Tag Archive for: Misa Ramirez

“I’ll be back”

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Ever have one of those days that just get away from you? How ’bout a week like that? Or a month.

This has been a week that has flown by, and at times I feel I’m hardly keeping my head above water. While I don’t think I’m a complainer, I do occasionally find myself slipping into that “things are tough, life’s too busy, woe is me” mode. I usually catch myself and stop; I don’t ever want to focus on the negative and forget about the big picture.
But sometimes, I’ve learned, I have to recognize–and embrace–my limits. Which means sometimes making hard decisions. Just yesterday, I dropped my membership to a national organization, and consequently to a local chapter, because I just couldn’t keep up, couldn’t spend the money, and couldn’t give it my all. It was a tough decision, but necessary, and while I don’t feel relief and I think I’ll rejoin at some point, it was definitely what I needed.
Leaving The Stiletto Gang is another such decision–very difficult, not what I’d choose in a perfect world, but necessary for me right now. I love this blog, these ladies, and the faithful Stiletto followers, but I’m recognizing my limits and realizing that with teaching at a local college, writing full time, mothering 5 kids, a husband in grad school (plus a full time job), a son with one foot out the door and into college, Books on the House, blogging, online teaching, and, you know, icky housework, some things just have to give.
I’ve been blessed to be part of this great grog, and have been doubly blessed by their open door policy welcoming me back as a guest. It’s been great, and as the Terminator famously said, “I’ll be back.”
So this is not good bye, but adieu.
And I know I’ll see y’all around!
Misa Ramirez

A Belly Dancing Adventure

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Beware of Groupon. You might find yourself in a Belly Dancing class in Irving, if you’re not careful.

My Belly Dancing adventure began last October, or so, when a friend forwarded a Groupon offer for Belly Dancing classes. Sure!, I thought. I can do that. Easy to pay $20 for 4 classes with no specifics…yet.

Months came and went, and with the expiration date looming, we had to actually make a commitment to go to the classes. The problem? Tracy had major conflicts with her childrens’ schedules, and Kym had a conflict with a meeting she was supposed to attend. But we’d committed to these classes and it was now or never. Learn to Belly Dance or we’d lose our certificate.

So we went.

We braved unexpected traffic along two highways as we went back and forth through Grapevine for Music Theater.

But no worries. I was prepared for the caper! I’d prepped with pre-Belly Dancing caffeine.

I was afraid I’d feel the coffee jiggling around in my stomach, but since we were late, I needn’t have worried.

We couldn’t find the address when we finally made it to Irving/Las Colinas. Class started at 11:00. Note the time!

We finally found it at 11:07. Yikes!

Of course, we paused long enough to take a quick picture so I could write about our adventure.

Which one doesn’t belong?

The real Belly Dancer/teacher. ‘Cause she knew what she was doing and we, most definitely, did not!

**As a sidenote, I was chastised for trying to take a picture during our ‘break time’. No phones in Belly Dancing class so as not to waste the teacher’s time. I managed this one, though, and then she was kind enough to take the group photo with us (above).**

Things I learned from Belly Dancing:
1. It’s harder than it looks.
2. When I go “up” “down” with my hips, I feel the jigglies. The teacher has no jigglies.
3. Doing the combos in class was one thing; practicing them at home was quite another.
4. Belly Dancing is for people of all sizes, shapes, and ages. Really. The class was FULL!

It was fun.
1. It made me feel a wee bit sexy. Okay, maybe not, but it made me feel like I had the potential to be a wee bit sexy if I practice enough.
2. It is not like a yoga workout; yoga has no adorned hip scarves for one.
3. Graduation night for our class is called Harem Night. Yikes.

I may just continue Belly Dancing after my 4 weeks are up. We’ll see if I get better. Regardless, it was a great experience, something different (which keeps the mind young!), and may be fuel for a book plot, who knows. I’m thinking Lola Cruz would have a lot of fun Belly Dancing, don’t you?

If you happen to be in the Dallas/FW area and want more info on Belly Dancing click here:
Dana’s Dance Academy
Blue Anjou(Flower Mound)

On another note, if you’re interested in indie publishing, check out this brand new blog: The Writer’s Guide to ePublishing. Real numbers, tips, and resources for every writer. I’ll be writing about this awesome web site next week!

Misa

Happy Anniversary to Me!

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It’s my anniversary today. 20 years. Yowza!


My mother is a forever fan of my husband because he convinced me (read: ultimatum) to stop smoking (I was a high school/college Virginia Slims smoker…bad girl!).


My father is a forever fan of my husband because he sees a bit of himself in my man… namely the ambition and determination it took to rise out of poverty, become educated, and pursue his dreams.



I’m a forever fan of my man because of his utmost devotion to our kids, our family, and me! He’s a great guy. His support throughout my writing career–through rejections, submissions, revisions, and everything in between– has been the thing that has kept me going.

He’s the wind beneath my wings. (Hehehehe! Not sure he’d like that phrasing, but, oh well. One thing he doesn’t do is read my thousand blogs!)


