Elaine Faber

Today, I welcome my author friend, June Gillam to my site with an interview about her latest novel.

Welcome, June. With the launch of your fourth thriller novel, can you share a few ideas about your writing journey?

"Why do you think someone would enjoy reading this particular story?"

I’m hoping all mothers, grandmothers and basketball fans will enjoy House of Hoops because it’s a many-layered suspense novel set in 2019 between Halloween and New Year’s Day, 2020, before Covid-19 changed our world. So in that way, it’s a sort of escape back to better, or at least more normal, times. Hillary Broome is the mother of a twelve-year-old basketball phenom named Claire, and is set in Sacramento, where Hillary handles public relations for a still-under-construction community center near the NBA basketball arena downtown, the site of continuing controversy among Sacramentans.

"Is this is a series? If so, tell us about the other books. "

In House of Cuts, the first book in the series, young reporter Hillary Broome’s article on a grisly murder catapults her byline from California into the national limelight and threatens to expose a shameful secret that could ruin her career—as well as bring her to the crazed killer’s attention. Hillary teams up with a lonely detective in a race to catch the cutthroat before he can get to a woman who's begun to fill a void in Hillary's heart left by the mother who abandoned her years ago.

A powerful California developer collapses at a funeral in the second book, House of Dads, which throws reporter Hillary into a network of jealousy and greed. In the midst of a new romance, she's forced to investigate foul play from disgruntled home-owners, mortgage bankers, and her own family members spiraling into homicidal madness.

In House of Eire, Hillary flies to Ireland on a family vacation and digs into her Irish roots, but finds herself uncovering deadly secrets in the land of a thousand welcomes, secrets that put at stake the lives of friends and family, including Hillary’s six-year-old daughter Claire.

By Book 4, House of Hoops, Hillary’s found a niche working public relations for a soon-to-open community center near Sacramento’s downtown Golden 1 Center as she aims to be a good mother to her volatile twelve-year-old basketball phenom daughter. Her attention is diverted by a former professor who’s determined to demonize the community center as symbolic of gentrification in need of destruction.

"Where do the ideas for your books come from?"

Mostly from problems I see in our culture. For example, House of Cuts came about when my husband was forced to take early retirement from the L. A. Times due to their financial strategy. This just about killed my husband because he so identified himself with his job. I wondered what if it was a butcher whose little shop was forced out of business by a big superstore moving in. What if he was bent on revenge at losing his identity? That was the origin of Melvin the Butcher.

"Where can we get your book?"

The eBook is $3.99 and paperback is $10.99 for now and later will join the other three Hillary Broome novels on Audible. https://amzn.to/34h2IZd It is available on Amazon and other outlets on its Halloween and basketball-themed launch party over my  Zoom launch. (see below) Zoom launch purchasers of House of Hoops will get a chance to name a character in Book 5 of the series, House of White Crows.

"Give us your brief bio."

Sacramento native June Gillam started out as a poet before realizing her poems wanted to become stories. Her Hillary Broome novels resist placement into traditional genres and are like the proverbial Box of Chocolates: June says her work best fits into “the social problem novel,” in which various characters personify issues around region, class, race, gender, or economics to form an important part of the plot. Mostly, June loves exploring what can transform a normal person into one mad enough to kill. Her books are published by her Gorilla Girl Ink imprint, and the story of how she got that name is on her website. She has taught English at San Joaquin Delta College since 1990 and is happily involved in several Northern California writing groups, one of which she thanks in House of Hoops Acknowledgments as Elaine’s Lunch Bunch.

Here is a fun short story to start your day.

The Slobaviakinsky Golf Course and Convention Center was located in a small, undeveloped country somewhere north of the 23^rd Parallel, funded by a US entrepreneurial endeavor to improve the lives of the Slobaviakinsky citizens. They employed one hundred and ten individuals, from grounds keepers to bartenders, to chefs and maids.

The biggest and finest golf course and convention center within 3000 miles, it was chosen to hold the annual European golf tournament. News of Tiger Woods’s attendance assured financial and national attention, and every room in the convention hotel was reserved in advance

Tiger had shipped his personal all electric golf cart with leather seats, titanium steering wheel, state-of-the-art sound system and beverage center, and golf clubs with gold gilt grips, ahead of his arrival. They placed a tarp over cart beside the CEO’s office, lest anyone should attempt to pilfer same and sell it at New York Southey’s Auction House.

