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Goodness how delicious, eatin’ goober peas.”

[Confederate Civil War Song--Eating Goober Peas]

This blog is in honor of our character Grayson “Gray” Trent, whose nickname at Stanford was Goober.

Long before George Washington Carver discovered a thousand uses for the peanut, it was a staple of Southern food. During the Civil War (or as we sometimes call it, the War Against Northern Aggression), when other food became scarce, Southerners used ground peanuts mixed with chicory instead of coffee or ate them in place of beans.

Those of you used to roast peanuts at the ballpark or peanuts fried in oil in a can may not have heard of traditional Southern peanuts boiled in brine. I was introduced to them by a co-worker when I lived in Los Angeles, but didn’t learn how they were made until recently.

My first batch turned out way too salty for me, so I’ve adjusted the recipe, but the longer the peanuts boil, the saltier they become regardless of recipe. I use a crock pot, but I’ve given alternate instructions for a stock pot.

Alyssa Lyons’ Southern Boiled Peanuts

32-40 oz. green (meaning raw) peanuts in the shell

½ cup kosher salt (the kind used for sprinkling on pretzels or crackers)

Water

1. In a large stock pot or a large crock pot, pour ½ cup kosher salt (fine ground salt doesn’t work as well).

2. Rinse the green peanuts in the shell in a colander and put in the pot on top of the salt.

3. Pour water into the pot until it is full to the brim. Green peanuts in the shell will float at first.

4. Cover the pot and bring to a boil or set the crock pot to High.

5. Boil on the stove for three to four hours, or overnight in the crock pot. Every hour or so, use a slotted spoon to bring the bottommost peanuts to the top and let the upper ones drop. After the peanut shells become saturated they will sink.

6. Drain the peanuts and store in the refrigerator. Finished peanut meats will be the consistency of steamed fresh peas or edamame beans. They will keep in the fridge for a week or so, provided they last that long.

7. Shell and eat. Be sure to have a napkin or paper towels with you because there will be brine trapped inside the shells and you will get wet.

I like my boiled peanuts right as they come from the shell in just a salt brine. Some of us Southerners add Old Bay or Cajun seasoning or anise seed to the salt. As for eating them, a favorite among many is to throw their shelled boiled peanuts in a glass of Coca Cola, which is how my husband likes them.

All you need is a palmetto fan, a rocking chair or front porch swing and a pot to toss the shells and you are ready for settin’ on the front porch of a summer eve, and sharin’ some juicy gossip while you munch on good ol’ Southern boiled goobers. Enjoy!

No, it was a visit from the Blue Angels, the US Navy flight demonstration team. For three days before their Saturday performance, you heard thunder rolling overhead. Since we’ve been having thunderstorms on and off for the last two weeks, it was an easy mistake. But a friend, the Accounts Receivables Manager at a local Internet Service Provider, looked out her office window Thursday afternoon and saw the pilots running practice drills before the Lynchburg Air Show, May 21-22 at the Regional Airport.

My husband and I were two of at least ten thousand visitors who paid to watch from the airport. Many found shade under the convenient wing of a small private plane. According to our friends, I looked like their six-year-old as I watched the pilots perform feats of daring. The photos are stock because my poor camera couldn’t catch the wonder. Okay, I was too busy watching with my mouth open to take the camera out of my satchel.

Four of the planes flew in synchronized formations, looping, rolling, and turning like airborne Rockettes. Two other planes played what looked like a game of chicken, just barely missing each other as the audience gasped in awe and I wished I were up there with them.

Then there were the two planes flying on top of one another with their landing gear down. I also lost it over this exploit. One was tearing through the air on its back. The other was right side up. To me it looked like their gear was touching the other plane. Think gymnasts balancing one another. One’s on his back, his feet and arms are in the air. The other is resting on the arms and legs but has his limbs touching the person supporting him. It was thrilling, terrifying, awe-inspiring.

Naval aviators really have the right stuff.

The Bealeton Flying Circus added thrills from another time, performing aerial drills in biplanes more like the days of Eddie Rickenbacker and Baron von Richthofen. Wing-walkers, like barnstormers of the 1920’s, spent more time outside the cockpit than in it. Parachuters and trick flyers rounded out the weekend’s festivities.