So, as the new year approaches and I:

I’m grateful for my man, my marriage, my family, and the fact that I spend everyday doing the thing I love doing most of all…



…Weaving tales of mystery and mayhem, and writing them down to share with the world (or with whoever actually reads them).
As 2010 comes to a close, what are you most grateful for, and what are you looking forward to in 2011?

Holiday Giveaway! by Misa Ramirez

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Christmas traditions center around the magic of holiday stories. It’s a Wonderful Life, A Charlie Brown Christmas, Miracle on 34th Street, Olive the Other Reindeer, Gift of the Magi, 101 Questions about Santa Claus, The Christmas Box… I could go on and on. What better way to celebrate than by means of a holiday giveaway!

This week, I’m giving away one of the following

(winner’s choice!)

  • ~a bag of books
  • ~signed copies of Living the Vida Lola and Hasta la Vista, Lola!
  • ~or a $20 gift card to Amazon or Barnes & Noble

All you have to do is download a copy of ONE of the three e-books I have available, then leave a comment here that you did!

That’s all it takes to be entered into the drawing!

You don’t need an e-reader, remember! Downloads can also be read right on your computer in PDF form, or you can download the Kindle or Nook app for your computer.


For extra entries, help spread the word!:

~tweet this post (and let me know you tweeted)

~Facebook the post (and tag me @misa.ramirez and/or @Author-Melissa-BourbonMisa-Ramirez/)

~download more than one of the books ~ one entry per book/story!


As always, thanks for loving books and reading!!

Hop on over to Books on the House for book giveaways EVERY WEEK!

HaPpY HoLiDaYs!!


(Remember to leave a comment for a chance to win our Stiletto Gang holiday Amazon giveaway!)

* note: prices for Cursed and The Chain Tree have not yet been reduced to $2.99 at B&N, but soon!

Twisted Sisterhood or Small Acts of Kindness, by Misa

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Recently, I was on my way to Dallas to attend a Texas Beef Council special event hosted by a fellow blogger (shout out to June Cleaver Nirvana Holly Homer!!). My daughter had been having a horrible time adjusting to 5th grade. She wasn’t sleeping, was angst-ridden over EVERYTHING, was so unhappy with her body (she’s 10!!! This worry and seeking of validation from others starts WAY too young), and was obsessing about middle school (which is still a year away).


I heard Katherine Schwartzenegger on a radio show, talking about her new book, Rock What You Got. I sat in my car and listened as she expressed how she’d felt exactly what my daughter was feeling. Needless to say, I stopped by the bookstore on the way home and picked up Rock What You Got. We’re reading it together and it’s really helping! Amazing.


Today I heard Kelly Valen talk about her new book, Twisted Sisterhood. It goes beyond the issues discussed in Rock What You Got (and I’m anticipating needing it as my girl gets older), tackling the complicated relationships women often have with one another, including passive aggressive behavior, mean girl behavior, bullying (anyone hear about Joy Behar on The View with her “comic” bullying?), and other layers of complexity and judgement within these relationships.


I see them starting now with my daughter, and while it’s great to observe and use in character development, it’s definitely not good for a girl trying to figure out who she is, what she believes, and where her validation comes from.


All this got me thinking about why it is we (meaning our culture) work so hard to tear others down instead of build them up.


I’m absolutely of the simplistic mindset that little acts of kindness go a long, long way, and shouldn’t we spend our energy on that kindness instead of on negativity?

Think about these scenarios. What would you do if:


  1. You’re on a two-way surface road driving south and there’s a lot of traffic, including a line of cars coming the other direction, in their turn lane, trying to turn left across your lanes. Do you stop before the intersection and let the cars make their turn, or do you block the intersection? (As I drove to a class I teach in Dallas tonight, I watched as car after car after car stopped in the middle of the intersection, blocking those cars who were trying to turn. When I approached the intersection–and mind you, traffic was slow up ahead so it’s not like I was blocking traffic behind me–I stopped so the cars could turn. But cars in the lanes on either side of me kept going, edging forward. It took a good minute or two before the cars in the other lanes stopped so those people could make their turn).
  2. You walk down the aisle at the market and come across something that had fallen from a shelf and is on the floor. Do you pick it up and put it back on the shelf, or leave it? Time after time, I watch as people walk on by. My kids do it at home. Walk ON the pillow instead of picking it up! ARGH!!
  3. People are coming out of a concert. You’re in a hurry. Do you wait your turn, or dodge people, cutting them off as you dart in front of them? Why not slow down and just wait?


I wish we could all be just a little more kind, because the reality is, you never know the impact your small act of kindness will have on someone else. Case in point, I got an email two days ago (at exactly 9:51 am 🙂 and it changed my whole day.


Misa,

OMG! This book [Cursed] was good. It’s a good thing that I DVR’d my shows, because I could not put this book down. That twist with the brothers, I did not see that coming. This was a great read.

I’m starting The Chain Tree tomorrow. I anticipate another giving up the TV show for this one as well.

Again, what a great story.


I think the fact that this reader took the time out of her day to tell me how she loved my book is amazing. She didn’t get anything out of it (except my everlasting devotion), but her message made me smile and feel giddy inside. It made my day (still is, in fact, two days later). I’m sure she had no idea how her message would make me feel.


