Friday, 11 December 2020
Our Horses!
Tuesday, 1 December 2020
Mystery Series E-Book Promotion!
All three books in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series are available at special discount prices during the month of December: each reduced by about $1. E-book retailers' prices can vary, so these are approximate:
What Happened to Frank?: 99c; Link to 1st book in series
Over Frank's Dead Body: $1.99; Link to 2nd book in series
Pointed Attacks: $2.99 Link to 3rd book in series
Each link takes you to the e-book retailer of your choice.
Soft-cover versions are available at Blue Heron Books located in Uxbridge. These are being offered at the special price of $17.99 each.
If you can't make it to Blue Heron, contact@vickyearle.com and I can arrange to get copies to you!
Boxed sets of all 3 books are available upon request. Books make great gifts!
And - yes - a fourth book in the series is on its way. I'm editing! I'm hoping for a book launch in late spring/early summer.
Happy Reading! and stay safe and healthy. I hope that 2021 is a better year for all of us.
Monday, 16 November 2020
The Cavern - A Story
Image by Rudy and Peter Skitterians from Pixabyay
This story was written for a Uxbridge Writers' Circle Meeting. The words in italics are the ones we were challenged to include in our writing. I hope you enjoy "The Cavern":
Carter had no desire to visit Benwick’s Cavern
near the Devon coast. It was bad enough that he’d allowed himself to be cajoled
into a trip to the southwest of England. He considered the area to be backward
– what it lacked in culture it made up for with noisy amusement arcades and
trashy souvenir shops.
Carter was a city
man who loved the world of finance and international business, with its busy
days and packed schedules. He even liked riding up the lift in the centre of
Toronto, to the 60th floor, and striding along the corridor to his
corner office to sit in his executive leather chair.
But he did allow
himself a seat in the theatre now and again, or a ticket to a Toronto Symphony
Orchestra concert.
He sat in the
Palace Hotel that morning, and appreciated the white linen tablecloths, the
silver cutlery and the real carnation. The buffet breakfast was pretty decent
too. This was better than he’d feared. His room was tolerable, with its large
ensuite bathroom and comfortable bed.
But all these
satisfactory things weren’t enough to persuade him it was worth his while to
dress down – to don jeans and a sweater to visit a dark, dank, dripping cavern.
He’d picked up a pamphlet on Benwick’s Cavern from the display in the hotel
lobby. But the poor quality pictures of stalactites and stalagmites, along with
the slimy, shiny walls, just served to make him even more disgruntled.
Carter folded his
linen napkin and placed it with precision, parallel to the table’s edge. He
finished his strong coffee and replaced the cup onto the saucer without a
sound, and prepared to leave. Maggie and John said they would pick him up at
ten. They were bound to be late but he needed to be on time.
He stood outside
the revolving door and the damp air seeped through his clothes in an instant.
He viewed this as an ominous omen for the day. He put his new rain jacket on
and told himself if Maggie and John didn’t show up within five minutes, he’d go
back to his room.
But they did show
up, laughing at some idiotic joke as they waved and came to an abrupt halt in
front of the hotel. Maggie had yet to master a manual gearbox, so the drive to
the cavern was far from smooth, and the space in the back of the car didn’t
come close to being enough for Carter’s comfort, being much more cramped than
he was used to. He tried to cross his legs and couldn’t. Maggie’s sparkly eyes
caught his, in the rear-view mirror, and he gave her a weak smile.
There was an
introduction to the guided tour, with great emphasis placed on how dangerous
it was to attempt to go under or over the railing. Children must be supervised
at all times. Carter tuned out and looked around him. The predictable gift shop
guarded the entrance and notices had been erected in numerous spots. The
lawyers would have made a buck or two out of these, Carter thought. His feet
were cold. His leather shoes were not a good choice. He noticed a lot of
colourful rubber boots.
At last, the guide
beckoned the group to follow, but Carter hung back. He planned to trail behind.