Unbeknownst to the tournament organizers, or CEO, years long before the course was built, beneath the manicured grass, there was a maze of tunnels connecting the 1^st through the 19^th hole, built by a secret society where covert operations were planned. Discussions were underway beneath the turf as to how to scuttle the approaching tournament, lest the location of the tunnels should be discovered and future doings thwarted. A final plan was voted on and passed.

Three days before the tournament, the head landscaper entered the CEO’s office. The distraught man wrung his hands and blurted out his terrible story. During the night, someone had torn out the sound system in Tiger’s golf cart and shredded the leather seats. The golf bag holding his precious gilt-edged clubs was slashed with marks that looked like wild animal teeth. Knowing Tiger Wood’s sensitive nature, the CEO feared that hearing of the offense, he might refuse to attend. In such a case, would the tournament even proceed?

Much to their surprise, Tiger grudgingly agreed to use a standard golf cart if they provided a cooler filled with his favorite beverage and a CD player.

Two day before the tournament, the CEO found his head electrician awaiting his arrival. During the night someone had destroyed the wiring to the PA system, making it impossible to announce the events over the loud speakers. What would Tiger’s adoring fans say if they could not hear about his prowess on the field? Since the hotel was already fully booked and international news media already on their way, they were determined to fix the system and save the tournament.

The secret society called another emergency meeting. Scuttling Tiger’s golf cart hadn’t worked. Destroying the PA sound system hadn’t worked. Drastic measures were needed. In desperation, a final deterrence was needed.

One day before the tournament, the CEO’s head chef was waiting. That morning, he had found rat droppings on the kitchen counter, on the stove and in the pantry. Bags of flour were torn open. The freezer was unplugged and hundreds of pounds of meat had thawed. The refrigerator’s electric cord was chewed in half. Apparently, rodents had invaded the hotel. The health inspector would likely shut down the kitchen, putting the entire tournament at risk.

The clever CEO snapped his fingers. “Set up barbecues on the patio with bricks and screens. BBQ all the meat for the guests tonight. Have the local markets and bakeries bring bread, fresh fruit and pastry for breakfast tomorrow. Gather the portable microwaves from each room to prepare whatever else is needed. Contact another dozen food trucks to serve the tournament guests tomorrow. We’ll make it work.”

In despair, the secret society shrugged and gave up. None of their efforts had derailed the tournament. They would have to take their chances of discovery.

On tournament day, Tiger Woods faced the top ten world champion golfers. On the 19^th hole, he was one stroke from winning the tournament. He eyed the ball, drew back his club, but as he swung, his foot slipped on a leaf. His ball arced to the left off the fairway, into the trees. The crowd erupted in a collective moan. TV cameramen trailed Tiger into the woods where he found his ball on a mound of dirt, evidence of a major gopher hole.

Tiger stomped the mound flat, smacked his ball onto the green where it slowly rolled and plopped into the cup. Tiger said. “The club better set out poison before the gophers get onto the fairway.” He moved onto the green to the adulation of his adoring TV fans.

In the tunnel below, a number of ground gophers wept as their worst nightmare came to fruition. Tiger’s attendance at the tournament had revealed their secret location. It was only a matter of time until the secret tunnels would be destroyed and their existence doomed. There was only one solution. A quick vote was pass and decision made to move their network of tunnels into the International Culinary School garden next door. Unbeknownst to them, Wolfgang Puck’s world renowned Annual Cooking Contest was scheduled to be held there next spring.

****

Do you prefer fantasy short stories or do you prefer reading non-fiction articles?

If you enjoy fiction stories, check out my cat anthology of short stories . All Things Cat http://tinyurl.com/y9p9htak  (Amazon e-book $2.99) 

A fiction author must take great care not to alter history, but where’s the harm in tossing our character into actual historical events? Don't confuse my fictional story with factual events (marked true),

In Mrs. Odboddy Hometown Patriot, while volunteering  at a watch tower on the beach, elderly Agnes Odboddy spots a Japanese air balloon bomb (true) headed for shore. She uncovers a ration book conspiracy and becomes romantically involved with an FBI agent searching for missing Hawaiian funds.(true) And she meets Mrs. Roosevelt. Our fictional character and our plot weave these historical facts into the fiction story. http://tinyurl.com/hdbvzsv

In my second WWII era humorous mystery/adventure novel, Mrs. Odboddy – Undercover Courier, Mrs. Odboddy continues to fight the war from the home front in her bumbling, charming way..

