Thank you so much, Holly, for giving me the
chance to introduce your readers to my new release, Dear
Philomena: Love, Lust & Murder on Chincoteague Island.
Chincoteague is one of a pair of barrier
islands off the coast of Virginia. Its
eastern sister, Assateague, is the actual home of the Chincoteague National
Wildlife Refuge and of the ponies made famous in Marguerite Henry’s children’s
books (remember Misty of Chincoteague?).
Chincoteague has a long, colorful history.
First settled possibly by freed slaves in the seventeenth century, it was noted
for its antipathy to the heavy hand of government. It was the only town in
Virginia to support the Union in the Civil War. Given a glorious cornucopia of
waterfowl and deer, many locals were disinclined to follow the strict
regulations on hunting and fishing. Thus, when Dagne is shot at on the refuge, citizens,
rangers and even the police were less than concerned. As you’ll find out in Dear Philomena, they
were wrong.
Blurb:
Dagne Lonegan, aka Dear Philomena,
advice columnist, hoped that spending a year on the Eastern Shore island
of Chincoteague would extinguish any
feelings she had left for Jack Andrews, erstwhile lover and long-time
jerk. It’s just her luck that in her
first week on the island she’s entangled in a murder. Only she doesn’t know it. Unfortunately, the murderer doesn’t know she
doesn’t know. Strange and dangerous
things begin happening to her, disrupting her new romance with Aidan Ellis, the
handsome manager of the National Wildlife Refuge. As if that weren’t enough, Jack arrives to
take charge of the murder investigation.
Will Dagne stick with the tall, cool
glass of a Ranger or risk falling back into the arms of the man who broke her
heart?
I Heart Book Publishing, October
12, 2015
eBook, 72,000 words, Print 209
pp
Romantic Suspense, Contemporary Romantic Suspense, Mystery Romance
Romantic Suspense, Contemporary Romantic Suspense, Mystery Romance
M/F,
3 flames
Excerpt (G): The Sniper
The afternoon sun beat down. Before long, perspiration
dripped unpleasantly down her back and her neck began to burn. She reached a
curve in the loop where a service road angled off. The cool shade of the
evergreen alley beckoned, and she opened the gate and went through. Gravel
popped beneath her sneakers and yellow-rumped warblers skipped from branch to
branch, moving just ahead of her. She swung along, loving the feel of
stretching her muscles, thinking of nothing.
At the end of the pines, the landscape opened
out. Ponds choked with cordgrass lay on either side of the road, flanked by
dunes on her right and scrub forest on her left. Ducks crowded the shallow
water—mergansers, American wigeons, gadwalls. She stopped to watch a pair of
diminutive black and white buffleheads putter around at the water’s edge. A
cloud passed overhead, blotting out the sun. When it moved on, the light had
changed to the desperate gold of a late afternoon teetering on the threshold of
twilight. Time to go.
As she stood in the path, not yet willing to
give up her afternoon off, she heard a loud crack. Woodpecker? Another
bang rent the air, but this time the noise sounded much closer. Oh my God,
that’s a rifle. Someone’s hunting out here! A surge of impractical outrage
washed over Dagne. How dare they? This is a refuge for God’s sake!
Nonetheless, prudence suggested she turn back.
She began with a walk, but some primitive
instinct told her to accelerate. Directly over her head something zinged and a
chunk of bark plopped at her feet. Her trot turned into a canter. Another shot
hit the road, spraying pebbles into the air. They can’t be shooting at me.
Can they? What should I do? Duck? Throw myself on the ground? Run into the
trees? Instead, like some hapless cartoon character racing down the tracks
ahead of the train, she ran straight down the road. By the time she reached the
loop, her lungs were clawing for air. Stabbing pains scraped her chest and
side. She’d heard no more shots, and after a few minutes’ rest, walked as fast
as she could back to the parking lot, slowing every few steps to take a quick
check of her surroundings.
She jumped into the car, locked the doors, and
roared out onto the park road. At the Chamber of Commerce circle she slowed
down, which gave her time to notice that the gas gauge read empty. She pulled
into Ivan’s service station, Ivan II. She’d met the owner—a Belarusan native
who had defected in the fifties—when he fixed a flat tire for her some years
before. Despite his penchant for naming every store he owned after himself, she
knew him to be a warm and generous man. He stopped polishing his vintage Morgan
and came over. “Dagne, you’re shaking like a leaf! What’s wrong?”
It came pouring out. “Ivan, someone shot at me!”
Instead of reacting with shock, he chuckled, and
wiped his hands on a towel. “Well, Milaya—I mean—my dear. It is
hunting season. What were you doing—flitting around, doe-like?”
“No! I was on the wildlife loop!”
“Hmm. Last I checked hunting is illegal
on the refuge. Now poaching…”
“It’s not funny, Ivan. I heard three—no,
four—shots! Someone was trying to kill me.”
