by Holly Jacobs
“It might have been better if I hadn’t taken the suspect down on my own. If Cal had rescued me, he might not be so mad.”
“Quincy, I know we’ve only just met, but I suspect we’re going to be good friends, and I’m going to trade in against that future friendship and say, never be less than who you are for a man. Not any man. If they can’t accept you’re a competent woman who’s capable of saving yourself, then $#%$ them.” Yes, he said that word I won’t let me boys say. “That being said, don’t put yourself in harms way again.”
I bleeped his F-bomb out in my own head, then kissed the big man’s cheek. “Thanks, Big G. I’ll try not to.”
“Good. Because if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll hold you down while Cal wallops you like you’d wallop one of your kids.”
“I never hit my kids, and you and what army,” I said as a retort. He laughed and took me to a back table where Cal sat glowering at me.
Big G beat a quick retreat without so much as a here’s-today’s-specials.
“Cal, I—” I was going to say that while I wouldn’t apologize for solving the case, I was sorry I made him worry and I was really sorry if he looked bad at work because I’d caught Willy.
I didn’t get to say anything. “Don’t talk about it,” he snapped.
“But I—”
“Really, Quince. This is our first official date. You’re not a suspect, I’m not investigating a murder. A murder that’s been solved. The killer’s going to jail. The DA thinks he’ll plead guilty at the preliminary hearing. They’re working on that deal. So, I’m going to concentrate on that, not on the fact that you did all that amateur sleuthing and almost got yourself killed by a whack job. I’m going to drink some wine. Eat pasta and afterward, I’m going to take you home and show you what a non-chaste kiss is like.”
Suddenly, I wanted to eat the quickest meal ever and get to the home and kissing part. I took a long drink of wine.
And then ate the fastest meal ever.
We went home and I discovered Cal was right when he’d said that other kiss was practically chaste. His non-chaste kiss nearly caused me to self-combust.
I was glad the boys were with their dad for a couple more weeks. I definitely wanted to spend more time with Cal.
Epilogue
“…Mom, then Peri said…” Miles continued his monologue about their day’s adventure hiking an island volcano.
I’d been thumbing through the paper, and I’ll confess the ad I was looking at made me lose track of his conversation for a moment.
I circled the ad under classes in the paper. LA had a wide variety of acting and other industry related classes available from writing groups to colleges. Today’s paper had a special insert filled with fall classes.
One practically jumped off the page as I read it.
Class: How to Write a Private Detective that Sells
Class Manual: How to Write a Dick by Shaun Kaufman and Colleen Collins
Instructor: Dick Macy
I forced myself not to read further, but instead to concentrate on my son’s conversation. “…and then we’re going swimming.”
“It sounds like fun. Have you and your brothers been behaving for your Dad and Peri?”
“Yeah. We have to because Dad wouldn’t know how to handle us if we stepped out of line, and Peri’s our age. I don’t think she could yell at us if she tried.”
“So, what you’re saying is, I’m a great yeller?”
“If you have a skill you should own it, Mom.” Miles laughed. “Do something exciting today, Mom. We know you’re probably just sitting at home missing us. Go have some fun. We’ll call tomorrow. Love ya.”
“Love you and your brothers, too.”
Do something exciting? I think I’d had enough excitement for a while. Well, at least of the solving a murder variety. In terms of kissing, I was definitely thinking about a bit more excitement there soon.
For a moment I simply sat and basked in the fact that my son said he loved me on purpose with no prompting.
It was a nice feeling.
He’d also said I should own my skills. Well, solving mysteries was one of my new, developing skills.
I looked back at the ad.
Instructor, Dick Macy.
Come on, really, Dick Macy?
A class on writing detectives. Yeah, a lot of scriptwriters here in Hollywood would probably flock to a class like that.
I wasn’t a writer. But if you knew how to write a private detective, surely you’d learn something about being one.
It was a sign.
The next time I was in danger of going to jail for accidently cleaning a murder scene, I’d have a better idea how to find the real killer.
And frankly, knowing something about investigation would only help my ability to do background checks on new applicants.
I glanced back at the ad for the University’s extension class. There was a long list of glowing recommendations by previous class participants.
“Dick Macy is a hell of a guy.” Colleen Collins and Shaun Kaufman, authors of How to Write a Dick: A Guide for Writing Fictional Sleuths from a Couple of Real-Life Sleuths.
I looked back at the top of the ad and realized that quote was from the authors of the book Dick used as his text.
I didn’t want to write, but I was going to take this class.
It was a good place to start.
I wanted to know more about investigating. And I was going to confess to myself, if not to others, that I didn’t want to know for work and or because I might someday clean another murder scene.