Small acts of kindness. Isn’t that what we should spend our energy on, rather than the complicated twisted sisterhood relationships we focus too much time on? I imagine we’d all smile a lot more, don’t you?





10 Things I learned This Week, by Misa

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I had an array of experiences this this week, had a slew of emotions to go with them, and learned quite a bit.

Here are ten things I learned this week:

  1. Having a deadline is pressure
  2. Missing a deadline is even more pressure
  3. Especially when you can’t quite figure out how to wrap up a story
  4. Sitting at a computer for hours on end makes your buttocks/bum/derriere really hurt
  5. Knowing you can’t do anything about said aching buttocks because you have to stay at that computer and get the book done makes it hurt even more
  6. Pushing through the pain (pertaining to both deadline pressure and throbbing gluteus maximus) is HARD
  7. But rewarding…after the fact
  8. Your child’s broken heart is your broken heart, too
  9. A broken heart (& the plethora of emotions that come with it) is not a good thing to have when you’re trying to write
  10. But at least you can be surprised by who the killer turns out to be in your own book, incidentally NOT who was planned

I managed to get through the writing of the manuscript, figured out the ending, and am really happy with it, new killer and all.

Regarding #s 8 & 9, I remember having a broken heart. I remember it vividly, in fact. I know nothing I say will take the pain away. But, holy mackerel, I never expected my boy’s emotional reaction to be what it was, and my tired, stretched-thin state-of-mind didn’t help me help him very much, I’m afraid.

So I have only one question. How do you help your child get over a broken heart, which includes not only the loss of love, but the loss of a best friend?

~ Misa

I Never Fancied Myself a Romantic Suspense Author, by Misa Ramirez

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I started out writing middle grade fiction (the wonderful Ellis Island time travel story is tucked away somewhere in my study…perhaps to be resurrected one day) and moved on to children’s books. I was teaching at the time, so my head was in kid-land.


But after one fluke sale of a picture book story, I couldn’t sell another kids story to save my life.


Enter Lola.


Every Monday night, I’d been meeting with a friend at a coffee shop, as much to get out of the house and away from the kids (new baby and 4 others at home) as to write. My frustration at the pile of rejections was growing. I decided I needed a change. I decided to write something for adults. It would be fun and sassy, would have swearing and, egads!, sex.

Lola Cruz came to me just like that. It was like she was there all along, just waiting for me to call on her. I like to say she’s my alter-ego, if I were a smart, sexy, Latina detective. 😉 My husband is Mexican and I’ve always loved his culture. The food, the language, the community, the stories and legends, and more. So when I envisioned Lola, she represented my own children in a way.


After the first couple Lola books sold, I was at a crossroads. What to work on next?

I couldn’t imagine not incorporating some cultural element into whatever book I write (funny, since I’m a blonde-haired, green-eyed white girl!). The thing that popped into my mind was the story of la Llorona. La Llorona is kind of like the Bogey Man. It’s a story told to kids to keep them in bed.

That quintessential ghost story, Latino-style. My husband’s family would tell this story at camp outs, just as it had been told to them when they were kids.


I did a little research and learned the roots of the story. It dates back to the Aztecs, interestingly, and from there, four different versions evolved. The story in my head took roots and grew. But la Llorona is a ghost, and not a nice one, at that. My light, sassy voice had to adapt. The only way it would work was as a romantic suspense. I couldn’t see myself spending my entire writing career crafting suspense. There’s enough darkness in the world that I don’t want to write about it, too (light mysteries, like Lola Cruz, and my new cozy series don’t make me feel that darkness, interestingly).


But this story wouldn’t leave me alone. I wrote it. It became CURSED.

Buy Cursed for your Kindle!

Buy Cursed at The Reader Store!


The hero, Ray Vargas, had a brother, Vic. He needed his own story. The other thing that fascinates me is the curandera, a healer. Combine that with the urban legend of chupacabra (a vampire goat-like creature), and the makings of another story began. Same town. Another legend come to life. When I read a real-life account of a tree that had been saved from disease by the chain strung around it’s trunk, I knew I had stumbled upon a crucial and symbolic element.


That book became The Chain Tree.

Buy The Chain Tree for your Kindle!

Buy The Chain Tree at The Reader Store!

They’re out now in e-book form and I’m so excited! I wonder if others will find the legends of la Llorona and chupacabra as fascinating as I do. I hope so! If you have an e-reader, I hope you’ll give them a whirl and let me know your thoughts. I have a third story brewing based on yet another Mexican legend. Who knows, maybe two will become three: The Legends Trilogy.


Now, I have to go buy an e-reader so I can download my own books!


Happy e-reading!


~ MIsa

The Drive to Sell Books vs. Building Relationships, by Misa/Melissa

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Sometimes you meet an author that just makes you scratch your head and go, “Huh. Glad she thinks she’s all that, because her attitude and people skills sure leave a lot to be desired.”


Then you meet an author who is the complete opposite. She’s friendly, gracious, enthusiastic, approachable, and seems to *get* that writing books, like so many other things, is about building relationships.