He’d let others be within earshot of the enthusiastic commentator. The gravel
pathway gave way to slimy stone and Carter grew concerned as his shoes failed
to grip. Their leather soles gave no pretense at providing any traction.
Traction was not something Carter needed. His driver would bring the car to the
door in the heated garage at work and the same at home.
Carter was glad he
was at the back of the group. He could hold onto the railing as they descended
down the slippery slopes which led further into the hillside. He thought of
turning back but hadn’t made note of which way they’d come, or if there were
several choices or not – he thought there were. He’d noticed that the lights
came on automatically as the group approached them. Would they light up for him
if he went back? What if they suddenly turned off? He wasn’t sure his mobile’s
flashlight would be enough.
A scream. And it
didn’t come from him. It was piercing and followed by sobs. But the guide
hadn’t heard it and, if anyone in the group had noticed, they didn’t let on.
The lights behind Carter went out, but there was still enough light for him to
make out a mother crouched down, holding a child who had an arm outreached
towards the railing.
Carter edged towards
them. They were in semi-darkness now.
“What’s the
matter?” asked Carter.
“My giraffe.
I dropped my giraffe.” The child burst into uncontrollable sobs as the mother,
crouched down beside him, held him firmly in her arms.
“It’s okay,” the
mother said to Carter. “He has other toys.”
“I want my
giraffe.” The child kicked out and hit his mother. Carter became concerned.
What if the child broke loose and got under the railing?
“I’ll get it,”
said Carter, before he had a chance to think rationally or develop a plan. He
took his mobile out of his pocket, got the flashlight working and shone it over
the railing.
“Please don’t even
try,” the mother said as she held onto the child’s writing body. “It’s not a
stuffed toy, it’s made of wood and it’s breakable. It’ll be in pieces,
falling on the rocks like that.”
“Ganpa gave it.
Ganpa made it.” The child kicked out again.
“I will get it,”
Carter said, as he placed a hand on the boy’s head. “But only if you stop
kicking and screaming.” His deep, authoritative voice seemed to do the trick.
The child turned his flushed face with its swollen eyes towards him and stopped
his tantrum.
Carter took off
his shoes. To give her credit, the mother didn’t make any comment – on this
lack of suitability for a visit to the cavern. He rolled off his socks and
folded each of them and placed them in his shoes. He could see the giraffe in
the gulley and asked the mother to hold his phone so the light would stay
focused on the toy.
They were right.
It was dangerous to venture past the railing and negotiate the downwards slope
of smooth, wet stone. He lost his balance and fell, but only his dignity was
damaged. The gulley was about 15 feet deep and he’d slipped about two feet from
the bottom.
The giraffe was
lodged into a crevice but Carter was able to remove it with just one minor
scratch. He crammed it into his pocket and scrambled back up the slope.
The child hugged
his legs so hard that Carter thought he might lose his balance, and the mother
gave him a peck on the cheek. What was this strange warm feeling tingling his
insides?
“We need to catch
up with the group somehow,” the mother said.
Carter said the
child could ride on his shoulders, but the mother would have to alert him when
they came to low parts. By the time they got back outside, Carter had a sore
head from being pummeled by a wooden giraffe and a stiff back, but he’d made a
lifetime friend in Annie.
He was so glad
he visited Benwick’s Cavern.
It changed his
life.
Vicky Earle Copyright 2020
Thursday, 1 October 2020
Here's a bit of flash fiction!
This piece was written in a flash - ten minutes during a meeting of the Uxbridge Writers' Circle.
The prompt was "Children in a Tree" by the artist Alex Colville (sorry, the image above is obviously not that picture!).