Agnes and her granddaughter, Katherine, travel by train from California to Washington DC to join Mrs. Roosevelt on her Pacific Island tour(true). Agnes is asked to hand-carry a package to President Roosevelt. She believes it  contains secret war document! (Why not, right?) She expects Nazi agents to attempt to steal her package. (Could happen!) Along the way, she meets some intriguing characters who greatly hinder as well as aid her in her mission. She suspect one of them to be a Nazi spy. (true)

Agnes befriends David and Samuel, two Black soldiers bound for the Tuskegee Air Base, where they are to be trained as pilots with the first all-Black fighting flying squadron.

And here is a bit of REAL history about the  resiliant Tuskegee soldiers who became pilots.

Due to the extreme loss of pilots in battle, and the many Black men who wanted to fight for American, it became expedient to set up a program to train Black fighter pilots, bombardiers, and air support staff. A number of Black men with higher education and pre-war flying experience were selected to train as fighter pilots, in a segregated squadron.

The most successful 'all Black' squadron was the 99^th squadron. They began to fly bombing missions in the spring of 1943.

Nine hundred ninety two Black pilots were trained in Tuskegee from 1941-1946. They were credited with 1578 combat missions, 179 bomber escort missions, destroyed 112 enemy aircraft in the air, and another 150 on the ground. Nine hundred fifty rail cars tracks and motor vehicles were destroyed. One destroyer was put out of action. Forty enemy boats and barges were destroyed. Multiple citations were awarded to these brave men, along with many silver, bronze, air medals, and eight purple hearts.

Segregation of the troops ended in 1945 and the Black soldiers were united with other brave American troops.

And now, back to our fictional story… When Mrs. Odboddy's train reaches Tennessee, Agnes and Katherine friends learn more than they wish to know about the JIM CROW laws facing her new friends.  Befriending a Black wounded veteran changes the trajectory of her mission. When she arrives in Washington, she faces a different kind of challenge that taxes her determination as a home front warrior.

Read Mrs. Odboddy - Undercover Courier and get the full story about Agnes and the Tuskegee airmen. The book will amaze and amuse all the way from California to Washington, D.C and shed a bit more light on a slice of American history. For adventure, unbounded humor, and a bit of WWII history, check out the

E-book  at Amazon for $3.99  http://tinyurl.com/jn5bzwb 

Or contact me directly for an autographed paperback copy, mailed free to your home for $13.00. Elaine.Faber@mindcandymysteries.com.

– Black Cat and the Secret in Dewey’s Diary

A reader wants to feel she is personally experiencing or observing the events in the story, therefore, the  author must write the story in such a way to allow the reader to experience the story in this manner.  So, have you ever wondered why you've read some books that create this feeling and others that are just...ok?   To successfully create such a scene, it must include the following three elements.

1. What does the character see? (The setting seen through the character’s POV)
2. What does the character think or feel? (How does the current situation personally affect him?)
3. What does the character say or do about the situation? (Dialogue or action, or both.) I will use a condensed/edited scene from my latest novel, Black Cat and the Secret in Dewey's Diary to illustrate.

What does he see? Setting: Black Cat watched as a woman wearing dark glasses and a large black hat that shaded her face crept through the gate. Rosebush stickers on the fence caught at her sleeve. She paused, unhooked the thorns and then, tip-toed down the sidewalk toward the house.

Black Cat lowered his ears and crept past the corner of the house. What was she up to? His gaze swept toward the Wisteria vines where Angel’s golden tail swished back and forth beneath the hanging purple flowers. Angel!

What does he think (or feel?) Perhaps this woman intended to steal something from the front porch. He crept closer. It was his duty to protect the family’s belongings. He could almost see tomorrow's front page headlines in the Fern Lake Gazette. Plucky Local Cat Foils Attempted Grand Larceny. Despite overwhelming odds, the daring and plucky feline protected his master’s valuable rhododendron plant from the clutches of a 200 lb. female assailant determined to…so forth and so on…Maybe his photo…

The portly woman dashed the last few steps up the sidewalk, leaned down, and yanked Angel by her tail, out from under the bush.

Meow!

What does he say or do? Dialogue or Action: Black Cat raced across the lawn. Angel! He leaped at the woman’s arm, teeth bared. The woman jerked away. His fangs caught the edge of her sleeve and ripped through the material. Having missed to connect with her arm, he tumbled to the grass with a shriek. “Brett! Brett! Help! Help!

