Diane Burton: Launch Day - The Case of the Fabulous Fiance

Sunday, December 13, 2015

Launch Day - The Case of the Fabulous Fiance

They say good things happen to those who wait. Those of you who have been waiting for the second Alex O'Hara mystery are in for a real treat.

Alex is up to her old tricks. Biting off more than she can chew. Taking on more than she can handle. Life should be good, right? One big problem. Her main squeeze, Nick Palzetti, disappeared over two months ago. All her investigative skills have been for naught, and life goes on.

She wants to take her investigation agency in a new direction—background checks for potential spouses. She hopes this new case will do the trick when a high-powered executive asks for info on her new boyfriend. Is the man she met on a cruise her Mr. Right or is he too good to be true? On the same day, Alex gets another case—finding a deadbeat dad. And both women want to double her rates so she’ll give them highest priority. She can’t believe her luck. Her finances are on the upswing. But glitchy phones and no internet bring everything to a screeching halt.

Excerpt:

The outside door opened, letting in a blast of Michigan winter air. The cold draft shot down my back as I lay on the floor under the receptionist’s desk. What a way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

“That better be you, RJ,” I hollered. “And you’d better fix this piece of shit telephone system before I tear out every damn wire.”

Two strikes in one sentence. I’d fallen off the no-swearing wagon again. So much for my promise to my dying mom who thought women shouldn’t swear like teenage boys.

When RJ didn’t give me a song-and-dance about why it had taken him so long to respond to my SOS, I squinted between the edge of the modesty panel and the floor. Oh, no. Dark gray trousers with a knife-sharp crease grazed the fashionably-correct spot on a pair of highly-polished gray loafers. Definitely not RJ’s scruffy athletic shoes topped by the ragged hem of his worn blue jeans.

Shit, shit, shit. Mental swearing didn’t count.

I had two choices. Door Number One—stay under the desk and pretend no one was home. Door Number Two—come out and greet the potential client.

Scratch Door Number One. I’d already spoken. He knew I was there.

As I scrambled out, I hit my head on the underside of the desk. “Hell’s bells.”

Strike three.

“My dear girl, whatever are you doing in that awful place?” The owner of the expensive loafers had walked around the desk and was peering down at me. “May I give you a hand?”

How about duct tape for my mouth? My mother must be turning over in her grave. And Pop would be appalled that I’d given a client a bad first impression of the agency he and Tony Palzetti had started after high school.

As I scooted out from among the tangled wires, I also cleaned the floor with my butt. The underside of the kneehole drawer caught the scrunchie anchoring my ponytail and pulled it off—the scrunchie, not my ponytail. Through another tangle, this time my hair, I looked up at the owner of the sexy voice.

Delish, as my Dottie would say. “Money, money, money,” as ABBA sang. Under his black, unbelted Burberry, he wore monochromatic better than Alex Trebek. Dark gray suit, a darker gray shirt, and a gray-on-gray striped tie. His blond hair with its precision cut enhanced his appearance. No barber for this guy. Had to be an expensive stylist. The businesswoman in me took notice. So did my lady parts.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Nicholas Palzetti. There are other fish in the sea than you.