Okay, here’s the story. I run Books on the House, as many of you know. The site is going amazingly well. 10,000+ total visitors per week. 24,000+ total page views per week. Fantastic authors have signed on to be featured and to promote their books. These include the phenomenal Sarah Addison Allen, Lori Wilde, Ridley Pearson (who often writes with Dave Barry), Allison Brennan, our own Susan McBride, Jane Yolen (children’s book superstar), and so many more. They come on, their books are featured, they are featured, and at the end of the week, they give away a few copies of their book to the lucky winners for the week (all randomly chosen). Readers find new-to-them authors and books. Authors find potential new readership. Exposure is huge. It’s win-win.


Well, a while back, I happened to be talking with a writer who happens to share my agent. I’ll call her Writer A. I mentioned to Writer A that she should think about coming on Books on the House. I’d do a big splash for her and give her some upgrades (camaraderie and all that, right? Same agent! Mutual friend! Just reaching out to her…).


Her response was immediate and so dismissive that I was honestly stunned. She said, curtly, I might add, “Thanks, but no thanks.” She’s made it a policy, she said, to never, ever give away free books.


This shocked me on a couple of levels. First, whether you’re a debut author or a multiple bestseller, I just think it’s a good idea to be friendly to other people. Life is all about building relationships. Without the people around us, the things in our life and what we go through cease to have meaning.


Being nice = good karma.




I didn’t care if this author came on Books on the House. I was simply offering her the opportunity, along with some freebies, because of our shared agent and a mutual friend. I know how hard it is to let readers know about your book which is why I created the site. I thought she might like exposure for her debut novel. She could have politely declined. Like I said, I didn’t care if she came on, I was just reaching out.


She could have handled it more professionally. She didn’t, and that rubbed me wrong.


The other issue I had with her response was her ‘policy’ to never give away a free book. SHOCKING!!! This business, now more than ever, is built on word of mouth. Authors receive FREE COPIES of their books for just this purpose. We should be giving them away to the press, to reviewers, and to avid readers in our target audience who will then spread the word. Again, good karma. This author’s philosophy is so vastly different from mine, I wanted to get other opinions. Your opinions Maybe I’m WAY off the mark.


I don’t think so, though. I come now to example 2. Hank Phillippi Ryan. Now, I admit, I haven’t read Hank’s books yet. I’ve had them on my ‘to buy’ list, but, shoot, there are, like 500 books on that list, and I don’t own a digital reading device yet, btw, so 500 books would take up WAY too much space.


But I digress.


Hank is on Books on the House right now. Her fourth book, Drive Time, just came out. When she contacted me, she was super enthusiastic, not about coming on my site to promote, but just about her books, about people discovering her books, and about making connections with readers. We talked on the phone and I liked her right off. She has that infectious personality that just makes you want to smile and spend time with her. I wish I could go visit Boston just to drop in on Hank!




Anyway, we worked together to come up with something different to really get people to interact on the site this week and boy has it been successful. First, we did a Skype interview (which is where I also discovered I REALLY respect Hank Phillippi Ryan). She’s smart, successful, driven, accomplished, caring, empathetic… I could go on, but I’ll leave you to watch the interview yourselves (Interview with Hank Phillippi Ryan Part 1 and Interview with Hank Phillippi Ryan Part 2). Did I mention she’s won, like, a boatload of Emmies for her investigative reporting? Warrior woman. I like it.


Hank wanted to do something fun for readers and to give many people the opportunity to win copies of her books. It wasn’t just about getting people to buy Drive Time. (On a side note, I’ve seen authors practically begging people to buy their books so they can keep writing. I cringe when I see this because, again, we have to build relationships FIRST and sell books SECOND.) Hank wants people to know about Charlotte McNally, her sleuth. She has something to say to her readers through her character and how better to introduce her character and books to people than by talking about them, loving them, and graciously giving away a few copies to avid readers? Actually, she’s giving away more than a few. One a day, plus a grand prize of the whole set. And she’s giving away a prize to commenters, something no one has done before on Books on the House. She’s interacting with the commenters, she’s talking to readers, and she’s building connections.


Her policy is to spread her books around, and I like that approach!


I tell you what, I was so enamored with Charlotte McNally (being of a certain age and trying to figure out what her future will be given her choice of career over romance) that I immediately went out and bought Prime Time, the first book Hank’s series.


Have I bought Writer A’s book? Nope. It sounds like it is a fun read, but I’ve not heard her talk about it, haven’t felt her love for her story or characters, and haven’t felt her love and respect for readers. All I’ve seen is her drive to sell books. Her ‘policy’ turned me off, quite frankly. She’s all about selling books, not building relationships.


Will I buy books from the other type of author I mentioned? Doubt it. I get that people want to write for a living. So do I. But when an author spends his or her time focusing on that, assuming that readers care whether or not he or she continues to write, I think they’re missing the point. How can they care when they’ve not read the author’s first book? And why will they read the first book if they know nothing about it, don’t feel his or her passion for the characters, their journey, or the themes he or she is compelled to write about? Again, all I’ve seen is a stifling drive to sell books, not build relationships with readers. I guess it can be a fine line, but it’s one I think authors need to be aware of.


I want to hear your thoughts. Should authors care more about building relationships with readers? As a reader, are you more drawn to an author who does this? As an author, how do you find balance between the drive to sell books and the desire to build relationships with readers?


Am I just plain loca?