Later that evening, we had dinner at the Olive Garden when groups of people poured into the restaurant. Everyone was happy and excited, but also sunburned from eighty degree temperatures and hazy sunshine. (Note to self: Next year, wear a hat with a brim, carry a golf umbrella, and bring SPF 50 sunscreen. Oh, and plenty of water.)

I can see Gray and Paul, one of the young runaways from Clubbed to Death, attending a Boys’ Day Out to the Air Show armed with a two liter bottle of Libby’s sweet tea. What a thrill for a local boy.

Lillian Jackson Braun and Rita Mae Brown both use cats effectively in their mysteries. Ms. Braun’s cat acts like a real cat, not having any inner monologue, but putting itself in situations that draw attention to clues for its sometimes oblivious human. Whereas, Ms. Brown’s Sneaky Pie Brown acts as a credited co-writer and has segments where he carries the narrative along.

WC Fields once warned against appearing in an act that includes animals or children. They tend to steal the show.

I’ve let Muffin be as close to a real dog as I can manage. He’s small and friendly, terrified of cats, and leads Jordan into dangerous situations because she is very protective of him.

In Last Wishes, Muffin and Jordan’s interaction tells us more about her than a thousand words extolling her virtues. Muffin seldom leaves her side, even when she’s riding her Triumph motorcycle. He rides inside a special cage and wears specially made helmet and red leather jacket with black embossed lettering—Born to Ride.

On the other hand, BB, who you will meet in Clubbed to Death, which will be released May 12th, is large and imperious. In case you’ve never seen one, Maine Coons are large cats, and BB outweighs Muffin, try twice as heavy and larger. He is as likely to strut off with his tail in the air as he is to seek the affection of others—yet he is a sucker for a scratch between his ears or a warm lap to crowd as he sleeps.

Like most cats, BB finds the hyperactive Muffin a nuisance.

BB is the perfect counterpart for Gray. Cats are lower maintenance than dogs, ideal for a judge used to keeping long hours. Gray would never tolerate an uncontrolled roamer, so an imperial cat who is leash trained is right up his alley. Yes, BB, ever the gentleman, enjoys his evening strolls.

How people treat animals says a lot about them. The murderer in Last Wishes, when unable to attack Jordan, uses an attack on Muffin as a substitute. By contrast, Kiki, one of the characters in Clubbed to Death, is willing to risk Jordan’s wrath by sneaking human food to Muffin in spite of repeated warnings.

Yet don’t be fooled. That old saw that says you can tell a lot about a person by how they treat animals and children, isn’t true. Many a killer has had a beloved pet and been the perfect next door neighbor. So while the killer in Last Wishes was cruel to Muffin, another one might be the veterinarian or the kindly, old cat lady down the street.

Let’s say hello, Sylvia.

Alyssa:  How long have you been writing?

Sylvia:  I began writing newspaper articles when I was nine years old as a reporter for our 4-H club. A reporter from a local newspaper, Bob Roberts, gave workshops for writing news articles. He encouraged me to go beyond, and to write other community news articles and feature stories. By the time I was twelve years old, I was getting a monthly check for my articles.

Alyssa:  How did you pick the genre you write in?

Sylvia:  Actually, I did not pick a special genre, I have a story to tell, and I tell it. I guess you may say I am unclassified in that way. I have published poetry, short stories, children’s stories, and mystery/suspense. I have also had several research articles published in professional journals. Most of these are in the field of communication.

Alyssa:  Do you plot or do you write by the seat of your pants?

Sylvia:  It depends. Sometimes, I do a little of both. I have an idea for a story. I create my main characters so that I know them very well. I have an idea of the plot, and I begin from there. As the various character come into the scene, I find that often they take over the story. Sometimes, I feel as if I am just the typist who records what is happening. The origin of the novel, An Underground Jewell, actually began with a short story. The more I was aware of what was happening to language in our society, the more I wanted to do with the story.

Alyssa: Describe your book.

Sylvia:  An Underground Jewell, a mystery/suspense novel is about a woman who, because of a longevity experiment that only worked on her, has lived longer than any other person alive. She is an author who has seen the manipulation of language. She writes a short story about Christmas that incorporates her beliefs of future possibility. In the process of uploading it to the central database, she triggers an alarm that results in her being accused by the CIA of hacking the system. In order to clear herself, she must enlist her family and friends to help her. Little does she know that there is a terrorist cyber plot to control Western society.

Alyssa:  I am curious, why the story in An Underground Jewell revolves around manipulation of language?