Lewis has always contended that being left stranded in the large, leafy oak tree caused him permanent damage. It wasn't so much the broken leg that he suffered when he finally tumbled to the ground, but the sense of abandonment. He'd thought that his older brother, nine years old at the time, loved him, or at the very least cared about him. He believed they had fun playing together, laughing together, chasing the dog together. To find out, in such a hurtful way, that he was completely and utterly wrong, shattered him. His legs had trembled and the tears flowed, seemingly unstoppable, as he'd tried to climb down. Losing his grip, he'd landed on the acorn-covered ground and heard someone screaming - it had been him.
Several years later, he enrolled in the same university his brother was attending. He'd managed to keep his distance, somehow, all that time after the oak tree incident, but their father had decided that they were to share an apartment, and wouldn't hear of anything different. Neither boy, or young man now, wanted to live in close proximity to the other.
Lewis moved in first, followed the next day by Bret, who didn't say a word. But after a couple of beers, Bret told him that their father had caned him for leaving Lewis in the tree and he still had the scars.
They talked at last.
Vicky Earle copyright 2020
Wednesday, 2 September 2020
New Stories Posted On Short Stories Page
I belong to the Uxbridge Writers' Circle uxbridgewriterscircle.blogspot.ca and part of the fun is writing stories that use pre-selected words.
I have just posted seven stories that I've written over the past few months. The pre-selected words are shown in italics. You can click on the Short Stories header, or you can click on this link: Short Stories Page
Here's a few words on each:
"Plans": About a person who has a troubled upbringing and is in a "weird" relationship.
"Moxie": About a horse that is at the racetrack during the pandemic.
"Dream Vacation": About making a significant life-changing decision (very loosely based on my own experience).
"A Little Too Late": A woman's three marriages, her role in their deaths, and her financial ups and downs.
"Horace and Me":A life-changing event throws two people back together.
"Gritty Compromise": Winnie wrestles with who she wants to be, reluctant to follow in her father's footsteps.
"Sisterly Love": I think this says as much as I want to give away!
Hope you enjoy the stories.
Thursday, 2 July 2020
EXCERPT FROM FIRST DRAFT OF FOURTH BOOK IN MEG SHEPPARD MYSTERY SERIES
Monday, 29 June 2020
Excerpt From Third Book In Meg Sheppard Mystery Series
This is the third book in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series.
Racehorse trainer Grayson is found dead in his office trailer and Meg's trainer, Neal, asks her to investigate. The members of a syndicate, who owned five horses trained by Grayson, are all under suspicion. But the list of suspects grows as Meg learns more about the horses' unexpected poor health and disappointing performances.
The series is set in the crazy world of thoroughbred horse-racing. Meg lives on a farm with her beloved border collie, Kelly, as well as horses and cats.
If you like cozies, you'll enjoy this series!
This is the excerpt from 'Pointed Attacks', which starts on page 126:
'The condo doesn’t look as if it’s been lived in since I visited last. We help Philippa to lower onto the soft sofa. She’ll need help to get out of it too. Oscar has carbonated spring-water, with lemon slices, poured out for us - so he’s proven that he can play host if needs be.
Stay connected! Sign up to receive notification of new posts on vickyearleauthor.blogspot.ca
Excerpt from draft of fourth book to be posted soon!
Happy reading!
Sunday, 28 June 2020
Excerpt From Second Book In Meg Sheppard Mystery Series
This is the second book in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series. "Over Frank's Dead Body", like the other cozy mysteries in the series, is set in the world of horse-racing as well as country life.
Meg Sheppard is an amateur sleuth and avid animal-lover, as well as a racehorse owner.
In this book, Meg wonders if her husband Frank's murder, the death of a jockey at the racetrack and the theft of some horses are linked.
In this excerpt, Meg meets with her racehorse trainer, Neal, and groom, Linda, before watching one of her horses race.
Friday, 26 June 2020
Excerpt From First Book In Meg Sheppard Mystery Series
If you like cozy mysteries and are interested in horses and the exciting and challenging world of horse-racing, then you'll enjoy this series - and I should mention that Kelly, a border collie, plays an important role in the story.