The thief waddled down the sidewalk with Angel, desperately thrashing against her hip. Still grasping the thrashing cat, with one hand, the woman struggled to open the front gate . “Stop fighting me, you little…”

Not my Angel… Black Cat sprinted through the gate, leaped over the hood of the car, and scrambled around the open car door.

Once she reached her door, the woman flung Angel onto the passenger seat, and flopped into the driver’s seat. Before she could slam the door shut, Black Cat leaped into her lap. She grabbed her purse and struck at his head, knocking him sideways. His head struck the dials on the radio and he fell to the floor, momentarily stunned. As though through a haze, he heard Brett yelling. Angel huddled on the front passenger seat, her nails clinging to the vinyl seat, frozen with fright, mewing pathetically, Black Cat! Black Cat!

****

To learn what happens next, you can purchase Black Cat and the Secret in Dewey’s Diary for $3.99 at Amazon https://tinyurl.com/vgyp89s

Let me know your thoughts regarding this writing process. What thoughts to you have regarding how authors create a more satisfying read?

Kilcuddy Kitty stretched out in the sunny butcher shop window, anxiously awaiting Shamus O’Reilly. Any minute now, he’d arrive to open the shop. The first rays of morning  light up the posters in the window.

Beef Kidneys−$.39 a pound,

Oxtails−$.15 a pound,

Beef bones−$.10 a pound.

Since the attack on Pearl Harbor last December, housewives accepted the scarcity of meat available at the butcher shop, knowing that the best cuts were sent to the troops. Dealing with the restrictions of rationing without complaint is considered patriotic.

Kilcuddy Kitty rolled in the sun, recalling last night’s events after Shamus flicked out the lights and locked the doors. Kilcuddy had settled to nap atop the roll of butcher paper behind the meat counter. Shattering glass in the back room roused him from slumber. He leaped to the top of the counter. Hunkered down, ears pricked and muscles taunt, his gaze riveted toward the doorway.

Footsteps crunched through broken glass! Fear smell emanated from a masked figure entering the shop. A flashlight's beam streamed over the glass counter toward the cash register. Kilcuddy’s hair stood on end. The tip of his tail flipped from side to side.

The thief moved closer.

With a mighty leap, Kilcuddy Kitty landed on the intruder’s shoulders. Yoww!!

The thief shrieked, jerked from left to right, trying to dislodge the claws digging into his back. In his frenzy, his torchlight fell to the floor. Kilcuddy tasted warm blood as he sank his fangs into the man’s neck.

With a curse, the prowler grabbed Kilcuddy by the back of his neck and flung him across the room. Thump! Kilcuddy landed in a heap. Dazed, he heard frantic mumbling and scuttling as the intruder plunged through the darkness and escaped out the back window. The thud of his footsteps faded away as he pounded down the alley.

Kilcuddy lay on the floor, his ears ringing, head aching, tasting the man’s blood . Odd, human blood tastes different than chicken blood. Sweeter, somehow. Or, was it the satisfaction of protecting Shamus’s shop that tasted so sweet? Without a doubt, he had foiled the attempt to rob the store and steal the best cuts of meat...

Pushing last night’s memories from his mind, Kilcuddy Kitty rolled over and presented his tummy to the warm morning sunshine. Shamus would soon be here. What fine beef trimmings or snippets of kidneys would he spoon into Kilcuddy’s bowl as a reward for thwarting the burglar? Do cats ever receive medals for bravery? Perhaps he’d be Grand Marshall in a parade and sit beside the mayor’s pretty wife.

With the click of a key in the back room, Shamus O’Reilly arrived at last. “Begorra, the window is shattered and me clean floor is covered with glass.” The shop owner rushed to the cash register and punched the proper keys. The drawer popped open, revealing neat rows of bills from yesterday’s sales. “Sure and the saints have blessed me. Me money is still here!”

Seeing nothing further amiss, Shamus swept up the broken glass , mumbling such words as cannot be repeated in a G-rated short story.

Kilcuddy Kitty cruised against the cash register, his whiskers a-tingle, his back arched in sheer joy and anticipation, as he patiently waited for Shamus to lavish him with the praise and treats he so richly deserved.

His mouth watered as he contemplated his reward. Would it be a whopping $.62 a pound salmon steak, such as the mayor’s wife bought each Friday afternoon? Didn’t Shamus always tuck away the best cuts for her? Though, where she got all the ration coupons for each Friday's purchase gave one pause... Other housewives rarely had enough money or meat coupons for such weekly culinary delights.