Sylvia:  My study of the change in language and how it effects our perception of reality was impetus for this story. This manipulation of language escalated after the Korean War. Since that time, there is doublespeak in all areas of our society, and the push for politically correctness has gone beyond to create a reality of what never was.

Alyssa:  Was this your first novel?

Sylvia:  Yes, this is my first novel. When I started it, it was story that evolved into something beyond what I had imagined. However, my first book was a book of poetry. I have had numerous stories and poetry published in literary magazines. I am now working a new novel. It is titled, Dark Crystals of Miradirth.

Alyssa:  What do you know that you wished you knew before you were published?

Sylvia:  Writing a novel is the easy part. Getting your work published is difficult if you are an unknown. Whether you are published by a traditional publisher or self-published, what takes the most work is the publicity and marketing.

Alyssa:  What was the best writing advice someone gave you?

Sylvia:  To write every day and do not ever give up on yourself.

Alyssa:  What is your favorite thing about your book, An Underground Jewell?

Sylvia:  It highlights the manipulation of language for power and the crimes hidden by those in control are exposed about a female sleuth. The plot has its twists and turns, and just about the time you think you know who the villains are; someone new is added to the mix.

An Underground Jewell is available online in trade paperback and eBook format at Amazon

I’ve also written books of poetry. One, an adult book titled Pulse Points of a Woman’s World, and a children’s book called, MeriChild Land.

Visit Sylvia at her website, blog, and Facebook

The Promotion of Emotions By: Kerri Nelson

As women, we are often defined by our emotions. Men tend to think of us as “too emotional” or those who wear their “heart on their sleeves.” Or they just blame our moodiness on PMS!

Have you ever been accused of over-reacting to a situation? Have you ever been accused of using tears to get your way? While I, as a strong 21^st century woman, believe that using our “feminine wiles” is an old school notion—I don’t deny their effectiveness.

But when it comes to our books, how do we express the emotions of our characters? Sure, we can say that our hero is angry or that our heroine is embarrassed. But how can we express it better and make it a more powerful experience for the reader?

As writers, we are sometimes instructed to “show versus tell” and that can be best explained by showing some examples:

Telling: Charles was angry.

Showing: Charles clenched his fists by his side, a menacing scowl on his face.

Telling: Evelyn was embarrassed.

Showing: A blush crept up her cheeks, heating her face as she planned her hasty retreat.

If you’re a writer, how would you describe the emotion you’re feeling right now? Perhaps your bored, busy, distracted, or depressed (from that recent rejection letter)?

Leave a comment and use your best “telling” skills to describe your current emotion and I’ll choose the best one and give away a FREE month of cover ad promotion at my Book Boost Blog

If you’re a reader, would you say that you enjoy books that make you laugh, books that stir your deepest internal fears, or books that touch you emotionally and provoke a tear or two? Give us an example of a book that has really made you emotional.

I’ll choose one reader winner’s answer and send you a Box of Books (various authors—a surprise grab box)! I have a ton of them and feel like sharing my overstock with you.

Winners selected on Monday, April 4^th. Please leave your contact information if you want to win.

In the meantime, my latest book entitled Double Take is a whirlwind of emotions. Take a kidnapping, a first love, a dreaded high school reunion, and mix it with the death of a loved one. Talk about emoting!

Double Take Blurb:

After growing up the laughing stock of the town drunk and humiliated by the hottest guy in school, Kennedy Wolfe planned on never stepping foot in Greece, New York again.

Now a highly decorated agent for the FBI, Kennedy learns of the abduction of her best friend from high school. The news comes just days after the invitation to her class reunion was received and tossed.

Despite her better judgment, she can’t resist the urge to take on a case that would show her classmates once and for all what she’s really made of.

Damon Divine is the unbeatable District Attorney and he’s dead set on finding those responsible for abducting his twin sister.  But when the beautiful Agent Wolfe comes to town, he knows the kidnappers won’t be the only ones on her hit list.

After all, standing up a girl on senior prom night is not something she’s likely forgotten.

Now available from Evernight Publishing. Click to read an excerpt or purchase

Kerri’s website is:  Kerri Nelson and a must see is her industry blog You can also follow her on Twitter

Kerri Nelson has always been passionate about reading books but when she wrote her first poem in the second grade, she discovered her love of writing. At the age of sixteen, she became a columnist for her local newspaper as the high school correspondent for the weekly “Panther Tales” column. She won the Outstanding Young Journalist of the Year Award for her efforts.

