Welcome, Heather Haven

When I solicited guests to fill in the slots for the week, I had no idea what kind of stuff I'd be getting, but I did have faith that it would be awesome because I know my friends and their talents.  What I didn't expect was what I'm posting here today, although with "heated cheeks because I can't believe someone I admire so much has such glowing words to say about me:

Here's her response to my email:  And if you decide to run it, please don't delete anything, but you can correct any errors!  Love ya, h

Here's the surprise post:

Ode to Ginger Simpson

Hi everyone! She knows nothing about this, but I’m doing this tribute anyway. And Ginger, you’d better print this or heads will roll!!

I’ve known Ginger only a relatively short time, but I’ve been kicking around the planet for enough decades to know the goods when I see it. Ginger is one talented cookie and a helluva diverse writer, as well. Just check her author page on Amazon http://tinyurl.com/6o85ggj.

More importantly for me, Ginger is a loyal pal, honest, and steadfast when it’s at its most needed. It shows in her writing. I haven’t read all her works….yet. But I plan to. She brings to her writing the lessons she’s learned in life, her compassion, and her overall feelings of good will. She wants the world to be happy and if you pay attention to her stuff, you can see some methods to accomplish this in her books.

What she and I have in common, I hope, is our positive outlook on life. Life can (and will) cosh you over the head when least expected, but by gawd, you’re going to get up, take it on, and turn everything around. And for people like Ginger and me, you’ll throw in a joke while you’re at it.

I say, hip, hip, hurrah for Ginger Simpson, a fine writer and an even finer human being. And no. No money has exchanged hands for this salute. Although, when I get to Tennessee one of these days to see my pal in person, I do expect a big hug. Hugs from people like Ginger mean a lot.

By the way, I’m a writer, too. See below:

BLURB

Lee Alvarez’ ex-husband, Nick -- a man she divorced with joy in her heart and a gun in her hand – sprints back in her life only to disappear again. She’d love to leave it at that, but could he be responsible for the recent death of her cousin, who keeled over at the finish line of a half-marathon in front of hundreds of spectators? As PI for the family run business, Discretionary Inquiries, Lee follows the clues to Vegas, where she joins forces with Shoshone PI, Flint Tall Trees.  Together they uncover a multi-million dollar betting syndicate, a tacky lounge lizard act, and a list of past but very dead runners, plus future ones to off. At the top of the ‘future’ list is the love of her life, Gurn Hanson. Hoping to force the culprits out in the open, Gurn and Lee’s brother, Richard, vow to run San Francisco’s famous Palace to Palace footrace in only a few days. Can Lee keep the two men she loves from hitting the finish line as dead as her cousin? With more at stake than she ever dreamed possible, Lee is in a battle against time to stop the Alvarez Family’s 12K race with death.

Buy page for Death Runs in the Family: http://tinyurl.com/87fbjn3

Heather@HeatherHavenStories.com

http://www.heatherhavenstories.com/

Heather's blog at: http://tinyurl.com/4nensnp

http://www.facebook.com

Twitter@HeatherHaven

Twitter@PILeeAlvarez

Chapter Seven

I Don’t Know Who’s the Bigger Idiot

Without much conversation, we jostled Nick out of the room and down the stairs. As a precaution, we used the back exit, Flint flinging boxes of DVDs every which way so fast, the clerk only managed one “hey” before we were out the door. The exit led to a narrow back alley filled with garbage, trash, and more small scurrying animals that should be calling the SPCA to complain about the conditions under which they’re forced to live.

While Flint went to bring the car to the side of the alley, I waited in the shadows next to Nick and pulled out the Glock. The irony of the situation hit me like a double charge on a credit card bill for shoes not only too tight to wear but last year’s style.

On the left, a disgusting dumpster; on the right, an even more disgusting ex-husband. And me stuck in the middle as usual—a reluctant PI if ever there was one.

Rather than inhaling the stench of fly-ridden garbage, I’d really rather be sniffing out dastardly doings of computer sabotage or thievery, in particular, long after said dastardly deeds have gone down. It’s my idea of a good job, especially when I get to zip off whenever I want and have a great lunch.

The part I like best—besides the food—is sitting at a highly polished, recently vacated mahogany desk in an air-conditioned office, sifting through the rubble of high-tech deceit and betrayal. I like gathering enough evidence to point a manicured fingernail at the culprit and shout j'accuse! Backlit by enough briefs, memos, emails, and other telltale papers, the culprit is mine. That is a real high.

This was a real low. But I had to think about Stephen. My cousin was dead, and Nick knew something about it. Hell, maybe he even had something to do with it. And, of course, there were the cats. If Nick was in any way responsible, I might do him in myself and save whatever goons there may be the trouble.

All these things were flitting through my mind when Nick—the stupid idiot—made a lunge for my gun, muttering he could take better care of himself than I could. Sometimes an ex-marine, like an ex-husband, needs to get over himself.

One of the first lessons you learn as a PI is to not to carry a gun if you’re going to let anybody take it away from you. All the years I’ve been carrying, ten to be exact, people have taken all sorts of things from me—including my virtue—but never my gun.

So when Nick came at me, my knee went up fast, strong, and accurate. Ex dropped to the ground in a fetal position. God only knows what else was lying there with him, but I left him on the dirt, anyway. He was busy moaning while I cocked the Glock and gave a 360-degree spin, prepared to do whatever was necessary to keep the jerk safe. At least, for the moment.

            Fortunately, no one showed up except a passing rat or two, excluding the one I stood over. After what felt like a lifetime, I saw Flint’s headlights, although I’m sure it didn’t take him more than three minutes to get there. I helped Nick up. He limped to the car, and Flint, bless him, raised an eyebrow over Nick’s condition but didn’t say a word. What a guy. 

Note from Ginger:  Even if Heather hadn't said such wonderful things about me, I would have added my endorsement for her Alvarez Series. I've read all of them and loved each.  She's on my favorite author list, and it has nothing to be with anything but her ability to keep me fascinated with her wonderful stories.