Here's a short excerpt from about one third of the way through the book. Meg Sheppard meets with the trainer of her racehorses (previously her husband's horses):
Wednesday, 24 June 2020
Don't Give Up!
...that's what I've been telling myself during most of 2020!
The curious circumstances we've found ourselves in this year have posed challenges of all sorts, affecting all kinds of people - including racehorse owners, and, writers.
As racehorse owners, we can't go to the racetrack to visit our beloved horses, or to watch them race.
That's tough.
But at least woodbine.com is operating, thanks to all the hard-working, dedicated, caring people who work in the backstretch. And thanks to the administration and leadership who, now that racing has finally started, are doing their utmost to keep it going and to draw attention to this wonderful sport.
And, then there's writing.
With all the distractions and additional stress, it can be tough to be creative.
The picture of my desk might give you a clue as to why I've had to tell myself "don't give up"!
I'm what they call in the writing world a "pantser" - I don't develop an outline of each book before I begin writing. I can easily get into tangled messes but it's much more fun to write this way. It allows me to change characters as things unfold and to add twists and tension that I might not have thought of until I become buried in the story-telling.
But this means that it's best if I can keep things rolling in my head - if I have long breaks in writing it makes it harder to remember where I was headed or to regenerate the energy.
Despite the many obstacles, and my chaotic desk, I'm pleased to reveal that I'm on page 260 of my first draft of book #4 in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series! Yeah!
I have to add that blueheronbooks.com has my first 3 books in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series on their shelves and also on their website. Thank you to Blue Heron Books!
If you read cozy mysteries and are interested in horses or horse-racing, as well as country-living, these are the books for you!
I will be posting excerpts from all four books in the series soon! Sign up to be notified of new posts.
I hope you are keeping safe and: don't give up on your creative project, whatever it is!
vickyearleauthor.blogspot.ca
Saturday, 25 April 2020
New Book Review
A big 'thank you' to Anne Leueen for a great review of What Happened to Frank?, the first in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series.
Link: What Happened to Frank? (I'm currently writing the fourth in the series!).
Anne Leueen has an excellent blog that is full of observations, experience and facts relating to dressage and horses (especially her talented horse, Biasini), as well as other interesting topics.
As the home page of the blog says "the world is best viewed through the ears of a horse'!
horseaddict.net is well worth checking out!
So, I'm delighted that Anne Leueen has posted her review of "What Happened to Frank?" on her esteemed blog.
This is the review:
Friday, 10 April 2020
Story Published in Dark and Stormy Newsletter
Check out their website: itwasadarkandstormybookclub.com and sign up for the newsletter!
The podcast can be found on itunes, Stitcher and all major podcast players. They have over 80 episodes for our listening pleasure. They feature author interviews and book reviews in the Mystery, Thriller and True Crime arena. They are concentrating on authors not yet household names, but probably should be. Their goal is to help readers to find their next favourite author.
Here's my story as published in the newsletter:
This wasn’t an ideal time to meet, she’d told me. The mornings were her best creative hours, when the words flowed and the verses gathered on the paper.
A stone-carving of a toad caught my eye and she noticed my interest. She explained that she’d been a sculptor once, before it happened. The fact that she made reference to the tragedy, albeit fleeting, gave me an opening.
“As you know, Serena, I represent the private investigator hired by Maurice Bouchard, your son’s paternal grandfather.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“He’s asked us to look into your partner’s death of a year ago. Maurice’s grandson, your son, Len, has recently been accused of Bert’s murder.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“This must be difficult for you, but please tell me all you know about what happened. I’ll be recording this conversation.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
She sat on a wooden chair behind a dark table covered in papers. I wondered what she was thinking. Perhaps her recollections of the events surrounding her partner’s death would be clouded by time and distorted by grief.
She stood up and threw her hands into the air.
“I won’t tell you what I said before.”
I kept silent and watched as she twirled on the spot, her skirt ballooning out, the papers curling up in the breeze.
