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MURDERS UNDER THE SUN

      SEASON ONE; INTRO

MOLLY: Welcome to Murders Under the Sun, a podcast that explores a series of unusual crimes that have occurred in sunny Southern California.

I’m Molly Shure, your host. For the past five years, I’ve worked as a journalist at a local news outlet. Stories of murder and mayhem come across my desk weekly, if not daily. However, one day last March, I noticed something startling.

There seemed to be a connection between several crimes that transpired over a five-year period—seven crimes to be precise. What connected them? Location for one. They all took place within a twenty-mile radius of each other, but that alone wasn’t significant.

The thing that pinged in my brain was that many of the people at the center of these crimes knew each other. Not the criminals, which would be an obvious thread, but the victims. I know, I know, six degrees of separation. Didn’t I already say the crimes took place in a twenty-mile radius? But we’re not talking six degrees here. It’s more like one degree. You’ll see if you stick with me for all seven seasons of the show, the crimes circle back around. The people you meet in the first season play a role in Season Seven’s story.

Am I imagining things? Is the connection real? Is there one mastermind behind the crimes? Or are they linked by some kind of social, psychological or even spiritual force? I’m afraid that’s something you’ll have to decide for yourself.

Each season, I’ll do a deep dive into just one of these stories. You’ll hear from the people who were victimized, and listen to transcripts of journal entries, memoirs, and letters from others who were involved—sometimes the criminals themselves—and behind-the-scenes information you can’t get anywhere else.

So, get out your sunglasses. We’re pulling back the curtains and letting the light shine on some of Orange County’s darkest mysteries.

MURDERS UNDER THE SUN

      SEASON ONE; EPISODE ONE.

MOLLY: Welcome to Season One of Murders Under the Sun. I’m Molly Shure, your host.

I’ve titled this season The Cliff House, because we’ll be talking about the infamous Real Estate Killer. You may remember in 2017, a real estate agent named Sondra Olsen was killed in a vacant beach front property in Laguna Beach, California.

What transpired after her body was discovered threw the Orange County housing industry into a panic, and for good reason. It soon became apparent someone was targeting agents and brokers.

Gwen Bishop, an agent with Humboldt Realty, was at the center of these crimes. She graciously agreed to discuss her experience with me, but declined to be interviewed on air. Instead, I’ll be relating what she told me in as personal a way as possible.

I’ve also located a never-before-released memoir from the actual Real Estate Killer. The literary agent who’s working on selling his story to a publisher contacted me. I’m sure she wants the publicity and happily for us, REK is a total narcissist. He’s delighted to have his story read to an audience.

Honestly, part of me hates giving him the airtime. But in light of the mission of this podcast series, I decided to hold my nose and read it to you. It adds a missing element, and may help us understand why he did what he did.

I won’t be reading his entire manuscript, however. Only the sections I feel are needed to round out the victim’s stories. REK’s entries will be interspersed as they fit into the chronology of events. I think you’ll find them as chilling as I do.

Let’s begin this episode with one of the most terrifying of those entries.

              * * *

Sometimes it’s best to leave a door closed. When I crossed the threshold of my father’s house on Cliff Drive, it changed me. Some would say not for the better.

I could argue my behavior was justified. We all have the right to protect our property from thieves and swindlers. But, really, it came down to simple lust. I was captivated by possibilities, and I wanted everything. I should have known by the screech of rusty hinges that door was better left shut.

I’d made an appointment to see the house as soon as it came on the market, about six months after my father’s death. Sondra Olsen, local real estate agent, met me on the curb out front. She opened the gate I’d only passed through once before in my life. The old fig tree I remembered from that time was bigger now and mantled the courtyard like a vulture, obliterating the light and warmth from the late afternoon sun.

We traversed the walkway and came to the front door that had always been locked tight against me. She threw it open and ushered me in. The curved staircase that led to the part of the house reserved for the family—in other words, not me—rose before me without a barrier.

My initial feeling about Sondra was one of warmth. She and I were sharing in a momentous occasion. She dropped the drawbridge across the moat and invited me into the castle, so to speak. But as we toured the house, my opinion changed. Yes, she was pleasant, subservient even, but I began to see beneath the surface.

“It’s a fixer, but it has so much charm, don’t you think?” she asked with a dimpled smile.

“Yes, to both.”

“Come look at the ocean view.”

I paused before I stepped into the living room I’d only seen in bits and pieces through doors and windows. I don’t know what I thought I’d find inside—the meaning of life, some kind of Holy Grail maybe.

“What do you think?” Sondra asked. I couldn’t speak. It was a disappointment. A huge disappointment.

It was much smaller than I’d imagined. The lack of furniture revealed nicked and scarred wood flooring. Blank, dirty white walls framed the space. I didn’t notice the cool breeze kissing my cheek until Sondra said, “Look at this view.”

I walked through French doors onto a concrete patio and looked down on the beach where I’d so often stood. How many nights had I made my way across the sand or the water, depending on the tides, to bathe in the light emanating from these very doors? How many times had I sat on the rocks that looked so small from this vantage point, straining to catch a glimpse of the family within? His family. My family.

“Leaves you speechless, doesn’t it?” Sondra said.

I turned to answer her and inhaled sharply. She was caught in a beam from the setting sun, just like another girl on another day. Her hair glowed like gold around her head and on the shoulders of her sky-blue dress. The vision only lasted for a moment. She turned and entered the house, and it was gone. But I recognized it as a premonition of sorts.

“The master bedroom has a terrific view, as well. Is there a partner? They’ll love it if there is. Very romantic.” She led me toward the foyer. Before heading up, I noticed a short, dark hallway to the left “of the staircase.

“What’s down there?” I pointed.”

“Believe it or not, that’s the basement. Most California homes don’t have them, but this house stands on top of a series of small caves that tunnel into the cliff. The man who built this place in the forties was a shipping magnate and a collector of art, furniture, all kinds of things. When he found out about the caves, he commissioned an architect to create a warren of storage rooms.”

“Is there anything in the rooms?” I asked.

“Probably, but don’t worry. They’ll be cleaned out before new owners move in.”

“Can I see them?”

“The door is locked. I don’t have a key.” A cloud passed over Sondra’s face as she said those words. She lied. It was my second clue. There must be a treasure within these disappointing walls after all.”

The post Excerpt from The Cliff House first appeared on Greta Boris Author.

I rushed to the embalming machine. “What are you doing?”