Misa Ramirez/Melissa Bourbon

Pleating for Mercy, Excerpt

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Enjoy this excerpt from the up and coming Dressmaker’s Mystery,

Pleating for Mercy, from NAL, September 2011



Chapter 1


My great-grandmother, a feisty firecracker of a women named Loretta Mae Cassidy, had a way of getting just what she wanted. Whether it was a copy of the Sunday newspaper delivered right to her doorstep, a sneak preview of the newest arrivals at the big chain craft and fabric store in the neighboring town, or me, back in Bliss, Texas, you could lay money down that if she wanted it, it would happen…one way or another.


Yes, what Loretta Mae wanted, Loretta Mae got. The fact that she’d passed on six months ago hadn’t changed that. If you asked anyone in Bliss if they felt it was strange that Loretta Mae was still getting what she wanted, even though she’d gone to a better place, they’d say, “Heck no, that ain’t strange at all. You’re talkin’ ‘bout Loretta Mae. She’s a Cassidy, and those Cassidy women have always been a little touched, if you know what I mean.” And then there’d be a not-so-subtle wink because, of course, everyone in Bliss knew that every woman from the Cassidy family tree was, well, not insane like being ‘touched’ implies (the old timers in Bliss who kept this story alive tended to exaggerate), but just a bit…charmed.


We all had small ‘gifts’ that are, shall we say, inexplicable. But we’d all worked hard to stay on the down low. We didn’t want our own contemporary Texas version of the Salem Witch Trials.


I was the exception to the rule as I didn’t know what my gift was. Like every Cassidy from the beginning of time–or the beginning of Texas–whichever came first–Loretta Mae, who I’d always called Meemaw, was born and raised in Bliss. And she’d hated that I’d left. “Mark my words, Harlow Jane Cassidy. You can take the girl out of Texas, but you can’t take Texas out of the girl. What’s in Los Angeles that’s not in Bliss?” she asked when I announced that I was moving to California.


“A college with a degree in fashion design,” I said.


I saw the skepticism in her liquid blue eyes which were the mirror image of my own, but she kept quiet.


“What’s in New York that’s not in Bliss?” she asked after I’d left L.A. and moved into a rundown walkup in Manhattan, but her eyes had turned cloudy and she looked puzzled, as if her world had been shaken. “You’re chasing something you already have,” she added, as if I were Dorothy and only had to click my heels together three times to realize I already had the success of Stella McCartney.


She hadn’t gotten what she’d wanted then–me, back in Bliss–but I was here now. The old farmhouse just off the square at 2112 Mockingbird Lane looked different with my things added to what I’d kept of Meemaw’s. I lived on one side of the house and I’d turned the other half into my dressmaking studio and boutique. Buttons & Bows. The name was a tribute to Loretta Mae. Her collection of old buttons, bows, and ribbon took up an huge section of the attic. I’d spent a whole day marveling at the sheer volume of the collection, ignoring the rest of the attic, the one area of the house I hadn’t tackled. It stretched nearly the entire length of the house and was filled with a century’s worth of stuff. The discarded furniture and boxes could wait, but the antique buttons and ribbon, cording and lace?


They could not.


I’d spent my first weeks back in Bliss working on the house and visiting my family. My grandparents lived on a ranch on the outskirts of town. When I’d gone to visit, I’d found my granddaddy in the house. He’d grumbled, his silver hair tousled, his cowboy hat falling from his paunchy stomach to the floor as he shook away his sleepy fog. We played a game of gin rummy before his eyes started drooping again. Back in his recliner, he said about my grandmother, “She’s out with her goats,” and then he sank back into his dreams.


I’d found Nana in the barn tending to a premature kid who’d been born to a feisty goat. The mama goat didn’t want anything to do with her offspring so Nana was nursing it. “Happen across anything interesting in the old house?” she asked after a while.


I sat beside her as she fed the tiny goat from a baby’s bottle. I knew what she was really asking. “They don’t exist, Nana. That story’s nothing but legend.”


She stared at me like I’d gone and smacked the goat upside the head. “That story is fact.”


“It’s not fact. There’s nothing to prove it.”


“Yes there is, and it’s right under our noses.”


I shrugged. There was no point arguing with her. “Well, I haven’t seen anything.”


She huffed, batting a buzzing fly from its flight path around the kid’s face. She tilted her chin up and peered at me from under the rim of her tattered straw cowboy hat. “You listen here, Harlow Jane,” she said. “Butch Cassidy was your great-great grandfather. You carry his name, for pitty’s sake. We all do, no matter who we marry. Cassidy is who we are and don’t you never forget that.”


I’d heard the story a million times, but most of the time I thought it was pure fiction. “My great-great grandmother really rode with him?” I asked, as if I hadn’t posed the same question a hundred times over the years.


“She did, and she robbed her share of stage coaches,” Nana said. “Even a train in Colorado, I believe. Cressida Harlow, your namesake,” she added, as if I could forget I was named after a bandit and his alleged bride, “only stopped when she got pregnant.” The goat squirmed in my grandmother’s arms. She hunched over it, whispering in its ear until it stilled and began lapping at the oversized nipple on the bottle.