At last, Shamus stalked into the shop, shaking his broom. “So, there you are, Kilcuddy Kitty, standing about as usual, while I clean up the mess. Like as not you slept right through the scoundrel breaking me fine window. What luck he didn’t come inside and steal me hard-earned cash. You’re a poor store minder, you worthless cat. Me thinks I should get rid of you and get a good watchdog!”

What? What? The unfairness of it! Kilcuddy Kitty arched his back and hissed. The ingratitude. After all I’ve done! His tail puffed up like a bristle brush. He sprang off the meat counter. How unjust the master. How unmerited the disparagement. Hadn’t he warded off the perpetrator, risked life and limb, and suffered a bonk on the noggin when he was so unceremoniously pitched against the wall? Where was his praise, his medal and parade? Where even the scrap of meat in his bowl? Oh, deliver me from the injustice of man.

Shamus stood with his broom in his hand as Kilcuddy Kitty dashed into the storeroom, leaped through the broken window and bounded down the back alley, howling. And fare thee well, Shamus O’Reilly, for I’ll never darken your doorstep again.

Kilcuddy never forgave old Shamus or returned to the butcher shop.

Every Saturday night, you’ll find Shamus at Sean O’Flanahan’s pub, whining to all who will listen. “Alas, later that day, I found a flashlight on the floor and blood on the cash register. Me good cat, Kilcuddy Kitty, must have run the bugger off before he could steal me money. And, now because of my sins, I’ve lost me best pal.” Whereupon, Shamus weeps and orders another beer. Soon his drinking buddies tire of his whining and turn their backs on him.

And what, might you wonder, happened to Kilcuddy Kitty? Folks say he took up with the mayor’s pretty wife. When asked if he’ll ever forgive Shamus and return to the butcher shop, Kilcuddy Kitty winks and says. “Why should I? Life is grand with the mayor’s wife. Every Friday she takes another ration book to Shamus O’Reilly’s butcher shop and buys the best cuts of meat. I love the salmon, but some have asked. ‘How does she come by so many ration coupons?’

“I think there’s something fishy going on…”

****

If you enjoyed this story, your might enjoy all 21 short stories about cats found in my short anthology

All Things Cat..   Amazon $2.99     http://tinyurl.com/y9p9htak

This is a scene from the dual tale, Black Cat and the Secret in Dewey's Diary. While the cats face their own challenges in Fern Lake, Kimberlee has gone to Austria and Germany where she follows clues to a lost treasure in gold coins, stolen during WWII. One day, while site-seeing alone, she visits Salzburg. The following is her experiences in the city. https://tinyurl.com/vgyp89s (Amazon e-book $3.99)

As Kimberlee passed through the countryside and the forests, the terrain varied and the road rose and fell. Around every corner, another picture post card vista appeared. With no particular agenda, she stopped frequently to take a photograph.

In some green meadows, the only sound was the tinkling of shiny brass bells, hanging from the collars of a flock of sheep or a small group of black and white cows. In other places, the gentle terrain rose up into a fine mist clinging to the side of hillside. Hidden in the distant mist, tinkling bells confirmed grazing animals, unaware of how their bells produced such stirring in the heart of a captivated tourist.

The vineyards on the hills and meadows became fewer as Kimberlee approached Salzburg where Mozart first played his harpsicord and wrote melodies. Hundreds of years later, people would still know his name and enjoy his music.

Ancient ivy covered buildings with sagging tile roofs covered the courtyards along the sidewalk. Church spires peaked out above nearby houses with red tile rooftops. She paused beside a church with dates carved into the walls reading 1200-1400. How incredible! One church was said to be 1000 years old!

Violin music drew her toward the town square where a street musician stood on the steps of an ancient church, playing Ave Maria. Pigeons flew from rooftop to rooftop, appearing to be as mesmerized by the music as the cluster of tourists gathered on the steps.

The haunting melody echoed around the square. It touched her heart as it carried her away from this world and back into another time. It was easy to imagine the cobbled streets filled with horse-drawn carts. Perhaps a princess and her ladies in waiting passed by, or a knight in shining armor, after a joust with a dragon.

The musician drew his bow across the strings and as he lowered his hand, the final note hung in the air. The tourists stood spellbound and silent. Another moment, and the spell was broken and more generous visitors tossed money into the violin case at his feet.

Kimberlee opened her purse. “That was absolutely lovely! Thank you.” She put money into his case and wandered on.