“My job, Imogene.” Alphonso’s voice held no humor.

To say he was distracted was an understatement. Alphonso was technically my boss, the head embalmer at Greener Pastures Mortuary, where I was a lowly assistant. Lately, however, I’d had to follow him around like the mother of a toddler, making sure he didn’t do anything he shouldn’t.

“The machine hasn’t been cleaned.” I spoke gently as I moved him away from what looked like a blender on steroids but was, in fact, our embalming machine.

“It’s not like the dead can catch malodors from each other.”

Alphonso was from an Eastern European country, maybe Romania, I wasn’t sure. What I did know was that English wasn’t the language he was raised with. I often had to . . . ah . . . interpret the meaning of his words. Malodors were most likely maladies, but I wasn’t going to point that out. He was struggling.

“Let me take care of that.” I nudged him aside with my hip, and he walked away grumbling.

As I disinfected the embalming machine, I pondered his very valid point. It wasn’t as if the dead could catch malodors—or maladies—from each other, but cleaning the machine between clients was protocol. I was into protocol.

I attended Cavendish School of Mortuary Science, so the rules and regs were fresh. I knew which i’s to dot and which t’s to cross when it came to embalming procedures, funeral home etiquette, burial customs from around the world and many other death-related things the general public ignored.

I would ignore Alphonso’s bit of logic, I decided, as I dried my hands with a paper towel. Machine cleaning was most likely for the living, something I hoped to do for many years to come.

I wheeled the embalming machine to the client on the table. Alphonso had laid out his tools on a nearby crash cart like a surgeon before an operation. His favorite trocar gleamed reassuringly. Scissors, scalpels, needles, and other sharp implements glistened in the overhead neon lights.

The white sheet covering the body hid its identity, so I picked up the manilla folder on the counter. We always kept an old-fashioned paper file on our clients. Inside would be photos along with details about their deaths and their lives to help us create a positive last impression for their loved ones.

I flipped it open. Jake Warring was an 82-year-old African American Vietnam veteran who’d become a successful pharmacist after the war. He’d died of pneumonia three weeks ago after a battle with what started as nothing more than a common cold. The photos showed a large, attractive family. We needed to do our best for them.

I shifted my weight nervously. Alphonso hadn’t been doing his best at anything lately. Ever since Fredericka, his new ladylove, had disappeared, he hadn’t been firing on all cylinders.

My boss filled the embalming machine with fluid, attached the appropriate hoses, and snapped on a pair of gloves. My job didn’t start until his ended.

Prior to coming to work at Greener Pastures, I’d been a hairstylist. In fact, that’s how I ended up working here. Before one of my clients from Harry’s Hair Stop died, she requested I make her lovely for her funeral. I’d done such a good job, Carlton Baldowski, the owner of the mortuary, made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I now did the hair and makeup of the deceased and occasionally gave them baths.

“Why are you being an airplane?” Alphonso asked.

“An airplane?” I didn’t know what he meant.

“You are,” he said, raising a hand in the air, “flying over me, watching me.”

“Oh, helicoptering,” I said.

“Yes. Why are you doing this?”

I stared at him, not wanting to tell him the truth, that he’d made so many mistakes lately I feared for him—and for me. Not only could we lose our jobs, but grieving relatives could be litigious.

I swallowed. “Sorry.” I turned to the back of the room and plodded toward the computer. There was always paperwork to do. As I shimmied onto the high stool by the counter, Alphonso ripped the sheet from the body on the table.

I did my best to keep my eyes averted so he wouldn’t accuse me of being an airplane again. The schwing of metal sounded as he brandished a scalpel, the embalming machine motor purred to life, and the scent of formaldehyde filled the air.

It wasn’t until the strangled sob that had escaped his lips all too often lately met my ears that I glanced up. I gasped. He’d raised a scalpel above the body on the gurney as if preparing to plunge it into its chest.

That, however, wasn’t what had made me gasp. My horror wasn’t due to the violence about to be inflicted on a poor, innocent corpse. My horror was due to the color of its skin. The man on the table was as white as a ghost.

“Alphonso, no,” I yelped and darted toward him. I grabbed his hand just before the scalpel struck. The knife flew from his grasp and bounced across the cold tile floor. He jerked away from me. I lost my balance. And, to add one more horror to the already horrible event, I fell headlong into the body.

Although I knew better, my hands shot forward to protect my face. A split second later, the fingers of my right hand were tangled in the man’s matted sandy-brown hair, my left resting on his chest. I groaned.

“Imogene, what is your problem?” Alphonso didn’t sound the least bit sorry that he’d thrown me onto our client.

I straightened and stared at my hands in something like a state of shock. This is a good moment to mention that I have a strange ability. Some call it a gift. I beg to differ. Normally, when I touch the hair of the deceased, a blast of their final life sensations courses through me.

“Imogene?” Alphonso repeated.

I dragged my gaze from my hands to his face. He looked irritated, but I barely registered the expression. I was too confused.

Granted, the sensations I get from a corpse don’t last long, but I’m aware of them for at least an hour. Unless the person was murdered, of course. If they’d been murdered, I was in for it.

Turns out there is life after death. I don’t understand all that entails, but I do know that murder victims hang around until their killers are exposed. And for some unknown reason, they expect me to expose them.

I’d been emotionally manipulated, coerced into doing things I’d normally never do, made depressed, inexplicably cold and incredibly itchy often enough that I never willingly touched the dead without a nice thick shield of latex between us.

But this man’s hair had no effect on me. There were no lingering emotions. No other-worldly sensations. I’d felt nothing.

“What?” I finally said.

“Why did you implode my work?”

“What?” I said again, too dazed to translate.

“Implode. Stop. Get in the way.”

“Impede,” I mumbled, not caring if I insulted him.

“Implode. Impede. It is the same, no?”

“No.”

He growled in frustration. “Why did you grab my hand?”

I waved at the man on the table. “This isn’t Jake Warring.”

Alphonso narrowed his eyes. “Of course it is.”

“No.” I grabbed the folder and flopped it open to a photo of the real Mr. Warring. “This—“ I tapped a finger on the picture, ”—is Jake Warring.”

Alphonso’s eyes narrowed even more. He grabbed the folder from my hand and squinted at the contents.

I gestured to the man on the table. “This man is nowhere near eighty-two, and he’s white.”

“Maybe someone put the wrong picture in this folder?”