“I won’t tell you the lies.”
“I’m here to get the truth,” I said, somewhat bewildered by her behaviour, wondering if the unbearable grief of losing her partner had sent her stark raving mad.
“I’m not mad. I’m just sad. See, the poet can’t help it.”
“Okay, tell me.”
She sat down on the chair again, rested her elbows on some papers and stared at me.
“The only problem is that you won’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“Bert,”
“Your partner.”
“Yeah. Bert told Len he must be home by midnight. But Len drove the Mercedes back at three in the morning and it had a dent in the roof and was covered in mud. You must know all that.”
“The Mercedes was found in the driveway. But I want to hear what you have to say.”
“Now the truth part. Bert was angry. Really mad. I screamed at him to leave Len alone, but he wouldn’t. He lost it.”
“Did he often get angry?”
“Yeah, violent man. Angry man. Hateful. Bert and Len had a punch-up. Bert hit Len so hard that he fell and hit his head on the hall tiles. I screamed. I was half-way down the stairs. Bert picked up my best carving of a bat from the hall table and threw it. It smashed into two pieces as it hit my shoulder, and I fell down the stairs. I couldn’t move for a couple of minutes. Fear, pain, not sure.”
She smiled.
“It feels so good to tell someone. I want to tell the truth.”
“Please go on.”
“La, la, la,” she sang.
Her behaviour shook me and her words befuddled me. Lies and truths were mixed together, with some curious drama thrown in – a recipe for deceit.
“I’m not making this up,” she said, looking straight at me through a web of wispy hairs that hung over her face. She had an uncanny way of sensing my scepticism. “Len got up and Bert swung at him again. I threw a piece of the broken carving at Bert and it hit him in the face. He fell backwards and hit his head on the corner of the glass coffee table. Bert was motionless.”
“Was he still breathing?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Okay.”
“We had large, puffy cushions on the sofas and chairs in there. I managed to get to my feet and took one of them, the soft stripy one, and put it over Bert’s face.”
“Bert was found in the garage.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s where I hung him up so it would look like suicide.”
“The reason you’re telling me this now…”
“I know you guys will keep digging, so I might as well come clean, and save a lot of time and aggravation.”
“Len’s your son by your late husband. Right?”
“Yeah. Yeah. See, I knew you’d be digging.”
“Bert and Len fought, you say. Did Bert ever hurt you?”
“Yeah.”
“Was there evidence of his physical abuse of you? Did you ever go to the police or a hospital or your doctor?”
“No.”
“So, your injuries didn’t require medical attention?”
“They did, but I didn’t get it. I couldn’t. Bert would have killed me next time.”
“Did you get checked out that night? Or the next morning?”
“No.”
“But you must have appeared to be injured. You said you were hit by a sculpture and you fell down the stairs.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“But Bert had evidence of old injuries, some scars and bruises.”
“He’s a clumsy person. What can I say?”
“I’m not making myself clear. I suspect that you were the abuser, not Bert.”
“Okay.”
“He’d been admitted to hospital four times in the previous five years. Injuries included a broken wrist, internal bleeding as well as some cuts and bruises.”
“Always having accidents, that horrid man.” She pushed her chair back and it scraped the wooden floor with an angry, scratchy sound. She folded her arms in a gesture of defiance, but her frown and her flushed cheeks gave her away.
“I’ve hit on the truth,” I said.
She unfolded her arms.
“You don’t understand.” Her voice was muffled.
“What don’t I understand?”
“Bert was a drunk.” She looked at me with wide eyes. Her voice had regained its sharpness. “He wasn’t too bad when he was sober, but he got drunk every night. Then he would start the ridicule about my carving, demeaning me and my work, making me feel worthless.”
“You got angry.”
“I sure did. I thought I could beat some sense into Bert.”
“But that didn’t work, I assume.”
“Yeah. Bert kept on with his taunts and ridicule.”
“What really happened that night?”