“But he died in Bolivia,” I said, skipping ahead in the story, but leaving out the fact that Cressida and Butch’s daughter, Texana, supposedly received a letter and some trinket from her father long after he’d supposedly died in South America.


Nana shook her head. “No!” The kid detached from the bottle and bleated. Nana gave me the stink eye as she spoke softly to the baby goat. She was a goat whisperer. That was her gift, not that it had served her any over the years. But it was what she did. She was like the pied piper of goats. “Sorry, my love.” After the kid quieted down and went back to the bottle, she said, “Your great-great granddaddy faked his death. He came back to the states. Settled in Washington.” She gestured with her hand, dismissing that part of the story. “Don’t matter where he lived. Only that he did and that he sent that letter to his daughter Texana and she passed it on to her daughter. Loretta Mae,” she added in case I’d forgotten the family lineage. “God a’mighty, I pray Meemaw didn’t go off and hawk it, or somethin’. Her mind was pretty loosy goosy at the end.”


“Well, I haven’t seen it,” I said again to appease her, “but I’ll be on the lookout.”


Later, as I sat in my workroom, hemming a pair of slacks, I thought of all the places Meemaw could have hidden a letter. A million, I decided. She was a clever old woman and she’d gone to her grave with the secret–if there was one–and it was likely we’d never know the truth.


I’d taken to talking to my great grandmother during the dull spots in my days. “Meemaw,” I said, “I wish you were here.” I had so many questions, and had missed so much being away from Bliss for the last fifteen years.


A breeze blew in through the screen, fluttering the butter yellow sheers that hung on either side of the window. A small part of me wondered if Meemaw could hear me from the spirit world. She’d wanted me back with her, after all. Was it so farfetched to think she’d be hanging around now that she’d finally gotten what she’d wanted?


Thanks to Meemaw, my life had done a complete 180 in the blink of an eye. Three months ago I’d been in New York helping to develop couture designer Maximilian’s low-end line. Now I had my own shop. What had been Loretta Mae’s dining room was now my cutting and work space. My five year old state of the art digital Pfaff sewing machine and Meemaw’s old Singer sat side by side on their respective sewing tables. An 8 foot long white-topped cutting table was pushed up against the wall, unused as of yet. High on my list of things to buy was a dress form. I’d never owned one since they’d been supplied by the design manufacturers I’d worked for. Now that I was on my own, I needed one.


I pulled a needle through the pant leg. Gripping the thick synthetic fabric sent a shiver through me akin to fingernails scraping down a chalkboard. Bliss, Texas was not a mecca of fashion; so far I’d been asked to hem polyester pants, shorten the sleeves of polyester jackets, and repair countless other polyester garments. No one had hired me to design matching mother and daughter couture frocks, create a slinky dress for a night out on the town in Dallas, or anything else remotely challenging or interesting.


“If things don’t turn around, I’m not going to be able to pay the property taxes,” I muttered, forgetting for the moment all the reasons I’d thought leaving New York had been a good idea.


A flash of something outside caught my eye. I looked past the french doors that separated my work space from what had been Meemaw’s gathering room and was now the boutique portion of Buttons & Bows. The window gave a clear view of the front yard, the wisteria climbing up the sturdy trellis archway, and the street beyond.


I sighed, disappointed. Whatever it was had gone and all was quiet again. As I finished the last stitch and tied off the thread, the front door flung open. The bells I’d attached to a ribbon and hung from the knob danced in a jingling frenzy. I jumped, startled, dropping the slacks, but clutching the needle.


A woman stepped into the boutique. Her dark hair was pulled up in the back into a messy, but trendy, bun and I noticed that her eyes were red and tired looking despite the heavy makeup she wore. She had on jean shorts, a snap front top that she’d gathered and tied in a knot below her breastbone, and wedge-heeled shoes. With her thumbs crooked in her back pockets and rotating one foot in and out at the ankle, she reminded me a little too much of Daisy Duke–with a muffin top.


Except for the Gucci bag slung over her shoulder. I’d lay money down that the purse was the real deal and had cost more than two thousand dollars, or I wasn’t Harlow Jane Cassidy.


Hasta la Vista, Lola!, Excerpt

/in /by


This passage is ripped from the pages of Hasta la Vista, Lola!, the second Lola Cruz Mystery from St. Martin’s Minotaur.

Enjoy!



* * *


Chapter 1

I can’t even begin to count the number of times my grandmother told me that she would die a happy woman if only I’d join the Order of the Benedictine Sisters of Guadalupe and live a chaste and holy life.

To which I always nodded, smiled, and said, “I want you to die happy, Abuela, pero I’m not going to become a nun.” There were several problems with me and a pious life. If you asked my mother, she’d say I’d sinned over and over and over again, beginning with premarital intercourse [which she suspected but had no actual proof of], and ending with my job. In my mother’s eyes, being a detective necessitates questionable actions and an ‘ends justifies the means’ philosophy.

Which is not actually my philosophy. I do things by the book, and let my conscience be my guide. I was God-fearing so I tried to toe the line, but I was also a driven, independent woman walking a tightrope between modern American culture and my parents’ old-fashioned male-oriented Spanish culture so my conscience didn’t always know which way to go when I hit a fork in the road.