I didn’t bother responding to Alphonso’s feeble attempt to save face. Instead, I strode to the walk-in refrigerator at the rear of the embalming room, threw open the door and pointed inside dramatically. “Mr. Warring is right there.” An elderly, African American man who looked suspiciously like the person in the photos lay on a gurney nestled up to one wall.

“Hmph.” Alphonso turned on his heel and marched out of the embalming room. The heavy metal door clanged to a close behind him.

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The post Excerpt from Splitting Hairs first appeared on Greta Boris Author.

The Feldman Sanatorium for Chronic Pain and Other Brain Disorders hovered over me like a kestrel. I had a mental image of the building sprouting wings, swooping down, plucking me off the sidewalk, and carrying me away to a private spot where it could tear me to shreds in peace.

Stop it. I gave my head a small shake.

It didn’t pay to let my brain wander wherever it wanted these days. According to El, I’d been paranoid ever since I’d discovered a poltergeist was dogging my steps. He was right. Poltergeists have that effect on people.

“This is it,” El said cheerfully. Too cheerfully.

“Really?” I was hoping he’d put the wrong address into the GPS.

“Really.” He took my hand and gave me a gentle pull toward the entrance. “The inside is nicer than the outside.”

Good news. The interior couldn’t be more gloomy than this dull brown and black facade.

El must have been reading my mind. He was good at that. He said, “They probably had to paint it those colors, historical accuracy and all that.”

Color schemes aside, I wasn’t excited about this visit. I didn’t like hospitals, even new, white, bright shiny ones. Worse yet, we were going to visit El’s mother. Again, he read my mind.

“I really appreciate you coming to see Mom with me.” El climbed the porch and towed me after him. “I know you and she didn’t hit it off.”

Didn’t hit it off was an understatement. Eleanor Brown wasn’t subtle about the fact that she wanted me out of her son’s life.

As we approached the house, I noted the top half of the front doors framed an elaborate stained glass image. A monk tending roses stood in the foreground. Bees buzzed around him. I wondered if the monk was the patron saint of something but had no time to ask. El opened a door and hurried inside, talking over his shoulder. “She asked to see you.”

I reluctantly followed. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “She wants to thank you.”

I’d learned a few things after bumbling into yet another murderer’s path recently and suggested the medicine Eleanor was taking for her migraines might have been the cause of other disturbing symptoms she was experiencing. I was right. She stopped taking the pills and the symptoms went away. Unfortunately, the migraines returned. Hence the reason we were visiting her today at the Feldman Sanatorium.

“That’s not necessary,” I mumbled.

El strode to a tall, dark-wood reception desk situated near a curved staircase. A woman who took her fashion cues from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest stood behind it. Hair, sticky with spray, framed her unsmiling face. An outdated, starched-white uniform covered a spine that might have been constructed from titanium.

“We’re here to see Eleanor Brown.” El flashed a disarming smile at her, to no effect. Interesting. Most people melted in the warmth of that smile. Not her.

I gazed around as the nurse checked the computer. The room we occupied had graceful, curved lines. I saw an arched doorway just past the stairs, and through it, a series of rooms, each painted a different color. The first was gold, the next celery green, then maroon. Past that, all I could see were windows. Several other doorways opened off the reception area. I assumed they also led to their own lineup of rooms like the limbs of a starfish.

The sanatorium had been built by Rodger Humboldt, a wealthy landowner, back in the early 1900s. It was a ridiculously large home for a family of five, but that’s what the rich did with their money in those days. These days, too, I guess. Humans feel the need to dress to impress, which often extends to their abodes. Probably due to their lack of fur and feathers.

Nurse Ratched, whose name tag read Nadine, tightened her already tight lips as if what she was about to say was distasteful. “She’s in room 22.”

“Thank you.” El patted the desk and moved toward the stairs.

I gripped the handrail tightly as we ascended, something that had become second nature the past month. Stairs, balconies, cliffs, anyplace with altitude, were especially terrifying when a poltergeist was plaguing you. It only took one stumble, one invisible push, and poof. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, as the funeral saying goes.

The second floor of the sanatorium wasn’t as well turned out as the first. The stairs led to a community room in which a TV blared Wheel of Fortune. One lone woman sat with her back to us on a nubby old couch, watching it. This room was round, similar to the entryway on the ground floor. It also had five hallways branching off it. El paused, glanced at each opening, and rubbed his chin.

“The one on the right?” I suggested.

He gave a half shrug and headed in that direction. There were six rooms in the right-hand hall, numbered one through six. We returned to the community room and tried the next hallway. If Feldman Sanatorium had a logical layout, the next series of rooms would’ve been seven through twelve, but they weren’t. They were numbered ten to sixteen, which made no sense at all. The next corridor held rooms seven through nine and seventeen through nineteen.

El’s brow furrowed in frustration when we returned to the community room. “Who numbered these things?”

“Maybe we should ask her where 22 is.” I nodded at the woman on the couch, still obviously engrossed in her game show.

“There are only five hallways,” he said. “Let’s not bother her.”

“Your mother’s room could be on the next floor.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but I’d stopped listening. I didn’t want to search the entire building for Eleanor, and it wasn’t because I was lazy. I felt like I was invading people’s privacy. The first hall we’d walked down, there’d been a white-haired woman laid out on her bed asleep, mouth wide open. Down the second, a man had sat in a window staring at the world with such a look of defeat on his face, I felt as if I’d seen into his soul, and it wasn’t pretty. Wandering around just didn’t seem right.

I stood behind the couch, so I couldn’t see the face of the woman who sat there. She might be dozing, but I decided to take a chance. “Excuse me,” I said.

She didn’t respond, so I raised my voice. “Excuse me.” Still no response. Maybe she was hard of hearing.

As I approached the couch, the scent of lilacs washed over me. Since I saw no flowers, I assumed it must be a favorite hand cream of the woman seated there. “Excuse me,” I said for a third time, but she didn’t turn. I placed a hand on her shoulder, brushing aside the salt and pepper hair that lay there in messy tangles, and gave her a gentle shake. That turned out to be a big mistake.

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The post Excerpt from Buzz Cut first appeared on Greta Boris Author.

A black body bag lay on the gurney. My hand crept toward the zipper. Our clients weren’t usually hidden from view. If one was, it couldn’t be pretty, but I was curious. I pulled the metal tab a few inches. An unpleasant scent wafted out, and dizziness washed over me.

“Alphonso?” I called from the refrigerator.

