“Marcelle is one of the most charming mystery writers I know. She writes deceptively quiet stories that have a real bite to them.” —Kristine Kathryn Rusch
When a beautiful woman walks into the office of Anastasia Charles — aka Charlie — with a story about a violent husband and a kidnapped kid, Charlie’s private investigator instincts sit up and pay attention. With $2000 on her desk, $8000 more the moment she finds the husband, and the chance to be a hero and rescue a kid… how can Charlie say no?
LINCOLN CITY BLUES
by Marcelle Dubé
Were I a lesser woman, Georgette Havanah might have made me reconsider my lifelong appreciation of men.
As it was, the moment she walked into my office — A. Charles, Private Investigator — I felt shorter, rounder and shabbier.
She was gorgeous, in case you didn’t catch that. The kind of long-legged, high-heeled, high-breasted dusky beauty that made fools out of most men and intimidated the spit out of most women. She exuded sensuality the way I exude garlic after a Caesar salad.
She shifted in the hard-backed chair I provided for my clients — what few I had — and the red skirt of her Spangoli suit crept up to reveal a little more of her firm thigh.
Georgette Havanah — “Call me Georgie, please” — definitely did not live in Lincoln City. I would have noticed. Hell, everyone would have noticed. The small Oregon town I’d chosen as my new home ran more to business casual than high fashion.
“How do you know your husband is here?” I asked.
She’d made an appointment yesterday, insisting she needed to see me as soon as possible. Well, my day planner wasn’t exactly bursting at the seams so I said sure.
Now I wasn’t. So sure, I mean.
“He is here,” said Georgie.
I wanted to insist on an explanation, but the envelope on my desk stared back at me and told me to shut up.
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Copyright © 2012 by Marcelle Dubé