She ran to catch a tram climbing to the top of the hill where a medieval castle overlooked the city, a cold and barren place with steps everywhere. The rooms were filled with armor, ancient guns, javelins, chains and torture devices. Looking down from the balconies into the valley was like peeking into the pages of a storybook. Rainy mists on the distant mountains beckoned hikers upward into the cold crisp air. Off to the left, rivers, towers, cathedrals, graveyards, and church spires. Off to the right, cobble-stone streets with horse-drawn carriages, sidewalk cafes, musicians, and archways, where street vendors hawked their wares on the street corners.

Returning to the city below, Kimberlee came upon a street artist, his back against the wall, his easel and backpack by his side. The watercolor drying on his easel was of the scene where the musician had just played his stirring aria on the church steps. Unable to resist the desire to memorialize the moment, she purchased the picture. She would have it framed and hang it near her bedroom, where it would be a constant reminder of the musician, his poignant melody and the day spent in the magical city.

Mrs. Odboddy and Then There was a Tiger

In this edited scene, Agnes, Godfrey, Vincent and Katherine are locked in a library on the third floor of a San Francisco mansion. A gas leak in the house is in danger of exploding and burning down the house. How are they to escape?

“Well, I don’t intend to sit here and wait…” Godfrey picked up the desk chair and flung it against the window. With a crash, shards of glass burst out and tumbled to the ground. He went to the window. “Help! Somebody. Call the police!” A few cars passed by the house, but none appeared to see the broken glass. “They can’t hear me. We’re going to have to get out by ourselves.”

Vincent unzipped his pants and slid them down his legs. “Serious times call for serious actions. Katherine? Take off your dress.”

Katherine’s cheeks burned. “Really, Vincent. I realize this is a life and death situation, but we can’t… I mean, my grandmother is standing right here. I love you and even though you say we might die, this isn’t…” She glanced at Agnes and Godfrey. He was sliding off his trousers and Agnes was unbuttoning her dress. “Grandma! You, too? I can’t believe you would…”

Grandma pulled her dress over her head and handed it to Godfrey. “Oh, hush. Don’t be such a prude and take off your dress. Can’t you see he means to tie our clothes together to make a rope so we can climb out the window?”

“Oh!” Katherine ducked her head, unzipped the side zipper and slid it over her head. She handed the dress to Godfrey and stepped behind the desk. Godfrey pulled down the drapes, tied their two pairs of trousers together end to end, and added Katherine’s dress to the end of the clothing rope. “It’s still not long enough,” he said, adding Agnes’s dress to Katherine’s. “We’re going to need your two under slips. Ladies? I’m sorry, but this is no time for modesty.” The noticeable smell of gas crept ominously beneath the door. “And, you’d best hurry if we’re going to get out of here alive. The slightest spark and this place will blow.”

Agnes peeled off her slip and stood in her rubber corset and stockings with the patriotic holes.

Chill bumps raised on Katherine’s arms. The faint scent of gas made her nauseous. She stepped over to the window, stripped off her slip and stood in her brassier and panties. Elastic bands on her upper thighs held up her less than perfect nylons. Her face flushed when Vincent’s gaze traveled from her face to her knees and back again. His cheeks pinked up and he jerked his head away. His voice trembled as he knocked out the remaining window glass. “Katherine? You’ll go first. You’re the lightest. Take off your shoes. When you get down, run to the nearest house and call the police.”

Godfrey had removed his undershirt revealing a clump of grey hair clustered on his barrel chest. He attached his undershirt to the end of Katherine’s and Agnes’s slips. “I think it will reach pretty far down. You may have to jump the last few feet.” He had tied a small loop in the end for her foot and tied his undershirt to the radiator beneath the window.

Vincent placed the pillow from the office chair over the edge of the windowsill. “Up you go, Katherine. Sit on the edge and put your foot in the loop. As soon as you safely can, jump, so we can get Agnes down next.”

Katherine followed his instructions and climbed out the window. What would people think, seeing a woman, dropping from a third floor window on a rag rope wearing nothing but her underwear? She held tight to the clothing as the men lowered her over the edge and down the side of the building. First she was facing the wall, and then the cloth rope swung and spun her around so she faced the street. She heard material ripping when she was about seven feet above the ground. Lest the material should tear and prevent Grandmother’s escape, she pulled her foot from the loop and tumbled to the ground. Pain shot through her hip and she felt the breath knocked from her. She glanced up in time to see Agnes appear in the window as Vincent pulled the rope back up the wall.