“Yes.” He yelled over the noise of the club music that was a constant whenever he was in Death Valley, our affectionate term for the basement of Greener Pastures Mortuary.

“Am I supposed to do anything for—“ I glanced at the tag on the bag. “Patricia Helm?”

“No. The funeral is in an hour. It’s a closed casket.”

I zipped the bag back up and headed out of the fridge. As I crossed the threshold, I tripped and stumbled into the embalming room. After I regained my balance, I glanced behind me. Weird. It almost felt as if someone shoved me, but there wasn’t anyone there.

Of course, there wasn’t. Alphonso, my supervisor, and I were the only living, breathing inhabitants in the basement at the moment.

“You okay?” He was disconnecting tubes from a machine that looked like an oversized blender. The scent of formaldehyde was in the air.

“Yeah, fine.” I pulled my gaze away from the refrigerator. “What happened to the body-bag lady?” I asked.

“She fell asleep in a Jacuzzi. The maid found her the next day.” He grimaced like he’d bitten into something bitter.

“Ugh.” I shuddered, my dislike of hot tubs reinforced. In my opinion, steeping in hot water should be reserved for tea bags. “How does that happen?”

“It happens.” Alphonso shuffled in his protective gear to the sink at the rear of the room. He dumped the hoses into it. “The champagne is perfectly chilled, the water a little too hot.”

“There was alcohol in her blood?” According to her file, Patricia Helm was a healthy, forty-seven-year-old woman, but I assumed she’d had an autopsy due to the nature of her death.

“And doxepin. Not a good combination.”

“Isn’t that for insomnia?”

“Or depression,” Alphonso said.

“She was a doctor, wasn’t she?”

“A dermatologist,” he said. “But doctors can be sad.”

“Still.” Another thought struck me. “The ME didn’t think it was suicide, did he?” Not that I had a lot of confidence in Conrad Schrader, the Orange County Medical Examiner. He might be good at his job, but he was a cad. I couldn’t prove it, but I believed he was involved in the corpse smuggling ring I stumbled into last month.

“No dermatologist would kill herself in a Jacuzzi.”

There was no arguing with that, so I dropped the subject. Instead, while Alphonso finished cleaning up his tools, I perused the file. I couldn’t get past the fact that a doctor should’ve known better than to combine alcohol and doxepin, never mind imbibe on that solution then jump into a hot tub.

The photos in the file showed an attractive woman with a suspiciously unlined forehead. I wondered if Botox could’ve played a role in her death. It was one of the most toxic substances known to man. I’d never understood the special form of insanity that caused people to inject it into their faces.

There were pictures of Dr. Helm with groups of friends on what appeared to be a cruise ship, at restaurants, and several of her posing with a cute little Pomeranian. None of the shots showed a man by her side and, from what I could see, she wasn’t wearing a ring. “Single?” I asked.

“Divorced.” Alphonso rolled the “R,” making divorce sound dark and ominous.

“Ah,” I said as if I understood why he’d rolled his “R,” which I didn’t. Maybe he thought divorce made it likely there’d been foul play. I was suddenly glad Dr. Helm wouldn’t be needing my services. Murder victims had a way of disturbing the routine of my life.

“Is Mr. Driscoll ready for me?” I jutted my chin toward the body he’d just finished embalming.

“I didn’t clean him.”

“I’ll do it.” I opened the closet that contained protective gear, removed a coverall and mask, and began to suit up. Now that I’d finished a full semester at Cavendish School of Mortuary Science, Alphonso had increased my duties at Greener Pastures. Previously, I’d only done the hair and make-up of the deceased. Now antiseptic baths and oil massages were added to my to-do list.

One of the requirements for licensure in California was to assist an embalmer with 100 human remains. A few months ago, I’d wondered if I’d ever reach that number. Someone had been stealing corpses out of Orange County funeral homes. Consequently, the public had been taking their loved ones to San Diego, Los Angeles, and Riverside counties rather than risk losing them. Things had been dead at Greener Pastures.

After a hair-raising experience, I’d helped crack that case, and business was finally picking up. It was heartening. I now had a hope and a prayer of becoming a mortician before I needed one.

Alphonso pulled off his headgear and smoothed his hair in the mirror. I checked his reflection reflexively. He looked so much like Bela Lugosi’s Dracula I couldn’t help myself.

“You leaving?” My mask muffled my voice.

He widened his eyes and laid a finger across his lips. “We’re shooting this afternoon. Don’t tell Carlton.”

Carlton Baldowski owned Greener Pastures, but he wouldn’t be overly concerned if I did tell him. A month or so ago, Alphonso had bagged his first movie deal since the early 2000s when he’d had bit parts in a couple of grade-B horror films. He was now Vampire Number Three in Bloody Midnight Two, which didn’t sound like a break-out role.

Alphonso plucked his phone from the speaker dock and the club music stopped mid-thump. Blessed silence reigned. We’d argued about the music when he’d first come on board, then came to a compromise. He’d turn down the volume if I’d stop nagging him about it. I did, and he did.

“See you tomorrow,” I said.

Alphonso threw a black scarf around his neck and glared at me from under hooded eyes for a long, drawn-out moment. “Tomorrow.” He whispered the word, spun on his heel and stalked from the embalming room. He was getting into character. He’d been doing stuff like that for the past three weeks. Hence, the reason I checked mirrors every time he was near one.

I padded over to Mr. Driscoll’s gurney with a big bottle of disinfectant. “This might be a little cold,” I said, as I squirted him down.

While talking to the deceased may seem strange to some, and definitely seemed strange to me when I started here, I’d learned a thing or two since then.

The first time I’d darkened the door of Death Valley, I was a hair stylist. One of my clients died and left a request for me to do her hair and makeup for her funeral. Honestly, I was creeped out by the suggestion, but Harry—my boss at Harry’s Hair Stop—assured me it was an honor. I’d also been strapped for cash at the time, so I’d agreed.

What happened next changed my life. Forever. I’d touched Trudy Rosenblum’s hair, and it was as if I’d touched a live wire. Rage and frustration coursed through me. I’d had no idea what had happened.

Since then, I’ve discovered—often the hard way—that when I touch the hair of the dead, I am inundated with their final sensations in life and some of their postmortem ones, too. Thankfully, the feelings fade fairly quickly.

Unless the person was murdered. If they were murdered, they won’t leave me alone until their killer is exposed. It’s a cry for justice, I guess.

