Lowell
Strudemeyer had a death wish. Then, he runs head-on into the bad attitude of
Jasmine Chandler. Now he has a project.
EXCERPT: Beware the Bones
Becoming
concerned that the trip may have been wasted time, she backed away and thought,
now
what?
The
only thing left to do was walk around to the back of the house and check there.
But before she could take a single step the front door swung open with a jerk
and whoosh. There, swaying side to side, was a man who appeared drunk, just
past middle age, sporting a scruffy five or six-day growth of salt and pepper
whiskers, red eyes framed in dark circles and thick shoulder length unruly
silver hair. Sort of a James Brolin meets W. C. Fields look. But that silly
smile is Clark Gable for sure.
Straightening
to a formal posture, “I’m here to see Mister Strudemeyer. Is he in?”
The
man grinned and swayed.
This
guy may have broken into the Strudemeyer home and, maybe, even harmed the
doctor. She took a tentative backward step.
“I’m
sho shorry. The doctor is dead.” He dropped his head with a pitiful sad look.
She
took another step back becoming out-right scared. “When...did he die?”
“A
few sheconds after I told the hospital board I was retiring.” He snickered,
blowing spit from between pursed lips. He stabbed the air with an emphatic
finger. “I am a phoenix. From Doctor Strudemeyer’s ashes rose Mishter Strudemeyer.”
Jasmine
flushed with anger. “Doctor...Mister Strudemeyer—”
“Call
me Lowell.”
Ignoring
the request, “Mister Strudemeyer, I’m here as a representative of the
archaeology department from the University of Southern California. I have a
release form—”
“What’s
your name, darlin’?”
“My
name is Jasmine Chandler and I prefer you not call me darling.” Like most men,
he was rude, arrogant and, on top of that, soused. Suddenly, it occurred to
her, an angry response might jeopardize getting his signature. Taking measured
breaths, she closed her eyes and recomposed. “Look, all I need is for you to
sign this release form. “Would you please read it and—”
“Jasmine
is shuch a beautiful name.” He stared off into space over her head and leaned
against the door jamb. “Jasmine...shuch a shweet smellin’ flower.” He sucked in
a large breath, as if smelling the blossom.
“Mister
Strudemeyer, please. I need you to hear and understand what I’m saying.”
He
shook a finger at her. “Do you know what shmells better than jasmine, though?
Shwee’pea...the most divine of all fragrances.”
“Sweetpea...you’re
trying to say sweetpea.” Like it or not, she was drawn into an unwanted
conversation. She folded her arms in the first challenge to his
less-than-courteous attitude.
“That’s
what I shaid. Shwee’pea.” With a finger
that seemed to float unattached, he pointed toward the unkempt mass of blossoms
around the fountain. “If you don’t believe me go shmell for yourself.”
She
glanced back. “I just came from over there and I know what it smells like. I’ll
not be sniffing it again.” She took an aggressive step forward to press her
cause but his liquored breath hit her in the face before she could speak.
“Maybe the stench of the fountain wasn’t so bad after all,” she muttered
twisting her head to the side and returning to her beginning spot on the porch.
“Mister Strudemeyer, I’ve driven over an hour to get here for a simple
signature. Would you please extend me the courtesy of just one minute to
explain why we need it?”
Swimming
eyes that couldn’t focus was all she saw. He probably didn’t comprehend the
question.
Jasmine’s
rosy cheeks darkened. She bristled, moving closer to losing control. Lack of
alternatives propelled a worsening attitude.
The
drunkard responded out of synch. “May I call you Shwee’pea?” He leaned his head
against the door jamb in a mock show of adoration.
Inevitably,
it happened. She redlined and hit that point of no return, barreling toward an
angry explosion.
“No
sir! You sure as hell may not call me Sweetpea, or darlin’, or—or any other pet
name that tumbles out of that liquored-up brain! My name is Jasmine Chandler
and you, sir, are a drunken,
arrogant ass!” She leaned in and got in his face. “Care for me to repeat that?
You’re a drunken arrogant ass!”
BLURB:
All Ethan Lee
wants to do over summer vacation is spend his time swimming on the family farm
at the bend on Meandering Creek. In this idyllic setting, Ethan meets a stranger, a familiar young man
that he can’t quite place. This likeable young man charms the youngster into a
fast friendship deflecting every attempt Ethan makes to determine who he is,
where he comes from and why he keeps showing up. And, how does this guy know so
much about his family? Ethan has no clue at the beginning, just how interesting
his tenth summer was destined to become, the final summer in an age of
innocence.
Author Bio:
A lifelong
Texan, Daniel Lance Wright is a freelance fiction writer and novelist born in
Lubbock, Texas now residing in Clifton, Texas. He lives with Rickie, his wife
of 46 years, has two children, and four grandchildren. Having spent the first
nineteen years of his life on a cotton farm on the South Plains of Texas and
the next thirty-two in the television industry, he has seen the world from two
distinctly different angles. Daniel has received recognition for writing skills
from The Oklahoma Writers Federation in 2005, 2006, 2010, and 2011; from Art
Affair in 2008; from Frontiers in Writing in 2004; from Canis Latran of
Weatherford College in 2011; and from The Indie Excellence Book Awards in 2013.
SOCIAL LIINKS
Website URL: (blog serves as website)
Blog URL: daniellancewright.blogspot.com
Facebook
page: facebook.com/DanielLanceWright
Twitter
handle: twitter.com/dlw1150
No comments:
Post a Comment