Case in point. It was a brisk Friday night, downtown Sacramento was lit up with twinkling white lights, I was all dressed up, and even though I had no one to go salsa dancing with, joining those crazy Benedictine Sisters still never entered my mind. The nuns might enjoy their celibacy, but I was one hundred percent positive that I wouldn’t embrace a lifetime of abstinence. Hell, I’d just spent the better part of two hours photographing acrobatic sex in a back ally [which had left me un poquito hot and bothered]–all in the name of being the best private investigator I could possibly be–and I was okay with my decision.

I was almost to Camacho and Associates, the small PI firm where I worked. I dialed Reilly Fuller, the Jill-of-all-trades secretary of the office–and my homegirl. I wanted to go out dancing tonight and I knew I could count on her to have my back.

She picked up on the third ring, breathing heavy and almost out of breath. “Lola!”

“Hey, chica. How’d you know it was me?”

“Call waiting.”

I frowned. The phone company had effectively destroyed kids’ innocent prank call fun–not to mention obsessed stalker-girls calling and hanging up on a guy just to hear his voice [not that I’d had any experience with that type of juvenile behavior].

“Lola, I’m in the middle of something,” she said. She panted. “I’ll call you back, okay?”

I’d never known Reilly to willingly break a sweat, so I was curious. I checked the time. 8:40. An odd time to be using the treadmill–if that’s what she was up to. “Are you exercising?”

But electric blue-haired Reilly couldn’t answer me because she’d already hung up.

Huh. My long night loomed ahead of me and dancing wasn’t going to be part of it. Looked like it was going to be me, a container of Mapo Tofu from Schezwan House (my favorite restaurant of all time, coincidentally right next door to Camacho and Associates), my camera hooked up to the office computer, and a whole lot of sex pictures uploading. One at a time.

I turned onto Alhambra and immediately spotted my boss’s truck in the parking lot. I slid my little red CRV into a space right beside it. Apparently Manny Camacho didn’t have plans for Friday night, either. Hard to believe. He was puro Latino machismo Greek God material–dark and brooding and scary in an I-could-do-things-to-you-and-make-you-scream-for-mercy kind of way.

I couldn’t help sneaking a quick peek in the rearview mirror. Low cut filmy dress, Victoria’s Secret Ipex cleavage, clear olive skin, salon-highlighted copper strands framing face, MAC O lips. I would not be put out to pasture because of a roguishly sexy reporter who disappeared for days on end and who I did not want to think about right now.

I grabbed my cell phone, the Nikon, my note pad with the Zimmerman case information, and my new favorite accessory– courtesy of Ebay–my Sexy Señorita drawstring bag. Shoving the notepad into the coral-colored purse, I headed toward the office.

In your face, Callaghan. I had options. Dark and brooding suddenly held a new appeal.

Just as I reached the office, Manny pushed open the door. “Dolores?”

My wedge heels teetered on a crack in the sidewalk. Maybe appeal was the wrong word. Dark fascination? Sadistic curiosity?

Fact is, Manny flustered me without even trying. Not many people could do that. I’d solved my first big case as primary investigator a few months ago. I chided myself. It was way past time to get over the nerves that shot through me when I was around him.

He looked at his watch, then back at me. “¿Que onda? Are you working?”

I nodded. “The Zimmerman case.”

He held the door, apparently waiting for me to continue.

I held up my camera. “Got some great pictures.” Especially if I had contacts at Playboy or Penthouse, which, unfortunately, I didn’t.

“Pictures of–?”

“Of Mrs. Zimmerman, um, making-out with her personal yoga instructor.” Making out might have been understating Mrs. Zimmerman’s activities, but it was the safest answer.

“How’d you get them?”

“I followed them after yoga class.”

Manny’s eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down. “Are you supposed to be undercover?”

My dress was a far cry from yoga-wear, but there was nothing wrong with in looking good on a surveillance job. “They changed after class then went to dinner. Lucky for me I’m a yoga junkie and very flexible–” Maybe not as flexible as Mrs. Zimmerman, but her sexual creativity was in a class by itself– “and have decent cargo room in my car.”

Manny seemed to ponder this, his expression unreadable. “And the photos?” he finally asked.

“After dinner they went around the corner from the restaurant.” Totally classless. Who screw–er, got down and dirty–out in public? “I was across the street. Excellent telephoto capabilities on this camera, by the way.”

He let the door to the office close while I accessed the pictures on the digital camera. I froze when his arm brushed against my back. The touch had been as light as a breath, but any physical contact from Manny Camacho could send a woman into premature orgasm. He moved behind me to look over my shoulder. A zing shot through my body and I gulped. Looking at X-rated pictures with my boss was muy uncomfortable.

I tried not to think about how flexible he might be and whether his slight limp or his cowboy boots would interfere with the Kama Sutra position in photographs three, twenty-seven or thirty-one.

When we’d gone through all the pictures, I stepped away, trying to ignore the charged silence. “Open and shut,” I said. “She’s clearly cheating on her husband.”

“Good work.” His voice sounded strained. I shoved aside the idea that it might be because of the photos, particularly what Mrs. Zimmerman had been doing in shots ten through eighteen.