After an education and career in the legal field, Kerri began to pen romantic suspense novels with a legal or law enforcement theme. She is a true southern belle and comes complete with her dashing southern gentleman husband and three adorable children. When she’s not reading or writing, you’ll find her baking homemade goodies for her family.

Kerri is an active member of Romance Writers of America as well as numerous Chapters including Celtic Hearts Romance Writers and Futuristic Fantasy & Paranormal Writers. She is a multi-published author currently under contract for her sixteenth novel.

Keep in mind that in the South a lot of business is via the old-boy-system. Contacts and friends—along with gossip—are our life’s blood. When someone tells you where they went to college, it immediately cues you to their social status, education, network, and expectations.

Central Virginia Community College (CVCC) is part of the Virginia Community College system and a good school for medical fields such as pharmacy technician and respiratory therapist as well as a great place to spend two years preparing to transfer to a four-year college or university. I went there to become a pharmacy technician and to get my Class A Contractor’s license. (Yes, I’ve held a variety of jobs over the years. As I once told a date, I know three facts about most things and can talk about anything. Not that I’d let lack of knowledge stand in my way.)

While it isn’t the largest college in town, Randolph College which began life as Randolph-Macon Women’s College (RMWC) and is known as a liberal arts college. Because of its origin as an all women’s institution, there are strong departments in the classics, mathematics and sciences, most notably environmental science. They are also famous for their annual Greek play, bringing ancient classics to the local stage. RMWC is where Jordan along with Gray’s mother and godmother, graduated. It’s mentioned in the books and helped create the independent women found in the series.

Lynchburg College is a highly respected liberal arts school. Its primary focus is on liberal arts, education, nursing, and business. It also has a respected choir and music program. In recent years, it has added graduate programs in education, nursing, physical therapy and business. Many of its graduates stay in town and start businesses.

We still have a two-year nursing program at Lynchburg General School of Nursing,  a self-contained program whose campus is divided between Lynchburg General and Virginia Baptist Hospitals. Fireball’s fiancée got her RN here before continuing on to get her four-year degree at Lynchburg College.

The smallest institution in town is Virginia University of Lynchburg. A seminary, it was originally established to train African-Americans for the ministry. They also teach sociology and rely on the town’s Rabbi to teach Hebrew and the Jewish view of the Bible.

But the largest and the one with the most economic impact is Liberty University. Originally Lynchburg Baptist College, under the direction of the late Reverend Jerry Falwell (yes, that one), it has developed into a large university. It focuses on Southern Baptist values, but it has schools of nursing, theology, and teaching. Their law school is newly accredited and their graduates have a high rate of passing the bar on the first try.

Throw in Sweet Briar College in nearby Amherst County, which has survived as an all women’s college, and you have a lot of higher education in a very small area.

Now, if only we could find a way to keep the children here after they graduate…

The largest was the Craddock-Terry Shoe Company. It was founded in 1888, and at its peak, was the fifth largest shoe manufacturer in the world, producing everything from women’s shoes to combat boots. When I say large, I mean a 100,000 pairs per day. The main factory space was along the James, built from locally-produced and fired bricks. You will find many of these bricks used as pavers throughout the eight historic districts.

As with many companies, costs drove the shoe industry out of the United States and the Craddock-Terry Shoe Company went out of business. For decades, the buildings sat vacant and deteriorating. Commerce Street down to the waterfront took on the look of a war zone, with crumbling buildings serving as pigeon roosts.

All that changed when Lynchburg finally decided to save itself. As part of the city’s redevelopment efforts, the old Commerce Street factory, still owned by the Craddock-Terry family, decided to turn the moldering building into a hotel and convention center. Architect Hal Craddock, great-grandson of the company’s founder, led this charge. He incorporated two shoe factory buildings and the adjacent King/Imperial Tobacco Company storage and drying facility.

It took five years to replace weather and termite damage and refit the space as a hotel. It’s small and intimate compared to larger chain hotels usually found in cities of Lynchburg’s size. In the lobby is the original fireproof safe from the factory, an early 20th Century shoeshine chair, plus examples of shoes produced over the years, from high-button shoes to strappy sandals to riding boots.