Mr. Driscoll’s file said he’d died of natural causes, but one could never be too careful. I snapped on a thick pair of rubber gloves to protect myself from the natural and the supernatural spirits and got to work.

When he was squeaky clean, I applied lotion to his skin, followed by foundation. Alphonso was a reconstructive specialist, an artist with clay, but I was a makeup master. My goal was to give each and every client back to their families, gift-wrapped with care, even if it was only for one more day. In order to do that, I needed to make them look more than natural. I needed to make them look as close to the way they had in life as possible.

I patted Mr. Driscoll on the shoulder. “You look great.” My voice echoed off the tile walls of the embalming room. I understood why Alphonso felt the need for music as he worked. It had taken me a while to adjust to the lack of sound down here in the Valley, but now I welcomed the peace.

I felt more in tune with my clients when it was quiet. Unlike Alphonso, I understood they were often still in residence for a short time after their deaths, and I wanted them to know I respected them. While I wasn’t eager to touch their hair, I did like to establish a connection. Just not the kind that followed me home.

I wheeled Mr. Driscoll toward the fridge and hesitated. Its cold reached into the embalming room and into my bones. I’d been working in Greener Pastures for almost a year now. I was used to the dead, but a reluctance to enter our refrigeration room wrapped itself around me like a shroud.

I shook it off, walked inside, and settled Mr. Driscoll into his spot. As I turned to go, my gaze dropped to the body bag again. I paused.

It was possible that even though Dr. Helm’s body had been vacant for almost a week, she was still hovering nearby. I thought about my conversation with Alphonso regarding her death. It hadn’t been very respectful. I’d probably sounded judgy. I had been judgy. “Sorry,” I mumbled and fled from the room.

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The post Excerpt from A Permanent Solution first appeared on Greta Boris Author.

The skull bounced against my hip. “El, slow down.”

He turned to look at me and raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to break it,” I said.

He slowed his pace. “Sorry. Want me to carry it?”

We were trudging up a hill in North Laguna, a residential area of Laguna Beach, which is one of the wealthiest cities in Orange County, California, home of the original Real Housewives.

“No,” I said. “I got it.” Truth was, I didn’t want him to carry it any more than I wanted to. What I wanted was to put it back where it belonged and enjoy my life, or at least the day.

It was a beautiful December morning. The sun was shining. A breeze blew off the ocean. The scents of salt and jasmine were in the air. Laguna would be such a great place for a date, and we’d had so few of them. I loved the town’s artistic vibe, beautiful coves, and cute shops. I even loved the tourist traps. I didn’t love skulking around with a purloined skull.

“We’re almost there.” El took my hand, and I felt a familiar jolt of pleasure.

We’d only recently become an item. We’d been friends, best friends, for about six months. Two weeks ago, we realized how much we actually meant to each other. At least, I realized how much he meant to me. Apparently, he’d fallen for me the first time we met.

As happily in love as I was, the relationship wasn’t without its complications. One of those complications was the reason we were carrying a two-hundred-year-old skull up Myrtle Street.

We turned into an alley, and El pointed. “There it is.”

Three garages away was a wooden sign with burned lettering that read Laguna Beach Taxidermy. The sign was nailed onto the wall next to a green gate surrounded by pink bougainvillea. He pushed the gate open. A bell jangled our arrival, and we stepped through into a brick courtyard.

Laguna Beach is famous for tiny, un-permitted apartments located in garages and sheds or fabricated from the unused rooms of larger homes. Out of the ordinary was ordinary here, but I yanked El to a stop, needing a moment to take in my surroundings.

A fountain bubbled in the center of the courtyard. Nothing strange about that. It was what surrounded the fountain that had made me catch my breath. A panoply of bizarre animals posed as if leaping and cavorting on the bricks. There was a large cat with a chihuahua head. A threatening, masked raccoon flashing sharp teeth at one end, and dachshund hindquarters at the other. There were squirrel-puppies, parrot-kittens, and even a St. Bernard with a horse’s main and tail.

“What?” I couldn’t come up with a full sentence.

“Randy’s a little . . . “ El didn’t finish his sentence, either. “You’ll see.”

He led the way past the fountain to a peeling set of French doors and rapped on the glass. “Enter,” a low voice intoned.

I let El go first, for obvious reasons.

“Elmore, my man,” the low voice said. “Good to see you. How long has it been?”

I peered around El’s large back to get a glimpse of the speaker. Randy Newman—the FBI forensic anthropologist turned taxidermist, not the musician—was seated at a long, scarred table. A desk lamp pointed at a furry object I wasn’t anxious to examine, leaving his face in shadows.

“I think last time was the expo, wasn’t it?” El answered.

The shadow nodded, and I caught a glimpse of a blond beard. “Right. Right. Too long, anyway.”

Randy stood and walked into the thin light streaming through the French doors behind us. He was as tall as El, maybe six-foot three or four, and heavy; but where El’s bulk was mostly muscle, Randy’s seemed to run to fat. His size surprised me. I’d expected him to be short, though I’m not sure why. I think the song “Short People” had played in my head when I’d heard his name. His skin was pallid, his hair sparse and uncombed, and his clothes hung on him as though he’d recently lost weight.

The two men shook hands. Then Randy cocked his head to one side and smiled at me. “This must be Imogene.”

“Right.” I stepped around El and stuck out a hand. “That’s me.”

He shook my hand.

The smile dropped from Randy’s pale face, and suddenly he was all business. “So, what do you have for me?”

El glanced my way, and I removed the wrapped skull from the Greener Pastures Mortuary tote bag I’d hung over my shoulder and handed it to Randy. He received it reverently, turned, and placed it on his workbench, tipping the gooseneck lamp so its light shone on the package.

He lifted the folds of the towel as if he were opening a valuable gift, carefully and slowly. When the brown bones were revealed, he frowned. “Where did you find this?”

A wave of irritation swept over me and set my skin itching. This had been happening ever since I’d touched the damn thing. I scratched my arms.

“In the crypt,” El said. “The one they just found under the Mission in San Juan Capistrano.”

Randy’s eyes cut to El’s face. “Thought that hadn’t been excavated yet.”

“It hasn’t.”

“Then . . . ?”

“I’m the night watchman.” El paused. I could tell he was searching for a way to explain what had happened without really explaining what had happened. “I didn’t think there’d be any harm in showing Imogene the antechamber, her being in the business and all.”

He was being nice. I’d begged him to let me in, and now I was paying for it. Curiosity killed the cat and all that.