“Now, now, Dagne, calm down. Tell me, where on
the loop did this happen?”
She took a deep breath. “Well, I’d actually gone
up the service road—as far as the Farm Fields impoundment. You know, beyond the
pine woods?”
He nodded. “That explains it.” He removed the
gasoline cap and inserted the nozzle. “I think they allow hunting up there on
certain days. Did you see a sign?”
“No.”
“Well, check at the visitor’s center. If it’s
not an authorized hunting day, you most likely ran into a poacher. The ranger
should be informed.”
Dagne wasn’t about to go back to the refuge
alone, but another idea had insinuated
itself while Ivan talked. She paid, headed down to Main Street, and parked next
to Lance’s car behind the decoy shop. As she passed it, the sun glinted on
something in the rear seat. She peered in. A rifle. The back door
opened. “Dagne? What are you doing here?”
Did his voice sound odd? Did she hear a hint of
menace in his tone? Lance sidled up to her. “Everything okay?”
“Sure…sure.” Should she run? No, that
would be absurd. This is Lance after all.
Lance looked into his car and back at her. “You
look like you’ve seen a ghost, Dagne. Does the itty bitty gun scare you? I
haven’t had a chance to tell you—Dwayne Oates is giving me shooting lessons.”
He struck what he evidently thought was a manly pose. “You don’t think the
hairy-chested outdoorsy image suits me?”
The laugh bubbled up before she could stop it.
“No, Lance, I’m sorry,” she spluttered. Then the thought of her recent
adventure sobered her. “Lance, someone shot at me. On the refuge.”
“Today? Are you all right? Did you see
them? Where? Oh…on the loop?” His concern certainly seemed genuine. He stopped.
“No wonder you looked so frightened when you saw the rifle.”
She could only nod mutely.
Lance took her arm and led her into the store.
He sat her down and bustled around making coffee. When she had the mug in her
hand, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Okay, tell me everything.
But first, have you been to the police?”
“No, not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Why? Oh, in case I’d seen anyone on my way out.
Hmm. I’ll think about it, but I don’t think so. At least no one passed
me coming into the refuge, but the perpetrator could’ve come from anywhere, you
know—even by boat. Look, Dagne, I think you should tell the police. No, no,
don’t argue. I’ll go with you.”
“Okay.” It comforted her to have someone else
take charge, even if he didn’t exactly fit the superhero model.
They walked across to the police station.
Sergeant Akers stood at the desk. “Hey, Miss Lonegan. Mr. Forrester.”
The sergeant eyed him with some trepidation. Lance winked at Dagne and
whispered, “Wait’ll he gets a load of the new huntin’ and fishin’ me.”
Dagne ignored him. “Sergeant, is Detective
Andrews here?”
“No, Miss. He’s up in Salisbury. Can I help?”
Dagne stifled the urge to keep her news for
Jack. Anyway, Lance wouldn’t let her. “Sergeant, Dagne’s been shot at.”
“What?”
Lance nudged her. “Tell him. You have to make a
report, even if the detective isn’t here to take it.”
The policeman pulled out a form and a pen.
“Okay, give me the details.”
Dagne described the incident. He wrote it all
down carefully, then put the clipboard down. “The shots could’ve come from off
the refuge.”
“That’s what Ivan thought.”
“Or we could have ourselves a poacher. Duck
season’s started and hunting is permitted up the service road a couple of days
a week. He probably thought he could get away with it. He wouldn’t expect
anyone to be walking up at that end of the refuge this time of year.”
Dagne caught Lance nodding in agreement. Sigh.
No sense in beating a dead horse. “If you think so. What happens
now?”
“Oh, we’ll let the Fish and Wildlife folks know.
It’s their jurisdiction.”
Buy
Links:
Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/dear-philomena-ms-spencer/1122797778
Createspace: https://www.createspace.com/5795202
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/584372
All Romance E Books: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-dearphilomenalovelustmurderonchincoteagueisland-1905181-149.html
About
the Author:
Although M. S. Spencer has lived or
traveled in five continents, the last thirty years have been spent mostly in
Washington, D.C. as a librarian, Congressional staff assistant, speechwriter,
editor, birdwatcher, kayaker, policy wonk, non-profit director and parent. She
has two fabulous grown children and a perfect granddaughter, and currently
divides her time between the Gulf coast of Florida and a tiny village in Maine.
Twitter: www.twitter.com/msspencerauthor
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Linked in: www.linkedin.com/in/msspencerauthor
Author Pages:
I Heart Book Publishing:
Romance Books 4 Us: http://romancebooks4us.com/Romance%20Author%20M.%20S.%20Spencer.html
OR
Amazon Author Page:
http://www.amazon.com/M.S.-Spencer/e/B002ZOEUC8/
Thanks so much for having me and Dagne here today, Holly. I hope your readers enjoy the excerpt.
ReplyDeleteYou're very welcome :)
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