Every sleeping room door has a hand-painted reproduction of a shoe style the factory produced. The hallways and sleeping rooms have exposed brick and wooden beam ceilings from the original factory fittings. There are two on-site restaurants. The one on the bottom level of the hotel facing Jefferson Street is the Waterstone. In my opinion, they make the best pizzas and salads in town. They also have an upscale microbrewery. Jordan and her best friend, Fireball, are well acquainted with Waterstone and its potent potable.

Beside the hotel’s main entrance is Shoemaker’s Grille, a great place to eat. Too rich for Fireball’s blood, but Gray enjoys it. He says it reminds him of restaurants in San Francisco.

It is a tribute to the city that instead of continuing to let the riverfront area disintegrate, they have chosen to rebuild. In the coming months, I’ll introduce you to some other special spots in downtown and the surrounding area.

The front view of the Craddock-Terry Hotel

It’s not perfect writing, folks, as it has been many years since the event happened and I first wrote about it. This depicts the events of that evening according to the research I did at City Hall. Interestingly enough, Douglas Wilder, later elected first African American governor of Virginia, was a defense attorney in this case.

Being a student on the campus at the time, I can tell you we were scared, especially since many of us had metal fire ladders up to our windows. We liked to think of the landings as balconies. But, with the advent of a murder, not so much. As for what we felt like, we were scared for a nanosecond. At that age, fear doesn’t last long.

It’s not perfect writing, folks, as it has been many years since written, but it depicts the events from that evening. Please note conclusions of what was going through Standaly’s mind were interjected by the press and court testimony, and then interpreted by me. Here is the account:

It happened in early spring, the actual murder occurring just inside the brick walls of what was then Randolph-Macon Woman’s College. Cynthia Hellman, the daughter of the Hellman Mayonnaise millionaire, was found dead with her face up against a steam pipe outside the science building. Many years ago, I wrote a partial write-up of the events pieced from court documents. At that time, I was allowed in the back to review the records including some extremely gruesome photos of the victim.

Stan stood on his front porch and stared into space. Nothing had worked out the way he planned. His wife and kids were in New Jersey, and he was here. The job at the Post Office hadn’t worked out. He had kept the job at Vaughan’s Chevrolet longer. But, after all, he had been a Machinist in the Air Force. Even when he tried to go back to school, they had discriminated against him. He knew he deserved better grades than they had given him.

Now, standing on the porch, he knew it wasn’t his fault. It was all of those narrow-minded small-town middle-class Southern Baptist bigots that had caused everything. He needed a way to get his vengeance. Even his own family didn’t understand him. They had signed involuntary committal papers twice, sending him away to Central State for evaluation. Thank God, the professionals realized the truth—he wasn’t crazy.

No one spent enough time to try to get to know him. His religion was all he had. That, and the little voice that had begun to come to him at dusk. “Go, ahead. Do it. Show her. Show them. You owe it to yourself.” The time would come soon. He could feel it.

He had known it the minute he saw her. She was one of those bitches! A girl with long auburn curls, clad simply in her red and black shirt, slacks, and clogs, enter the 7-11. They were always on his street laughing, running around in sheets, going to the Dahlia for their stupid initiations. They were always making fun of him, telling him not to go into the Cellar or some redneck would beat him up! He was 6’ 4”, a sturdy 198 pounds, a lean, mean fighting machine! He had nicknamed himself “Big Stan,” and sooner or later he’d enter the Dahlia and show those assholes just who they were dealing with.

But first, he had to stop the pointing fingers, the laughs, the stuck-up, rich Randy-Mac bitches. He had tried once up at old Ruffner School. Another blond-haired wench was trying to do her duty by helping out the “poor little black kids.” She didn’t know anything about his people. She didn’t know anything about his street. Why couldn’t they all stay away? If that damn Dahlia weren’t there, they wouldn’t be infringing on his territory.

The Dahlia didn’t even encourage men of his color to come in anymore the way he used to when he was 18. The new owner was catering to the college kids, setting up a band downstairs every Wednesday night, Wonderful Wednesday for the Randy-Mac girls and also on weekends.

Well, he had spotted the little red-headed high-and-mighty, and this one was going to pay!

Standaly decided the best way to follow her was to go behind the 7-11, walk down Cleveland Avenue, and wait for her next to the Lexington Apartments. She wouldn’t make it past Randee’s Restaurant! Then he would show her how strong he was–prove to her that he couldn’t be laughed at! The rest of them would leave him and Bedford Avenue alone. He would see to it.