For the longest time I felt like I was treading water, looking for a calling.
Maybe I’d found one.
All because I’d accidently cleaned a murder scene and steamed some footprints.
****
Thank you for reading Steamed: A Mail in LA Mystery! I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please help other readers find this book:
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Please Join Quincy on her next adventure: Dusted: A Maid in LA Mystery
Excerpt From
Dusted: A Maid in LA Mystery
(Book #2)
I looked in the mirror and felt nothing but…horror.
Orange?
I have never owned any orange clothes, so I must have suspected all along that orange might not be my color, but looking in the mirror, I was positive—orange was soooo not my color.
Frankly, I don’t know that orange is anyone’s color. I mean, Tiny could keep calling it rustic pumpkin until the cows came home, but the fact of the matter was, my maid-of-honor dress was orange.
The other fact of the matter was, I looked like giant pumpkin.
“Quincy Mac, you are absolutely stunning.” Tiny’s voice was all breathless wonder.
The last two weeks she’d gone from wedding-itis to full blown wedding-fever. Everything she said was breathless.
Breathless wonder.
Breathless excitement.
Breathless anticipation.
“Breathe, Tiny,” I reminded helpfully as I had countless times the last few weeks.
“You look so…” She stared to cry.
Breathless and crying. Those were Tiny’s two modes of communication as her wedding day drew nearer.
I filled in the blank while I waited for her to compose herself.
You look so…much like a pumpkin.
You look so…scary.
You look so…much like a tangerine. Oh, who was I kidding, I was no tiny tangerine. I was a full-on navel orange.
I sucked in my baby-pooch and wished I’d thought to bring my body-sucker. Oh, I know that’s not what it’s actuall
y called. These days people call them by their name brand. My Grandma Mac called hers a girdle and I don’t think I ever saw her without it on. I’m pretty sure she was buried in it.
Note to my boys who would some day be in charge of burying me. Do not bury me in a body sucker.
“…so beautiful,” Tiny finally managed.
I smiled and put all of Mr. Magee’s acting classes to use by assuring her, “I love it, Tiny.”
I didn’t love it, but she did and that’s all that mattered. Too many people forget that a wedding is the bride and groom’s special day. It’s the one day when thinking about yourself isn’t the least bit selfish. If she wanted me to look like a pumpkin, then by gosh, I’d be a smiling pumpkin as I walked up that aisle.
Tiny’s wedding was three weeks away. I had promised myself I’d do everything in my power to be sure it was perfect.
Heck, I’d even found out who murdered Mr. Banning in order to see to it I wasn’t in jail for Tiny’s wedding.
Okay, truth was, I didn’t want to be in jail period. And since I’d accidently cleaned Mr. Banning’s murder scene, I was the only viable suspect.
Yeah, that’s right. I cleaned it. I washed and polished the murder weapon. I even steamed the footprints off the carpet.
My Uncle Bill went to jail for a crime he didn’t commit. Eventually the authorities realized he was innocent. They let him out of prison, but he came out with a tattoo. Mac’s do not get tattoos. Or go to prison for that matter.
I was determined not to go to jail and leave my boys, or miss Tiny’s wedding…or get a tattoo. I just didn’t think a tattoo would age well. I was thirty-eight, and though I avoided the sun as if I were a vampire rather than simply a fair-skinned woman, I knew that wrinkles would be forthcoming. And who wants to see a wrinkled tattoo unicorn, even if it was a declaration of my innocence?
No one, that’s who.
Thankfully, I found the murderer. Of course, he tried to kill me to keep me quiet, but I grew up with brothers and three sons. I kicked him and made it count. I rescued myself before Cal came in to rescue me.
Detective Cal Parker, my new boyfriend. It felt so odd to use the word boyfriend when I was the mother of three teens and almost forty (sigh) but I hadn’t come up with any better designation for him.
I must have sighed as I thought about my cute, hunky new boyfriend because Tiny laughed. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”
“Him, who?” I asked, trying to sound as if I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.
“Him—Detective Sexy.”
“I was thinking about your wedding.”
Tiny laughed some more and humphed me in a way that I knew meant she wasn’t buying it.
The phone rang. I sucked in my stomach as I walked across the room in my pumpkin colored dress. I picked up the phone. “Mac’Cleaners. We do it all and we’re glad you called. How may I help you today?”
“Quincy, it’s me,” a woman’s voice said.