“I’ve already told you. Bert was blind drunk and flaming mad about the car. Bert punched Len and Len punched back. I threw the sculpture at them. It hit Bert and he fell back onto the tiled floor. I picked up the big, stripy cushion and smothered him. I told Len that he had to help me hang him up in the garage to make it look like suicide or I’d tell the police he was a murderer.”
“So, Len helped you deal with Bert?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I told him he had to. Len helped enough with the lifting so that I could get Bert in the position I wanted him. But that’s all he did. I killed Bert.”
“It was odd that there were no fingerprints found on the chair.”
“I was the one that put the chair there. I wiped it clean.”
“Okay. So, you both came back into the house from the garage.”
“Len was a blubbering mess. He mentioned the police.”
“How did you stop him from calling them?”
“I told him it’d be better if we found Bert in the morning, and that I’d call the police then.”
“What did you do next?”
“I helped Len up to bed. I went downstairs and collapsed on a sofa. I could barely make it, I was so tired after getting Bert up in the noose.”
“What did you do in the morning?”
“The police came and Len told them that he couldn’t remember anything. But I’ve been worried that he might squeal.”
“And tell the police that you murdered Bert? I’ve recorded this conversation and it will be in the hands of the police soon.”
“Good.”
“Good? You haven’t told me the truth at all, have you? You’re protecting Len.”
Silence. She hung her head, her chin touching her chest.
“When Len brought the Mercedes back after he’d rolled it,” I said. “Bert lost his temper. There was a fight. Len threw the stone carving. It hit Bert and he landed on the tiled floor. Death was caused by blows to the head, not suffocation, that’s what the autopsy report stated. The pillow didn’t play a role. Len asked you to help position Bert to look like suicide. You didn’t want to help, but Len told you that you had to, otherwise he would report that you murdered Bert.”
“No.” She stood up. Beads of sweat had emerged on her brow and glistened in the hazy sunshine.
“He threatened you so that you would handle the rope and the chair.”
“No.”
“Why would you confess to a murder that you didn’t commit? As I told you, I’m here to get the truth. Len’s grandfather, Maurice, believes Len to be innocent. So, who murdered Bert? It wasn’t you.”
“It wasn’t murder.” Her skirt had drooped, hugging her trembling legs. The truth was hidden in there somewhere.
“The evidence does not support suicide.”
“But it was.”
“It can only be Len.”
“But he’s my son. And he’s innocent.”
“Len tried to protect you from Bert’s abuse. He even fought with him.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“Someone killed Bert. It was not suicide. There were no fingerprints on the chair and Bert wasn’t wearing gloves. And I believe that your fingerprints were never on that chair.”
Serena stared down at me. “Len’s innocent.”
“Someone must have killed Bert. If it wasn’t you or Len, who was it?”
She looked at me with watery grey eyes that had sagged at the corners.
“It was Maurice, wasn’t it?
She whipped around and her skirt caught the chair, sending it crashing to the floor.
“They won’t believe you. I did it.”
“No, it’s quite clear that you didn’t.”
“It’s all lies. You made me say things.”
“I haven’t made you say anything and this recording of our conversation confirms that.”
She lunged towards me. “I’ll take that contraption.” She clawed at my mobile with her long, unkempt nails with their yellowed, jagged tips.
But I stood up and dropped my mobile into my jacket pocket. Her steel-grey eyes glared at me with unwavering intensity. Her chest heaved and I could smell her sour breath. She lunged at me again, her hands extended as if she planned to grab my neck. I felt the warmth of her body and anticipated her scratchy nails digging into my skin. But she thrust a hand into my pocket and grabbed my mobile.
I caught her wrists and told her there would be nothing gained in taking the phone, but she yanked her arms free and shoved me with such force that I fell backwards onto the grubby, spongy sofa. I leapt back up onto my feet as she opened the backdoor and started down the concrete steps to the unkempt garden overgrown with thistles. I sprinted across the room and jumped onto the bottom of her skirt as it wafted over the second from last step. The skirt ripped at the hem but not enough to give her her freedom and just enough to let her fall, face-down, onto the prickly weeds.