****

The third Mrs. Odboddy adventure, Mrs. Odboddy And Then There was a Tiger is FREE at Amazon until 04-26-20, and then is just $3.99 in e-book. Mrs. Odboddy Hometown Patriot, and  Mrs. Odboddy Undercover Courier are books one and two. Read all three Mrs. Odboddy mystery/adventures for a hilarious WWII historical fiction treat.    http://tinyrul.com/yx72fcpx

OVERVIEW: While the ‘tiger of war’ rages across the Pacific during WWII, eccentric, elderly Agnes Odboddy, ‘fights the war from the home front’. Then she finds a rat-filled shoebox on her porch, her house is trashed and she is implicated in the Wilkey’s Market burglary! In her own bumbling, hysterical manner, Agnes is determined to get to the bottom of things.

Then a traveling carnival with a live tiger joins the parishioners’ Harvest Fair at The First Church of the Evening Star and Everlasting Light. Agnes bears some of the responsibility when counterfeit bills are discovered at the carnival, and the war bond money goes missing. She’s in trouble again. Her attempts to restore the war bond money lead her into harm’s way. A friend’s betrayal results in a harrowing experience as Agnes learns more about carnival life and tigers than she bargained for.

 (Excerpt from Mrs. Odboddy – And Then there was a Tiger)

(At the tiger's performance at the carnival)

For the next ten minutes, the trainer put the tiger through his paces. Probably declawed, and totally dependent on a human to provide his meat on the end of a stick, the tiger was as tame as a housecat. “Does anyone want to pet Shere Khan? He’s very friendly,” the trainer said.

Agnes touched Maddie’s cheek. “What do you think?”

“I…I…think so. Yes!” Maddie stepped closer. She ran one finger over Shere Khan’s head. “He’s so soft.” She stroked the tiger’s neck and scratched behind his ear.

Shere Khan turned into the caress, opened his mouth and yawned, showing long sharp teeth. His eyes sought Maddie’s face and their eyes locked in a gaze that seemed to connect their souls. At last, Shere Khan stood and ambled back toward the door of his caravan,

“Well, guess the show is over, folks. Our star has had enough public adulation.” The trainer chuckled and turned away.

Agnes reached for Maddie’s hand and gave it a shake. “Are you ready to go back now?”

Not responding, Maddie stared at the caravan door.

“Maddie? It’s time to go back.”

Maddie had not moved. She rubbed her fingers together, seeming unable to relinquish the sensation of the tiger’s ear, reluctant to forget the rumble in his throat as she stroked his face.

“Maddie?” Agnes searched Maddie’s face. The child seemed lost in the memory of a special shared moment, reluctant to return to her everyday life. “Shall we go, sweetheart?”

The child blinked. “I remember when we played together with baby lambs and goats in a meadow in Heaven…before I was born. Do you think he remembered, too?”

“What strange ideas you have, child. Where do you come up with such things?” Agnes grasped Maddie’s hand and hurried her away.

Played together in Heaven? What could have put such a thought into her head? Agnes glanced at Maddie’s face. Her eyes were aglow, her smile as innocent as an angel. Her face looked as though she truly remembered a day in Heaven when she played in a meadow with lambs and a tiger.

Goosebumps crept up Agnes’s arms. Hadn’t Pastor Lickleiter just preached on this text last Sunday? The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and the calf and the young lion and the fattened calf together; and a little child shall lead them. (Isaiah 11:6 KJV)

Wolves? Leopards? Lions? Who’s to say there wasn’t a tiger among them.

*****

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Elaine.Faber@mindcandymysteries.com

Just for  Sunday afternoon fun, I'm presenting a short story, obviously written by a CAT, telling his family history to readers willing to suspend disbelief... and smile. Let me know what you think.

Until my father’s death, my family lived on a profitable little farm in Killarney, Ireland. Though I knew that an enchanted magic spell had changed me from a boy into a small cat at the time of his death, Mother would never discuss the details. Even as a cat, she loved me as a son. As time passed, Mother grew frail and I grew into a fine tabby-striped tom cat with four white feet and a fine reputation as a hunter.

One day she called me to her bedside. “Tabkins, I can no longer provide our bread and cheese. You must restore our good fortune or surely we will perish.” And so she began her tale of trickery and enchantment, deviltry, and a magic spell that had plagued our family since my father’s death.