Randy looked at me, a new respect dawning in his red-rimmed eyes. “You’re an archeologist?”

“Oh, no.” I shook my head as I dug my nails into my wrist to stop the crawling sensations running up and down my arms. “I’m the head embalmer’s assistant at Greener Pastures Mortuary.”

The respect disappeared. Randy returned his gaze to the skull. It stared back at him. “So you popped into an archeological site you were hired to guard and took a memento?”

“It wasn’t like that,” El sputtered. He was a very law-abiding citizen. So law-abiding, he was studying to become an actual law enforcement officer. Any hint of accusation incensed him.

“What was it like?” Randy’s tone was droll.

“There’s a stack of skulls in the entrance in, like, a design. You know?”

A flash of memory filled me as he described it, the musty smells, the mysterious structure made of bones, the thrill of malfeasance. I was normally an avid rule follower, but this . . . This was so tempting, and it seemed so innocent. Figured, the one time I indulged in a minor peccadillo, everything went to hell.

“Like the Catacombs in Paris?” Randy asked.

“Yeah,” El agreed. “Only on a much smaller scale.”

“Nobody’s counted yet, but there couldn’t be more than a couple of hundred skulls. Nothing like Paris,” I chimed in.

“So they’ll be more likely to notice if one’s missing,” Randy said, in an oddly faraway tone.

“It fell, okay?” Irritation laced El’s voice. “If you don’t want to help us . . . “ He took a step toward the table.

The reason it fell made my face burn, but Randy didn’t seem to notice.

He raised a hand. “I’ll take a look at it, but don’t get me involved. Okay? Whatever I find, I won’t repeat it to authorities.”

I pressed myself against El’s side and felt his ribs expand and contract as he blew out a relieved breath. “Of course. This is for us. We want to know.”

“I won’t ask why.”

It was my turn to exhale. There were only two people in the world who knew about my gift—or my curse—El and myself. And I wasn’t planning to make it public.

“How long?” I asked. I was eager to get the skull back into its place before anyone noticed the gaping hole in the structure composed of skulls and femurs.

“I have to finish this.” Randy waved at the pile of fur I’d noticed earlier. I looked away, not wanting to see what it was, and my gaze rested on a tall Afghan hound. It was so lifelike, I started, but like the rest of the creatures in this macabre zoo, it was stuffed.

“What are you working on?” El stepped closer. I didn’t think he cared what Randy was doing, just trying to move the conversation off our project.

“I’m creating a mock platypus for a museum of oddities in Nevada.” He stroked the fur lovingly. “I’m sure you heard that when George Shaw saw his first deceased platypus, he thought it was a joke, something stitched together by a local to pull the wool over his eyes. Then he discovered it was real.”

“I’d never heard that,” El said.

I had. I didn’t remember where. Some long ago history book, but I didn’t interrupt.

“The museum got a real taxidermy platypus, then asked me to create one from various animal parts to see if their patrons could guess which was the real deal.”

“That’s how you make your money?” The words escaped my lips before I realized how rude they must sound. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

Randy cut me off. “No worries. It is a strange profession. I don’t mind talking about it. I make the bulk of my income from the taxidermy of beloved pets for owners who have more money than they know what to do with.”

He gestured to the Afghan hound. “That little beauty got hit by a car last week, but she’ll live on in the home of her irresponsible owners for years.”

“What about the rest?” I nodded toward the bubbling fountain in the courtyard.

“My zoo?” He grinned. “Those I sell online and in novelty shops. It’s surprising how many people are in the market for a dachsy-coon or a Maine Coon-huahua.”

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he raised a hand like a stop sign. “Before you start lecturing me, all the parts come from road kills. I never harm living animals. I don’t even eat meat.”

I had more questions, like how did an FBI agent wind up making monstrosities, but El interrupted. “Sorry to break this up, but I have to get to work.”

I glanced at my watch, a gift from Gran for my twenty-seventh birthday. I had to be moving on myself. I’d told Alfonso, my boss, I’d be in by eleven. Randy promised we’d hear from him in a day or two, and we left, skirting past the crazy menagerie and out into the sunshine beyond.

The post Excerpt from Bald-Headed Lies first appeared on Greta Boris Author.

It’s hard to build a business when your clients keep dying. Take this morning for instance. Harry—he’s the owner of the salon I work in—handed me a note. My 10:15 canceled. Last minute. And I couldn’t even get mad at her. She was dead.

I waded to my aqua-blue, faux-leather chair through a sea of gossip, dumped my patent leather purse in the cupboard under the lighted mirror, and sat. My reflection stared back at me, wearing an annoyed expression. I adjusted it to solemn.

I felt heartless. Honestly, I liked Trudy. She was one of my favorites, but when all your clients are seventy-five and over, you can’t let yourself get too attached.

Maddy glanced my way and batted her eyelashes, quite an accomplishment considering the amount of mascara she coated them with. “You heard about Trudy?”

I nodded. “Third one in seven months.”

“It’s going around.”

“I’m starting to feel like a jinx.”

“It’s not just you, sweetie. We’ve all lost at least one.”

“Imogene.” Harry’s smoker’s voice bounced off the checkered linoleum floors and yellow walls. He only called me Imogene when he was with a client.

��Yes, Harry,” I said.

“Can you take a walk-in?”

My spirits lifted. Maybe the morning wouldn’t be a total loss after all. In the mirror I saw Harry, hips swishing dangerously close to Camille’s shears, coming toward me. Behind him was a fragile looking, white-haired lady—guesstimate eighty-five. I sighed.

“This is Imogene,” he said to her. “Don’t let the tattoo fool you. She’s one of our best.”

The white-haired lady eyed the Rosie the Riveter tat on my right bicep. A frown formed on her face. I don’t think she approved, but she hiked herself into the chair with Harry’s help.

“So what can I do you for?” I immediately regretted the stupid expression. I’d picked it up from my grandmother’s boyfriend, Phil. He’s a walking cliché. A nice one, but still, he’s contagious.

The woman patted her short curls and said, “I need a toner. My hair has gone brassy.”

Ah, a blue-hair. She must have moved to Orange County from a small town where they still turned their seniors into Smurfs.

A half hour later, my new lady wore blue hair and a grimace I believed was intended to be a smile. “Very nice,” she said, and handed me a tip. Five percent—which must have been the going rate in the forties. I loved my seniors, but most of them were stuck in the past when it came to tipping. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to afford my own place at this rate.

