She's done all the other Cat Collier stories and has an intimate knowledge of the many, varied characters and storylines.
The beautiful cover, again designed by CER Designs, is ready to go.
June maybe???
Want a teeny, tiny, little sneak-peak?
Well, okay. Here's Chapter Two.
Chapter Two
The Case of the Cursed Bowling Trophy
Early Wednesday morning, a nervous-looking middle-aged woman was waiting for me outside my office door. She was clutching a paper sack to her ample bosom.
“Oh, I need you, Cat Collier,” she implored as I walked down the hall toward her.
“Okay. I’m here. Let’s go in and talk about it,” I said calmly, trying to soothe her as I unlocked the door. My secretary Nola wasn’t in yet, but I expected her soon.
We went into my office. The woman followed and plopped into the closest chair. I patted her shoulder.
“Now, calm down. What can I do for you, Mrs…” I leaned in toward her.
“Frankford. Kim Frankford. I need your help. I can pay you. I want you to get rid of this thing for us.” She thrust the paper sack into my arms.
“Okay. I usually find things, but I could dispose of this ‘thing’ for you, if you want. What is it?”
I peered into the paper sack. I removed the object from the bag and placed it on the corner of my desk.
“A bowling trophy,” she said. “Well, no, it’s a booby prize. Lowest score in the league ever in the history of the league since the league started keeping records. It’s an embarrassment to my husband. And if that’s not bad enough, the damn thing’s cursed.” She nodded.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes.” Kim Frankford folded her arms, jutted her chin out, and grunted.
“Is it yours?”
“No. It’s my husband Freddy’s.”
“Does Mr. Frankford know you want to…get rid of it?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s in favor of its disposal?”
“Yes. You don’t understand. It’s not just an embarrassing trophy. The damn thing is truly cursed. He’s tried to get rid of it a few times. He threw it in the garbage. Somebody found it and brought it back to him. See?” She pointed to the trophy. “It’s engraved with his name right here, Fred Frankford. He buried it in the back yard. The dog dug it up and brought it to the front porch. When his mother died and they cleaned out her house, he hoisted it into the dumpster and the real estate agent selling the house found it and returned it to him.
“So then I put it in the Goodwill bag, wrapped it in old clothes and boots and stuff. His cousin Randy saw it on the shelf in the store and bought it for Fred for his birthday.”
“But does this low score bowling token actually bring bad luck?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Fred’s unhappy, terribly unhappy. He’s miserable. Depressed even. Do you know what it’s like to live with a miserable man? He’s sad. He’s quiet. He lost his job.”
“With the economy in the state it’s in, lots of people lost their jobs.”
“Yeah, but you see, Fred feels like a failure. He thinks this booby prize symbolizes his life. You think I’m nuts, don’t you?” Mrs. Frankford was on the verge of tears.
“No!” I said rather too quickly to ring true. “In fact, I employ an expert on just such matters.”
I walked to the door and summoned my secretary, who I heard clattering around in the outer office.
“Ms. White, can you come in here please? Mrs. Frankford and I need your unique expertise.”
“Why, of course, Ms. Collier.”
The epitome of style and efficiency, Ms. Nola White strutted in on six-inch royal blue leather stilettos that coordinated beautifully with her royal blue silk suit and pale lime satin shell with a beautiful royal, lime, and silver tone custom-made necklace. My secretary dressed much better than I did. Better than anyone I knew. She carried her leather-bound black notebook.
The fashionista sat down. “Now, how can I be of assistance this morning?”
Nola spied the copper colored winged figure attached to a wooden base with a copper engraved plate sitting on my desk.
“Oh, never mind, honey child. I see the problem.”
Nola stood up and walked around the desk, arms folded with her hand on her chin. She examined the trophy from every angle.
Nola sat down and held her temples with her fingers and made a strange, contorted face. “An evil spirit has entered this unholy icon.”
Mrs. Frankford nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Ms. White is psychic,” I whispered. I nodded.
Mrs. Frankford nodded back with wide-eyed amazement.
“Good Lord, this is a potent curse.”
“I knew it…somebody cursed my dear, sweet little Freddy. Can you tell me who did it? Is it Charlie? Charlie Santorini? He’s always been jealous of my Freddy.”
“Well, I don’t know. I can’t give you a name, but I can tell you this much. It’s someone who is very jealous of your… Freddy, yes. Someone who is close to him. Someone who works with him… No, no, not works. Plays with him…on a team. I see team shirts. Does Fred play on a sports team? Baseball? Basketball maybe? Football? Or soccer?”
“No. He bowls. He loves to bowl,” said Kim Frankford. “They wear matching shirts.”
“Kelly green shirts? With big yellow suns on the back?”
“Yes, to the green shirts. But no, not suns. Those are big yellow bowling balls. His team is called ‘The Wonder Balls’. And that damn Charlie is on his team.”
“Well,” Nola explained, “I don’t know which one, but one of those Wonder Balls is responsible for unleashing this demon curse upon your dear, sweet husband Freddy.”
“Do you know how to lift the curse, Ms. White?”
“Me? No. I’m sorry.” Nola threw her hands up in the air. “That is beyond the realm of my limited empathic psychic abilities.”
“My poor Freddy is on the verge of a nervous breakdown,” Mrs. Frankford leaned over, grabbed Nola’s hand, and cried. “I’m afraid he may try to do himself in. You have to help me. I have no one else to turn to. Nobody else believes me except you and Cat. Please help me!”
“Calm down, Mrs. Frankford,” soothed Nola. “I don’t know how to lift this curse, but I might know someone who does.”
Kim Frankford sat up, smoothed her jacket, and composed herself. “Where do we start?”
“Well, let me make a few phone calls and see if I can set up a private meeting with Voodoo Dan,” said Nola. “He has a shop on the lower eastside of Cleveland.”
“We need a number to reach you, Mrs. Frankford,” I added, offering a notepad from my desk.
Kim Frankford quickly scribbled down a few phone numbers.
“We’ll be in touch,” I said. “Soon.”
“Thank you, Cat. Thank you, Ms. White. You are fantastic. The both of you. Thank you.”
Mrs. Frankford smiled and nearly danced out the door. Nola and I moved to the doorway to watch her boogie to the elevator.
“Well, we made her feel better for a little bit.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I muttered. “Since when are your empathic psychic abilities limited?”
“Since right now, when I don’t want no demon curses backfiring on me. You didn’t take her money, did you?” asked Nola.
“No.”
“Good.”
“Can you do something to lift this demon curse?”
“No.”