Some years ago, our farm possessed six orange trees, three cows, and a potato patch, all sufficient to meet our needs. A wicked green leprechaun from a nearby mountain-top coveted, and tried often, to obtain our land by trickery, but father repeatedly rebuffed his guiles. In revenge, the evil creature fogged Father’s mind with a magic spell, causing him to fall into the river. To thwart my efforts to save Father’s life, he waved his magic wand again and changed me from a good-looking youth of comely bearing into a tabby-striped cat. Though the world profited by the addition of an exceedingly handsome cat, my father drowned. The leprechaun then cast a spell upon the three cows, causing them to give no milk. The orange trees ceased to bear fruit and the potato patch gave us only scant potatoes.

“You must seek out the leprechaun,” Mother said, “and retrieve the magic wand. Perhaps it will restore you to a human lad and our land into a profitable farm.” The tears in her eyes wrenched my heart, and yet I trembled in horror at the thought of facing the evil creature.

She lifted her frail hand. “Make your way to yonder mountain. High on the top beside a river, you’ll find the cave where the wicked leprechaun dwells,” she said. “Go, now, Tabkins. Our future is in your paws.”

I set out as she bid, knowing that facing a leprechaun, no matter how exceedingly good-looking I might be, my feline cunning would be sorely tested if I was to fool the evil leprechaun, steal the magic wand, and live to tell the tale.

With every step up the mountain, I cast about in my mind how to dupe the leprechaun into reversing his magic spell or stealing his wand. I came at last to the river.

“Halt. Who goes there?” The wicked leprechaun called from beneath the log that spanned the stream. “Answer, Cat, or I’ll turn you to stone.”

Panic seized my heart. An idea popped into my furry head. “I’m just a harmless pussy-cat out for a stroll. My, what a lovely river you have here, Sir Leprechaun.” A little honey-talk is always good to sooth a malevolent spirit. I sashayed across the log, humming, Katie From Killarney, and bowed low. “My name is Tabkins. Pray tell, what might your name be, kind sir?”

The leprechaun’s eyes narrowed. “My name is Merichandrick. What do you seek?”

“Perhaps a spot of tea? I’m weary from my travels.” I looked wistfully toward the cave, conveying abject vulnerability and friendliness.

“Come on in and I’ll light the fire,” said he, his green mouth atwitch, his brain surely swirling with some deviltry.

I followed him into the grotto, wary of any trick up his sleeve, sure that he had thoughts of tossing me into his stew pot. I scanned the cave, searching for the wand, keeping one wary eye on my host.

“Sit over there.” The imp pointed toward the fire.

“Oh, what a lovely bird,” I posited, sidling closer to a green and red parrot, its cage hanging from a golden hook, all the while seeking the hiding place of the magic wand. In a chair near the back of the cave, I spotted a pot of gold. Something long and thin poked from beneath a nearby red blanket. Aha! It must be the wand I seek.

The little man turned. “Will you be after spending the night?” said he, with a wicked glint in his eye.

“If I’m so invited,” says I with a yawn, patting my paw to my mouth, “Let us drink our tea and I’ll curl up for the night just yonder on your wee red blanket.”

He shook his mop of green curls. “Not there,” he shrieked, panic shining from his wicked eye. “Best you should sleep closer to the fire where it will warm your exceedingly handsome fur.”

“As you wish, and I thank you kindly for the hospitality,” says I. Oho! Once the little man sleeps, I’ll snatch the magic wand from beneath the blanket and skedaddle.

My host poured two mugs of tea and shoved one toward me. Expecting a trick, I sneezed, and as he reached for a handkerchief, I switched the mugs. Indeed, the mug was drugged. Soon after the evil goblin drank, he fell into a stupor.

Without further ado, I grabbed the magic wand, wrapped in a paper containing the magic spell, and hurried back to the farm.

Mother waved the wand, read the magic words, and the spell was broken. I was instantly changed back into a young man, even more comely than before. Soon, thereafter, the cows began to give milk, the orange trees blossomed and bore fruit, and this spring, we had a bumper crop of potatoes.

The leprechaun still lives in the cave with his parrot, but without his magic wand or his evil spells, his complexion has turned from green to a sallow yellow, and, embarrassed by his looks, he rarely leaves his cave.

As long as fortune smiles, we’ll leave him be, but if the cows go dry or the potato crop should ever fail, I happen to know where I can find an exceedingly ugly yellow leprechaun and a pot o’ gold.

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