I had an appointment to check out a studio after work. It was small, one room and a kitchenette. Fingers crossed, I might be able to swing the rent. I had a little nest egg put away I hoped would be enough for first and last and a security deposit. My monthly income at Harry’s was inconsistent, what with the increased attrition and all. Consequently, I still lived with my grandmother, which was a whole other problem.

After the Smurf lady left, I walked to the front desk to check on my schedule. Harry was on the phone. “Of course, of course,” he said. “She’d be honored. Harry’s Hair Stop is honored.”

I hoped I wasn’t the she he was referring to. My experience with Harry had taught me if honor was being offered, payment wasn’t. “Genie, darling, I have a special event for you.” I was the she, then.

“Yes?” I said, cautiously optimistic. Special events could be lucrative.

“Gertrude Rosenblum requested you for her funeral.”

I stared at Harry, who didn’t look up from the papers he was shuffling. I had the impression he was avoiding my gaze.

“Trudy is dead,” I said.

“If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t need you for her funeral, would she?”

“I’m sorry, Harry. I don’t understand what you’re saying. Am I supposed to style the pallbearers? Her family? Trim the priest? What?”

His eyes finally meet mine. “No. Trudy wants a wash, blow dry, and her makeup done.” I’d heard about stylists taking funeral gigs, but I’d never known anyone who did it.

“You’ll be overseen by one of the mortuary staff, and they’ll prepare the, ah, Trudy, for you. She requested you, Genie. It’s an honor.”

I wished he’d stop with the honor stuff. “I don’t…” I didn’t know how to end the sentence. I don’t feel comfortable? I don’t know how to do up a corpse? I don’t want to? All were true.

“Genie.” Harry shook his head, disappointment etched into his features. I hated it when he called me Genie. No one but my grandmother was allowed that level of familiarity. “You wouldn’t deny a woman’s dying wish, would you?”

Why did he have to put it that way? He waited for a beat and, when I didn’t respond, said, “Good. You need to be at Greener Pastures by five on Friday. The service is Saturday morning—open casket. I’m counting on you to make Trudy look her best. The funeral director said we could put business cards by the guest book.”

I tried to swallow, but there was no moisture in my mouth. Then a vision of a mailbox with my name on it entered my mind. I managed to rasp out my one burning question. “How much?”  

Get it on Amazon

The post Excerpt from To Dye For first appeared on Greta Boris Author.

If you’re new to WordPress you may be wondering what’s the big deal behind Pages and Posts. At first glance they appear to be one and the same: if you were to create either a new page or a new post you’d be presented with nearly identical interfaces and in many cases the public appearance of pages and posts will look the same.

Don’t let this fool you. There’s a very fundamental difference between the two and that difference is what makes CMSs, like WordPress, great platforms for integrating blogs with traditional websites.

Think about the kind of pages that make up a typical website. Most often you’ll see pages like “Home”, “About Us”, “Services”, “Contact Us”, etc. Within WordPress these are often treated as Pages; documents that have no particular regard for the time they were posted.

For example, when you visit the “About Us” page of your favorite company’s website you don’t expect the content to be very different from what was available there a week ago.

Now take a moment to think of your favorite news website. A news site is an ideal example of when you’d expect content to be different from the last time you visited — after all, news just wouldn’t be news if it weren’t current. In the case of news sites, Posts are most often used to write articles.

When you publish a post within WordPress it knows to treat the post differently than the way it treats a page. For example, when you enable a blog within your BoldGrid theme, it will list all of your published posts in reverse chronological order on your Blog page.

Your BoldGrid site can contain both pages and posts, i.e. you may have an “About Author” page to compliment your weekly blog. When done well, utilizing pages and posts in this way can help you build a more engaging experience for your visitors.

The post Blogging 101 first appeared on .

If you write about a variety of subjects, categories can help your readers find the posts that are most relevant to them. For instance, if you run a consulting business, you may want some of your posts to reflect work you’ve done with previous clients, while having other posts act as informational resources. In this particular case, you can set up 2 categories: one labeled Projects and another labeled Resources. You’d then place your posts in their respective categories.

Categories are accessible from the post editor. There you can create new categories and assign them to your posts.

Tags, on the other hand, allow you to label your posts with relevant topics. For instance, within one of your resource posts you may choose to write about a set of project management tools. While you can certainly create a new category called “Project Management Tools,” you may not plan to write about the topic often enough to justify giving it a dedicated category. Instead, you may want to tag your post with several topics that exists within the post; e.g. project management tools, communication, time tracking, etc.

What’s great about tags is that they are searchable and provide your users another way to find content on your site. Anyone searching for “project management tools” will be able to locate any posts you’ve tagged with those words!

The post Basic Taxonomies first appeared on .

If you’re considering adding a blog to your site, you’ll want to have a plan beforehand. Planning your blog will help your subject matter remain consistent over time. It’ll also help you determine whether or not there’s enough material to maintain a steady stream of posts.

One pitfall many new bloggers run into is starting a blog that isn’t posted to frequently enough. A shortage of recent posts can give your visitors a bad impression of your business. One may think “I wonder if they’re still in business” or “they may want to hire a writer.”

A blog, like any other customer facing aspect of your business, communicates your brand. If it isn’t maintained and given proper attention, people will notice. Post regularly and keep your content fresh. Give your audience a reason to visit often.

While on the topic of audiences, you’ll likely want to identify yours early on. If your blog is going to be set up to compliment a business, your target audience will likely be the same as your consumer base; you’re then writing for the same people that buy your product. You’ll want to allow any marketing material you’ve used inform the style and tone of your writing. Think of your blog as an extension of your company’s brand.

If, on the other hand, your business is completely new or you don’t happen to be selling anything in particular, this is the time to start thinking about your brand …

The post Tips For Better Writing first appeared on .

1

JUNE 3RD

My cage is gilded. Like the proverbial songbird, I have everything I could ever want except freedom. The meals I’m served are delicious. The pictures on my walls, expensive. Even my bedding is the highest thread count money can buy. I don’t care. All I want is out.

If that’s going to happen, I’m going to have to engineer it, cleverly, creatively, because they don’t want me to leave. They believe, wrongly I think, that I’m too valuable.

I’ve always thought being a commodity was something to be aspired to. Who doesn’t wish to be treasured? I now know that coin has two sides, heads and tails. Heads is the winning side of the equation, the only side most of us have ever imagined. It’s the only side I’d ever considered.

