription of painkillers.
“Let’s make a deal,” he said, pulling my face to within two inches of his. “You solve a case for me, and I won’t have to kill you.”
I weighed my pros and cons. Pay rent. Solve a case. Life a little longer. Go work at the Seaglass Pub serving drinks while wearing a short skirt for tips.
“What case?” I croaked, struggling to breathe.
Phil Turner eased his grip but didn’t let me go. “Follow my wife and see what she’s up to.”
Trying to swallow, I asked, “Affair?”
His grip tightened as his spittle hit me right below the eye. “Not in a million years. You got that, Dash?”
The joke in my family was that my mom hated me, but loved Dashiell Hammett, which really sucked for the little girl she named Dashiell Allman. Not funny. The nickname Dash did make me feel faster though.
“Yup,” came out barely a squeak.
This time, he released me, shoving me back against the kitchen table. I really hated it when the creeps knew where I lived. I picked up my phone before he or the goon who blocked my doorway could step on it.
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