My mobile landed on the bottom step.
I unwrapped my purple, silk scarf from around my neck, pulled her arms behind her back and tied them at the wrists. I picked up my mobile and helped her to sit on the bottom step and sat down next to her on the cold concrete. Thistle seeds danced in the breeze, elusive and unsettled, just like the woman next to me.
“Maurice and I love Len so much,” she said, as tears dropped onto her dry feet.
“Let’s go inside.” I held onto her quivering arm as we stood up and went back into the house. We sat at the paper-strewn table.
“Okay. Tell me what happened.”
“Maurice and I hated the way Bert treated Len. Len was in the hospital many more times than Bert. They had the most awful fights. I tried to intervene. Before you ask, we were doing our best to get Bert out of the house. That place is mine and Len’s, left to us by my late husband, Len’s father. But I can’t face living back there yet. It’s haunted by memories of pain and anguish, of screaming and throwing, of helplessness and sadness. I made a terrible mistake when I let Bert into our lives.”
“He was after the house, wasn’t he?”
“He was after my money. I have quite a lot, although, other than the house, I do my best to hide it. He wanted control over me and he tried to drive Len out. Maurice was a frequent visitor, and Bert tormented him as well, not so much, but still did. Maurice once said to me that he could murder Bert for what he was doing to his family, to us. I didn’t take him seriously, but that night was too much for him.”
“Len did bring the car back in a terrible state.”
“No. He didn’t. And you won’t have worked this out. Bert organized to have the car rolled in a ditch down the road. Len didn’t use the Mercedes that night. He went out with friends, and they picked him up.”
“Bert damaged his own car?”
“It was mine, but Bert drove it. Damaging it was a clever plan to turn me against Len. But I found out what happened. He wanted to divide and conquer us. But the more he tried, the more we clung to one another.”
“Why didn’t you tell the truth about Maurice? And why did Maurice hire us?”
“Because Maurice loves us and did the right thing by getting rid of Bert. He doesn’t deserve to go to prison.”
“Why hire us? The truth would come out.”
“Maurice and I are desperate to save Len, but I didn’t want Maurice to pay the price. I said I didn’t want to go to the police, but I’d talk to a private investigator, and I’d confess to the murder, to save Len and Maurice.”
“That’s a huge thing to do.”
“Not from where I sit.”
“But now you’ve told me the truth.”
“I want to do this for my son and Maurice. They will be fine without me. Please, please untie me and give me that mobile.”
I wavered. I almost did it.
It was a close call.
The End
Friday, 27 March 2020
Lions Raw is 24 today!
Lions Raw is 24 today, March 27, 2020.
This picture of her and me, taken by William Bell, appears on the back of my most recent cozy: "Pointed Attacks", book 3 in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series.
(NB My e-book promotion ends on March 31! Vicky's e-books)
This video shows Lions Raw as a foal, followed by her first race!
Lions Raw foal and first race
Lions Raw was an excellent thoroughbred racehorse and a wonderful broodmare. All but one of her foals were winners at Woodbine. One ran in the Queen's Plate! Lions Bay came 6th despite a serious problem with a shoe. We were proud to be part of that incredible experience.
Her granddaughter, I'm a Kittyhawk, won three stakes races!
I'm a Kittyhawk had her first foal two years ago. He's called I'm Dashing and we hope he will race later this year or next. He's doing some light training at a farm right now.
We feel so fortunate to have Lions Raw as part of our family. She and her daughter, I'm a Cheetah, are enjoying a pleasant retirement on our farm.
Here's a poor quality video of Lions Raw beating 'the boys' on August 19, 2000. She's the one with the white flash on her face, number 7.
Lions Raw beats the boys
We wish Lions Raw many happy returns of the day!!