Coins can be spent, or they can be hoarded. When they’re spent, they circulate, moving from admiring hand to admiring hand. When they’re hoarded, they’re locked in a secret place, held for some future imagined or real event. Heads, I win. Tails, I lose. Tails has become my life.

2

Everyone wore black but Willow. How stupid could she be? Even the universe seemed to understand the need for adherence to tradition. The day wore gloom like a shroud, the priest’s white collar neon against its leaden sky. She tugged her green blazer tighter around herself, hoping to cover more of her cream silk blouse.

Willow cast a glance at Jonathan, who stood granite still next to her. His blue eyes, almost iridescent in the colorless surroundings, were dry, his square jaw tense. Only the pallor of his face gave any indication of his emotion.

Her gaze roamed the rest of the group gathered at the grave. They were as somber as their clothing, each appearing deep in their own dark thoughts, expressions unreadable. Not even Hamish’s widow or daughter shed a tear. Note to self—the wealthy do their crying in private.

She’d expected this event to be well attended. Hamish Lauder was rich if not loved, and well-known with Orange County’s elite, but his funeral was as tight-fisted as the man had been. She squeezed Jonathan’s arm in sympathy.

The priest nodded his head toward Gerry, Hamish’s widow. Jonathan tugged Willow’s hand, dropped it, then hurried to his mother’s side. Gerry and Jonathan walked together toward the yawning hole in the otherwise perfectly groomed lawn. Was Willow supposed to follow?

She stood still, wishing she’d worn something more appropriate, wishing she knew what to do. Gerry plucked a white rose from a vase balanced in the grass and let it fall into the abyss. Jonathan glanced at Willow over his shoulder and widened his eyes meaningfully before doing the same, and after a quiet moment the two resumed their places.

He leaned toward Willow when he reached her side and lowered his voice. “Why didn’t you come with me?”

Her answer was a small shake of her head. She didn’t go because she’d have felt like a Protestant taking communion at a Catholic mass. This wasn’t her clan, her people. They’d had this discussion before, and he hadn’t understood her feelings then. Now wasn’t the time to tackle the topic again.

A rustle of fabric drew Willow’s attention. Chloe, Jonathan’s beautiful twin, and her fiancé walked up the grassy aisle to the grave. Mat and Chloe had only been engaged a month and a half longer than Willow and Jonathan, but he seemed perfectly at ease with the Lauders.

Of course, he had money. Mateo Avila was a pediatrician. He was also descended from one of the first Spanish families of Southern California. Willow was descended from a Kentucky firefighter and a chef who specialized in Southern fusion food.

Mat’s suit probably cost more than she paid for three months’ rent, and Chloe’s outfit—a flowing, black dress with an edge of lace peeking from the hem—more than Willow’s annual grocery budget. They looked cool, sophisticated, and elegant. Willow shifted her weight until her pilling gray wool slacks were halfway hidden behind Jonathan.

After Chloe and Mat paid their respects, Hamish’s brother, his rabbit-faced wife, and his pale daughter each threw a rose into the dark hole. Willow had met them briefly at Sunset House the month before. The daughter’s name was Ophelia. Willow remembered it because the Shakespearean association was so apt. According to Jonathan, Ophelia was the crazy cousin every family had and tried to hide.

The final flower was tossed into the grave by an olive-skinned, hollow-eyed woman of about Willow’s age. The priest stood, gave a short homily, prayed, then announced the reception following at Sunset House. Nobody gave a eulogy.

Months ago, when Willow’s father, Booker, was in the hospital, fear had painted visions of his death and burial in her mind. If her father had died—thank god he hadn’t—she was sure the entire fire department would have turned out for the funeral, along with the neighborhood and the entire large, unruly, extended Wells family. Eulogies would go on for hours amid tears and laughter and toasts to his memory .

Hamish’s family turned away from the grave site without a backwards glance. Everyone made their way toward the cars parked along the cemetery’s narrow streets. The clicking of their hard-soled shoes echoed in the holy hush. Willow gripped Jonathan’s arm. She’d been a bit off-balance lately, and her kitten heels weren’t helping. “How are you doing?” she said under her breath.

Jonathan inhaled deeply as if he were going to speak then tightened his lips. He’d been opaque since his father’s death. A neutral veil had slid over his face, masking his emotions. The death had been a surprise, but not a shock. After Hamish’s first stroke, the doctor had warned the family another could come at any time. Willow had assumed Jonathan was ready for this eventuality, but now she wasn’t sure. Grief, anger, denial, whatever he was feeling was a mystery to her. He wasn’t sharing.

“I think I should call an Uber,” Willow said.

Jonathan stopped walking and stared at her. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“I don’t belong in the limo.”
“Of course you do. You’re my fiancee.”
“I’m not family yet.”
He placed his free hand on the small bump hidden beneath her blazer. “You’re carrying family. That’s more than Mat can say.” He removed his hand quickly, tugged her arm, and began walking again. Willow tumbled forward, righted herself, and hurried along beside him.

She might be carrying Hamish’s grandchild, but nobody knew it. They’d planned to break the news to Jonathan’s parents when Hamish recovered from his first stroke. He’d died before they’d had the chance, and it didn’t seem appropriate to bring it up now.

They reached the limo after Gerry, Chloe, and Mat had been seated. As Willow slid inside, she noticed the woman who’d thrown the last rose unlocking a car across the narrow road. Tears streaked her face. Someone had loved Hamish, then. Who was she?

The fifteen-minute ride from San Juan Capistrano to San Clemente was silent and awkward. It was a relief when the wrought iron gates of Sunset House opened and the parade of vehicles processed through. A staff of four, all dressed in somber black uniforms, met them at the top of the circular drive. It looked like a scene from Downton Abby.

The first time Willow had visited Sunset House, she’d been in awe. She hadn’t been raised in poverty, far from it. Her upbringing was very middle class. She hadn’t had everything she’d wanted, but she’d had everything she’d needed. Sunset House was a fairy tale. It was full of things you never knew you should want until you saw them.

House was a misnomer, though. It was an estate. Behind its high walls and locked gates were several buildings. The main house, or hacienda, was horseshoe shaped—a two story building encircling a courtyard of fountains and flowers. There was also a botanical conservatory, two unattached garages that housed six to ten cars each, a pool house, a garden shed that could sleep a family of five, and a library. The property bordered the Pacific Ocean, hence its name. The sunset view was breathtaking.

The post An Excerpt from The Key of Greed appeared first on Greta Boris.