I didn’t need any more than that to know it was Theresa Maxwell. She was officially the worst employee Mac’Cleaners had ever had. To be honest, that whole cleaning-Mr.-Banning’s-murder scene was her fault because she was supposed to be the one cleaning the dead-body house that day, but she’d called in sick. When an employee calls in sick, Tiny and I—as the business owners—step in and fill in for them. So Theresa is why I’d almost ended up in jail for a murder I didn’t commit.
Theresa really was the worst employee ever, not just in an almost-sent-me-to-jail sort of way.
I’d like to fire her. I’d threatened to do just that, but I kept hoping she’d get better. Seriously, she couldn’t get any worse. Although this call didn’t bode well for the getting better and seemed to be pointing to worse. There was panic in her voice.
“What’s up, Theresa?” I asked suspiciously.
“It’s not what’s up, it’s what’s down. I was dusting a painting at the Gifford’s house and it fell. There’s a tear in it now.”
I’d seen the Gifford’s house when I cleaned for Theresa a month ago. The last call of the day had been the dead body house, but the Gifford’s house was part of her morning calls, which became my morning call when Theresa called in sick. I did not know much about art, but I knew enough to know their art was expensive. The Giffords lived in Hollywood Hills, an expensive part of town. I lived in Van George, where the cost of the houses sent my Pennsylvanian family into heart palpitations, but here in southern California was actually a mid-middle class sort of price.
“Oh…” I searched for a curse word I could use without being too crass or offending anyone. With three teenaged boys in the house, I really tried to watch myself.
“Boogers,” I opted for. It was a pretty perfect curse word. Gross enough to get some umph out of, but not really offensive.
“I’m so sorry, Quincy,” Theresa said. “I don’t know what to do now.”
“You’ll have to call the Giffords and let them know what happened. Please take a picture of the damage with your cellphone, just to cross all our t’s. I’ll dot our i’s by calling our insurance company to make a report. We’ve never had an accident like this happen, but please assure the Giffords we’ll make it right.”
“Okay,” Theresa said and hung up.
I hit end on my phone and thumbed over to my contact list to look for our insurance company’s number.
“Problems?” Tiny asked.
“Theresa,” I managed.
“We’re going to have to fire that girl,” we said in sync.
I called the insurance company…
Check out Book #2, Dusted: A Maid in LA Mystery
Quincy’s taking classes on writing and working on a script. She’s taking care of her boys, wearing a pumpkin orange maid of honor dress for Tiny’s wedding, and oh…she’s got another case. Someone stole Mac’Cleaner clients’ artwork, and Quincy’s employee is under suspicion. This is one LA maid who’s got a lot on her plate in Holly Jacobs’ second Maid in LA Mystery, Dusted.
And watch for Quincy’s holiday adventure, SPRUCED UP! Coming this November.
BIO
Holly Jacobs leads a life full of romance and adventure. From skydiving to jet-setting around Europe, from snorkeling in coral reefs to writing while wearing beautiful silk peignoir sets and popping chocolate bonbons, Holly Jacobs leads a life that is the epitome of romance.
Well, my fictional life sounds more interesting, but not better than my real life. Really, I'm the happily married mother of four. I write for Harlequin and Montlake Romance.
You can visit me at http://www.HollyJacobs.com.
Other Kindle Books by Holly Jacobs:
Maid in LA Series:
Book #1 Steamed: A Maid in LA Mystery
Book#2 Dusted: A Maid in LA Mystery
Book #3 Spruced Up: A Maid in LA (Holiday) Mystery Novella
Everything But… Series:
Everything But a Groom
Everything But a Bride
Everything But a Wedding
Everything But a Christmas Eve
Everything But a Mother
Everything But a Dog
WLVH Series:
Pickup Lines
Lovehandles
Night Calls
Laugh Lines
Nothing But Short Story Series:
Nothing But Love
Nothing But Heart
Nothing But Luck
Whedon Series:
Unexpected Gifts
A One-of-a-Kind Family
Homecoming Day
A Father’s Name
Valley Ridge Series:
You Are Invited… A Valley Ridge Wedding
April Showers, A Valley Ridge Wedding
A Walk Down the Aisle, A Valley Ridge Wedding
A Valley Ridge Christmas
American Dads:
Once Upon a Thanksgiving
Once Upon a Christmas
Once Upon a Valentine’s
Wedding Mishap
s:
How to Catch a Groom
How to Hunt a Husband
Also available:
Found and Lost (working title: Can’t Find NoBody)
The House on Briar Hill Road
Same Time Next Summer
Confessions of a Party Crasher
The 100-Year Itch
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication:
Dear Reader
Reviews for Steamed:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Excerpt From Dusted: A Maid in LA Mystery (Book #2)
Bio
Other Kindle Books by Holly Jacobs:
