And my beloved Marcia Burrows, who keeps believing that a bestseller is just around the corner.
SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENT
I'm indebted to my friend, the author Lori L. Lake, for her generous help and advice as I plunged into the complicated process of e-book publishing.
Read on! Here’s the first chapter of Damn Straight, number 2 in the Lillian Byrd Crime Series.
Chapter 1
The power struggled back up for about ten seconds—ten brown little seconds—then failed again. I shivered at the moaning, primeval sound it made and tugged down the cuffs of my sweater.
It was March, it was darker than a stack of black cats, and wind-lashed sleet was dragging down utility lines from Monroe to Saginaw. This winter had been a long and sorry one, and spring was supposed to be coming. Most people vent their winter rage on February, but how easy it is to forget treacherous March until it rolls around. You're anticipating spring, you're remembering a bygone balmy March thaw, and your reservoir of strength and cheer against cold and trouble is low. You long to be restored by the sight of a crocus poking its brave yellow petals through a patch of snow—just one goddamn crocus is all you ask—but it doesn't come.
I put on another sweater, my red lamb's-wool one, over my turtleneck, which overlaid my polypropylene long johns; then I pulled on one more pair of socks, overlapping the cuffs of my corduroys, and lumbered into the kitchen. The water was ready, bubbling above the gas flame. I poured in the macaroni. It was a good night for my specialty, macaroni and cheese primavera, a dish I relied on in times of uncertainty. I got out the frozen mixed vegetables, poured them in after a few minutes, and snipped the foil cheese pouch.
Todd and I dined by candlelight, sitting together on the floor. He was happy enough with his carrot top and a handful of bunny chow. I stroked his fur and gave some more thought to my plan to kill Mrs. Gagnon's dog.
Most dogs are wonderful by nature, but this particular one was terrible, vicious to the core. Monty. He'd almost murdered Todd last summer, twice. And Mrs. Gagnon thought it was funny. It got so that whenever I took Todd outside she'd let Monty out to rocket across the street, snarling and snapping. The first close call, I'd had Todd more or less corralled inside the coiled garden hose as I washed my car, and had to dive for him, shielding him from Monty's jaws with my back. My T-shirt got shredded.
The next time, I hadn't even put Todd on the ground when Monty made for us as if we were the last spaceship out of Detroit. He tried to rip Todd from my arms, puncturing my wrist with one of his fangs. Only a kick to the nuts with all my strength made him back off.
It's not right to want to kill someone's pet. But it made me feel better to fantasize about it. What if I left a package of hot dogs to rot for a month, then fed them to him? If he didn't die, at least maybe he'd get good and sick.
Whenever Monty was out, Mrs. Gagnon sat on her porch and cackled. "Monty! Ha! Monty!" I'd moved into the neighborhood before she and Monty had, so I was doubly indignant.
What if I could give him a noseful of cayenne somehow? That was a thought.
Ever since the first snow flew I'd been thinking about this. One day spring would come, and Todd and I would want to breathe some free air.
A tentative tap sounded at the door.
My landlady, Mrs. McVittie, stood holding a lighted candle and a small plate. "I thought you might like this pork chop, dear." In the candlelight her upper teeth glowed translucent. "When you eat, you stay warmer, you know."
She should talk. I'm sure she weighed less than me, which is saying something, although she was closing in on her seventy-fifth birthday, so you'd expect her appetite to be on the wane.
I'd gone downstairs to check on her when the power went out for the first time, late in the afternoon. She'd already brought in an armload of wood and gotten a fire going using half a roll of toilet paper as tinder. I brought another two armloads in for her. I didn't have a fireplace upstairs, but my flat received spill-up heat from below, so I wasn't worried about myself.
I loved Mrs. McVittie, who'd made her husband come crawling to me for forgiveness after he'd evicted me some few years ago. I was indirectly involved with some property damage; there had been a little matter of a blood-soaked ceiling, pesky police officers, TV cameras. She'd grown fond of me, I guess, even though I hadn't lived there very long. I was grateful to get my place back.
This week Mr. McVittie wasn't home, having gone on an ice-fishing safari in the Upper Peninsula with his sons. Mr. and Mrs. McVittie took turns going up north for various reasons, the chief one being to get away from each other. When the weather was good, Mrs. McVittie liked to pedal her big old three-wheeler around the neighborhood and talk to anybody who was out.
I thanked her for the food. "I'll have it for breakfast. How's your wood holding out?" Until the power came back on it was wood or nothing. "And have you started your faucets dripping?"
"Oh, do you think the pipes will freeze?"
"They could."
She let me bring in more wood for her. As I turned to go, she asked, "What are you doing this evening, dear?"
"Trying to work out a foolproof plan to keep Monty away from Todd. Come spring."
"Oh, I hate that dog. He's a terrible dog."
I was surprised. She was such a tenderheart.
"Well," I said, "I guess it's not really the dog; it's that Mrs. Gagnon doesn't control him."
"Oh, no, dear, it's not just that." Her voice was pure and sweet. "Of course, if she kept him in her backyard he couldn't hurt your rabbit, but it's not just that...he's a very nasty dog. A nasty personality."
"I agree but thought it best not to be the first to say it. I asked Animal Control to come and talk to her after Monty bit me, and they did, but I'm afraid he'll be right back at it when the weather turns nice." We peered out the stairwell window at the relentless sleet. "Actually," I went on, "I'm trying to come up with a way to kill him—uh, without really killing him, you know?"
"I understand. Well, I'll think about it too, dear."
"Thank you, Mrs. McVittie. Thank you very much."
"Good night, dear."
The phone was ringing as I opened my door, ringing out from the shadows in the dining room. "Hello?"
"Hey, Starmate. You have to come to L.A."
My best friend always just started talking when I picked up the phone, whether it'd been an hour or a year since we'd last spoken.
"Truby! What is it?"
"You have to come for a visit right now. I can't handle anything but yes." Her voice was oddly tight, oddly desperate, oddly something. "I need you. Lillian. Listen. I really. Really. Really. Need you. You've been talking about coming for another visit for three years now, and you haven't, and writing letters is great, and Dallas was fun, but I really need to talk to you." I heard a little gulp and knew what that meant.
"Truby, don't cry—"
A huge sob drowned me out.
"Never mind," I said. "Let it out. Let it out."
The only thing worse than having somebody lose it on you is having her do it over the phone. You can't put your arm around her; you can't go get her a drink of water; you can't search her face for a clue as to what the hell's going on. How serious is it? You can't really know.
"Hon, tell me what's wrong."
"Oh, God, I can't. Not over the phone."
"How come? You sound like you're in pain."
"Oh, God. Oh, God." She made an audible effort to catch her breath. "I've never faced something like this. I'm so scared. Lillian, can't you just come? I really can't get into it. All I want is to hang up the phone knowing you're going to be on the next flight. Are you in the middle of an assignment?"
"No." In fact, I'd had a lean winter. A lean few years, to come right out with it. Since launching my freelance career with a big juicy story for the Motor City Journal about a series of murders that I more or less helped solve, work had been spotty. I was able to get a few more big assignments from the Journal, but not man
y other magazines took to my style of reporting. Not the ones that paid, anyhow. I made ends meet freelancing as a tech writer and doing a little busking with my mandolin down in Greektown in the summer.
Reading the tone of my monosyllable, she said, "Wolf at the door?"
"Oh, no, not that bad!" You know, lighthearted-like, which she also read.
"Then I'll pay for your ticket and—"
"No. Absolutely not. I'm coming."
"Thank you. Thank you. God, I don't know what to do."
I'd never heard her like this. She'd always been so stoic, so capable, ever since our days together as undergraduates at Wayne State. We both went through some hard times then. Primarily hers were boyfriend troubles, mine girlfriend troubles, with regular financial crises thrown in. She'd been there for me.
"The thing is, Trube, we're in the middle of an ice storm here, the power's down, and I don't think anything's going out from Metro tonight. If anything were going, I'm not sure I'd want to be on it."
"Oh."
"Is it warm there?"
"It is warm, Lillian. It's warm as hell."
"Plus I have to see if Billie can take Todd."
"Make it tomorrow, then. Bring Todd. Bring your mandolin. Bring everything."
I thought about Los Angeles. The warm pavement beneath your feet wherever you walked, the warm smog, the warm tar in the tar pits. Warm. I thought of my friend, sitting in her lovely apartment, traumatized by something.
"All right. I'll be there."
[End of Damn Straight chapter 1. It would be a great idea to get yours now.]
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elizabeth Sims is a prizewinning author and writing authority. She's the author of the Lambda Award-winning Lillian Byrd Crime Series and the Rita Farmer Mystery Series, and she has written articles, essays, short stories, and poems for numerous publications.
She writes frequently for Writer's Digest magazine, where she is a contributing editor. Are you a writer too—or would you like to be one? If so, you'll find help and inspiration in Elizabeth's book, You've Got a Book in You: A Stress-Free Guide to Writing the Book of Your Dreams, published by Writer's Digest Books.
Elizabeth earned degrees in English from Michigan State University and Wayne State University, where she won the Tompkins Award for graduate fiction. She has worked as a reporter, photographer, technical writer, street busker, bookseller, corporate executive, ranch hand, and symphonic percussionist. She belongs to several literary societies as well as American Mensa.
NOTE FROM ELIZABETH
Thank you for reading Holy Hell! I hope you enjoyed it. You, as a reader, are a crucial element of the culture of books and ideas. Best wishes to you always.
Yours,
Elizabeth
ALSO BY ELIZABETH SIMS
Nonfiction
You've Got a Book in You: A Stress-Free Guide to Writing the Book of Your Dreams
Fiction
(It is not necessary to read either series in order.)
The Rita Farmer Mysteries
The Actress (#1)
The Extra (#2)
On Location (#3)
The Lillian Byrd Crime Novels
Holy Hell (#1)
Damn Straight (#2)
Lucky Stiff (#3)
Easy Street (#4)
Left Field (#5)
www.elizabethsims.com
Elizabeth's Amazon Author Page
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Information
Reviews
Also by Elizabeth Sims
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgments
About Elizabeth Sims
Note from Elizabeth
www.elizabethsims.com
Holy Hell Page 22