Poised at the top of Elmwood Avenue, Standaly looked up at the tower of St. John’s Church. Cars were milling around this Sunday evening, but no one really noticed him. He felt secure, as he blended with the twilight. But the bitch stood out like a neon light with her long auburn hair. He saw her round the corner from Bedford Avenue and approach his hiding place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cynthia walked slowly around the corner of Bedford. The air was slightly cool and clean, the promise of spring on its breath. The day had been beautiful, and she really didn’t mind walking all the way down to the 7-11. King’s Grocery Store always closed early on Sunday evenings, so if she wanted some munchies, she had to walk. All was very quiet, except for a few strains of organ music from the church down the block. All of the stores were closed on the Avenue on Sundays. After all, she was in the middle of the Bible Belt! It seemed like another planet compared to her hometown of Houston, Texas.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a large fleeting shadow. She increased her step, but the clogs were cumbersome for fast walking–or running. She knew someone was watching her. But where? As she crossed to the parking lot next to Pearson’s Drug, she saw a black man cross from the bushes. She was sure she was being followed.

Cynthia tried to run, but the shoes wouldn’t let her. She slipped them off and tucked them under her arm, trying to hold onto her bag in the other hand. He was gaining on her. She began to sprint in her stocking-feet. Maybe the barber was in his shop around the corner. The campus was so close! Surely she could make it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Charlie walked through the fragrant early evening dew around the corner of East Hall and started down the path to construction site for the new Physical Education Building. The air was humid, but cooling down after another record-breaking day of Lynchburg weather. Charlie took his job with the Pinkerton Agency very seriously. Sometimes it was fun. All of the college students had adopted him. He was the campus Teddy Bear, kind of chubby, but still very competent. They called all of the guards Pinkies, but he was different. Of course, he stretched the rules for some of them, helping them back into the dorms after closing hours, holding them up as they weaved back from the Pines after an evening of over-imbibing an yet another UVA fraternity party. He’d waited for more than one student while she puked her brains out, and then guided her back to the entrance of her dorm.

Tonight was a typical quiet Sunday evening. Most of the girls had returned from their roll down the road to the University of Virginia or to Washington & Lee. His walkie-talkie went off, paging him that there was a reported scream from down in the general vicinity of Martin Science Building. Charlie retraced his steps from behind East and crossed between the overhead trolley that held East and Main together.

As he walked down the hill next to the well-manicured lawn of front campus, he heard nothing but a still calm. The enveloping heavy fog enshrouded the overhead lights, creating an aurora of color above. The warm spring day became eerie night.

As he approached Martin, he felt an involuntary shiver shoot up his spine. He had never been afraid of exploring this campus before. How silly! He walked in front of the building, circling its right border into the naturally wooded area next to the school’s brick wall that bordered Norfolk Avenue.

The air began to fall heavier around his shoulders. He felt like a dead weight, an unwelcome demon, had settled upon him. Still no noises confronted him as made his way behind the science building. He thought he saw a figure across the wall. But the wall was too high to view the facing street.

Charlie continued toward the pride and joy of Martin, the botanical portion complete with a cross-section of flora and fauna inside its protective greenhouse. Still there were no signs of trouble. He stepped next to the greenhouse, just avoiding a small foot, partially obscured by the greenery. Her body was small as well, the stockings obliterated at the toes, almost flapping on the ankles. The leg showed signs of beatings, bruises, and mud up the slightly hiked pants leg.

Charlie ran to her head, and grabbed for a pulse. Could he save her? Was she okay? He prepared to undertake CPR. Grabbing her head, he pulled her toward him. Her head—her face—had been pressed against to the steam pipe leading from the greenhouse. She—didn’t have a face!

Charlie fell to his knees and wept.

Afterward:  Standaly was found not guilty by reason of insanity and was confined at the Finley-Gayle Maximum Security Unit at Southwestern State Hospital then located in Marion, Virginia.

Bobbye Terry is the multi-published writer of romantic comedy, suspense and fantasy. She also writes under the pseudonyms Daryn Cross and Terry Campbell and has books out or slated for publication through Black Opal Books, Crescent Moon Press, Eternal Press, L&L Dreamspell and Turquoise Morning Press. Her most recent novel release co-written as Terry Campbell is the novel, Craigs’ Legacy, Black Opal Books. Her first mystery novella, Buried in Briny Bay, debuts on March 14. For more information, check out her online headquarters: http://BobbyeTerry.Blogspot.com