THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS--how Kate and the photographer meet

Kate dropped her suitcase at the curbside check-in and fumbled her way through security. With her dazzling mane of red hair flying in ten directions, she made the mad dash for the gate. It was just about to close when she arrived out of breath.

 
When she stepped into the cabin only one seat was left in First Class. The serious pair of lips belonging to the grey-blond man in the adjoining seat broke into a grin as he rose to help, but she had already thrown the bag into the overhead bin.

 
The stewardess slammed the lid shut, and Kate squeezed down beside him, returning the grin and taking his outstretched hand. With the other hand she slipped the laptop under the seat.

   
“Monsieur le Photographe, I presume.” She hoped her French didn’t sound too ridiculous.

   
“I’m glad you made it on time, m’amselle,” he replied. “I’ve heard you are quite a swimmer. If we happen to go down, I expect you to save my life, marry me, and promise we’ll live happily ever after.”

  
 Give the guy credit—he certainly knew how to pour it on when it came to introductions.  

 
“Applications for my services are now being accepted,” Kate said, trying to match his absolutely straight face. “It would help if you had a nice ham and cheese sandwich to accompany yours. Otherwise, you don’t stand a chance.”

 
He chuckled. “Speaking as a fellow extortionist, I have a more sophisticated scheme in mind. Let me know when you’re prepared to listen.”

THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS—it's out at last and Kate is on the spot!

As the author of the Kate Conway series, I never thought I’d get as excited about writing jacket copy as I get in fleshing out plots. But the idea of forcing my sexy, intrepid investigative reporter—my stubbornly serious major character who looks upon fashion as a terminal illness—into becoming a fashionista was just too much to resist.

Especially when a serial killer is terrorizing the world of fashionistas by twisting their heads half-way around and dressing their naked torsos in burlap.

THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS, the third in the series of Kate Conway thrillers, is now available through Amazon Books in both soft cover and e-book for your Kindle, iPad, or whatever.  And with the action starting with the first sentence on page one, we’ve got another terror-packed thriller to rival THE MOUNTING STORM and THE DEADLY BUDDHA.

Soft cover: http://tinyurl.com/fashionistamurders
eBook: http://tinyurl.com/fashionistamurderskindle

Kate Conway fans hooked on her romantic ups-and-downs won’t be disappointed, either. In searching for the killer Kate is forced to interrupt her most spicy adventure yet—a real, wild and wooly un-Kate like fling. And both dramas play out in the tantalizingly spoiled world of supermodels, photographers and Russian and American billionaires.

In this latest fast-moving and heart-pounding thriller, only one this is for certain. Kate will have to summon every last ounce of her courage and cunning to trap the cold-blooded killer.  But she’d better hurry. Because he can’t wait to slip his black gloves around Kate’s lovely freckled neck—and twist.   

GOODBYE DON. GOODBYE PEGGY. GOODBYE MAD MEN

Sunday night the final season of the Mad Men television series began--to lukewarm praise by The New York Times. To a guy who was there the series illuminated the period of the 1960s but always missed being on target when it came to office drinking (overdone), to the rise of women in the industry (underdone), and the true significance of the breakthrough advertising of the time. It finally found its rhythm in the marital ups and downs of its major characters. Goodbye, ladies and gentlemen. Nice try. Sleep well.

THE SOUND THAT DROVE ME TO BECOME A WRITER

Another in a series of coming of age stories.

It makes me jealous when I read about writers who can look back on the words they wrote that became a turning point—and propelled them into the wild blue yonder as authors.

You know the scenario. “At the age of six the poem for her dying grandmother flowed from Jessica’s mouth and her father immediately enrolled her in Breadloaf.”

Sadly, I did not fall in love with writing at an early age. But I did fall in love with the Woodstock typewriter my father kept at home. The sound still echoes, reverberates—no, clashes like symbols—in my ears.

CLICKETY CLACK. CLACKETY CLICK

When you got a group of them together in a typing pool or the newsroom of my father’s office, it was pure music. It was a chorus of snare drums with the zing of little bells when they reached the end of the page and you pulled the carriage back.

CLICKETY CLACK. CLACKETY CLICK. ZING. ZING. ZING.

I wrote a couple of short stories in college along with some gutsy editorials as editor of the campus newspaper. And all during my two years in the Army following the Korean War I kept a diary filled with adventurous details that would underlay the next Great American Novel—when I ever got around to writing it.

CLICKETY CLACK. CLACKETY CLICK.

By now I was writing on a Smith-Corona portable. Which would eventually be replaced by the keypad of my computer and it’s polite little sound like a cat waltzing on ice. But even today with seven novels under my belt I can’t get that sound out of my head.

CLICKETY CLACK. CLACKETY CLICK.

The sound of pure inspiration. The sound of pure ecstasy. Maybe it explains why I write about investigative reporters and their adventures in tracking down serial killers.  

GATSBY--THE MOVIE

Finally got around to seeing the movie—with Rita and Sara Grace. I never expected Baz Luhrmann to capture the magic of Fitzgerald’s brief story that became a masterpiece partly through the brilliance of what it left out.

Luhrmann didn’t leave anything out. In fact, he embellished all the details and left us with a story that may have lacked Fitzgerald’s  magic but made up for it in sheer drama and explosive emotions.

The high point of the movie: DeCaprio's Gatsby losing his temper and looking like a killer on the loose with his hands around Tom Buchanan’s throat. It wasn’t that gripping in the novel.  But it made Gatsby live and breath on the screen.  

MEMORIAL DAY

And I'm proud to be an American,
where at least I know I'm free.
And I won't forget the men who died,
who gave that right to me.

--Lee Greenwood

I REMEMBER MOTHER

Another in a series of coming-of-age stories.

I remember Mother as the only female in a house full of men—my father and his three sons. Even our dogs and cats were all male.

I remember Mother and the clubs she belonged to. The Book Club. The Flower Club. Her Kappa Kappa Gamma college sorority club.  

I remember Mother for all her volunteer work. The Church.  The Library. The Hospital. Serving as an Air Raid Warden during the War.

I remember Mother for teaching me how to Charleston long after the Charleston was dead. When the occasion would arise (around once a year) it would make up for my total clumsiness on the dance floor.

I remember Mother for introducing me to classical music. From the time I was 12 she took me to all the Thursday concerts with George Szell at Severance Hall—originally because my Father refused to go but later because I wanted to.

I remember Mother for the mustard plasters she used to slap on the chests of my brothers and me when we had bad colds. They were hot as blazes but they always seemed to work.

I remember Mother for constantly asking me and my brothers privileged questions about who we were dating—but seldom getting any answers.

I remember Mother for giving far more than she received. 

I remember Mother.