My PI gene kicked in. Why didn’t he have plans on a Friday night? He had the hottest girlfriend this side of the Rio Grande. Maybe this side of anywhere. Her only competition was the phantom ex-wife who nobody had ever laid eyes on.

Neither were in sight. “You’re here late,” I said casually. “Where’s Isabel?” I pronounced the name in Spanish: Ee-sa-bel.

“Not here.” The corner of his mouth notched up. “Where’s Callaghan?”

There was a good chance that Manny Camacho, ex-cop-turned-super-detective-who-seemed-to-know-everything, knew exactly where Jack Callaghan. Then again, maybe not. He wasn’t psychic, after all, and I hadn’t let on that Jack had been MIA for almost a week now. “Not here,” I said, then quickly changed the subject. “I’m going to upload the photos and write my report for Mr. Zimmerman.” Which brought to mind something else. “I’m ready for a new case.”

Manny pressed a button on his key ring. Two beeps sounded from his truck, a white, lifted kick-ass 4×4. It wasn’t the most unobtrusive vehicle on the road in Sacramento, but it certainly had style. “The report can wait until Monday. We’ll talk about the caseload then.”

I started to stick my phone into my purse and to retrieve my set of office keys. The straps slipped off my shoulder and the bag fell. Manny was right. Uploading the pictures could wait till Monday, but since I had nothing better to do tonight, there was no reason to put it off. “I like to finish what I start,” I said as I bent down to grab the straps of my bag. “I’ll do the report tonight.”

As I straightened, he gave me another slow once over. “Callaghan’s a fool.”

A shiver swept up my spine and I shifted uncomfortably. Reality bit me. I didn’t think I could cross the line into fraternizing with my boss after all and I certainly wasn’t ready to write Jack off, even if he had a few secrets and the annoying habit of disappearing. He probably had a very good reason for dropping off the face of the earth. Again.

He’d better, damn it.

“Dolores.”

“Hmm?”

“I said you’re going to break your phone.”

I started. He had? I was? I loosened the death grip on the device, but dropped my purse in the process. “I, um, need to call my mother. See if she needs anything.”

“¿Por qué, mi poderosa? ¿Qué pasa?”

Ay, ay, ay. Manny had taken to calling me “strong woman”. Now he was calling me his strong woman? I gulped and stumbled back a step. I might be a good Catholic girl, but I wasn’t immune to temptation. “She’s home sick. I, um, think I should buy her some medicine and Ginger ale.”

“Can I help?”

Manny as nurturer? It didn’t compute. “No, no, no!” I just wanted to go upload the Zimmerman pics and go home to my empty flat. Above my parents’ house. That I shared with my brother. “I mean, I’m fine. I can handle it.”

He pressed the button on his key ring again, reactivating the truck alarm. “I have some more work I can do. I’ll stay with you.”

My hackles went up. I thought about jabbing him in the chest and reminding him that my Salma Hayek curves didn’t mean I wasn’t Xena, Warrior Princess, through and through. I didn’t need a protector–or a babysitter.

Thankfully–since it wouldn’t have been a good idea to chastise my boss–or touch his chest–I was stopped by the sound of a horn blaring behind us. A sporty silver Volvo pulled into the parking lot. Jack! My heart immediately slammed in my chest and I caught my breath. ¡Mi amor!

He stepped out of his car, all tousled brown hair and swarthy Irish complexion. His gaze swept over me and an angry dimple pulled his cheek in. My heart lurched again. I could imagine what he thought. I was dressed for a night on the town and Manny wore black and gray, his burnished skin and onyx eyes contemplating Jack with harsh scrutiny.

I took a small step to the side, putting space between Manny and me. No need to stoke the fire.

Not that it mattered, I reminded myself. Jack had up and left for a week–without a word. If he had issues with Manny, that was his problem. You snooze, you lose. I side-stepped back to where I’d been.

“Hasta la vista, Dolores.” Manny’s voice had turned gruff.

“Right. See you later.”

His black alligator-skin cowboy boots clapped unevenly against the sidewalk as he walked to his truck.

Jack came toward me. He dipped his head in an almost imperceptible nod at Manny as they passed, and then his eyes flicked to the bodice of my dress.

They lingered and his face tightened, not in the I want to ravish you kind of way I would have liked, but more in a what the hell are you wearing around him kind of way.

Catching my reflection in the window pane, I immediately saw what had caught his attention. It was my 34Cs–in the midst of a wardrobe malfunction. My dress was askew and part of my right breast plumped out of my demi bra. ¡Ay caramba! No wonder Manny had given me a slow burning look after I’d picked up my purse.

I straightened it as Manny pulled out of the parking lot. Shit! Manny had gotten an eye-full of my assets, and he hadn’t uttered a word.

From the way Jack looked from me to Manny’s truck and back, I suspected that he was thinking the same thing. “Purple, huh?” he said when he steadied his gaze back on me. His voice had that low, sexy tone that created instant yearning in the pit of my soul.

“It’s called Lavender Ice,” I said cooly.

“For him?”

“Well, it’s not like you’ve been around, Callaghan.” I ran my hands down my front in full temptress mode. Jack’s gaze smoldered as it followed my actions. Slow torture. God, sometimes it was so good to be a woman.

…

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