They say retirement kills. And it looks that way in MERRY ACRES, a planned community in South Florida for the over-fifty-five crowd. Husbands are dropping fast. Georgiana Duncan wonders who will next wear the black veil of widowhood. Should she be worried....or happy about such dire prospects? Perhaps, like Georgiana, other wives in Merry Acres have secrets, too. Skeletons rattling around personal closets that so mar the gloss of happily-ever-after that only murder can make amends.
Read an excerpt!I recognized him as that unmarried detective Augusta introduced in the Indian restaurant. I called the waiter over and ordered coffee and the sweet. Maybe I could work up enough nerve to approach the detective about my theory on The Gazette hit and run, and the resent spate of Merry Acres deaths.
When he ordered the salad, I looked in his direction. I glanced his way now and then, but my feet refused to move. Instead, I accidentally emptied an envelope of sugar into the coffee and stirred and stirred. When I put the spoon down, I took a breath, and walked the couple of feet to his booth.
He looked up. “Yes?” His salutation was brief and impatient.
“Hello. I was wondering if I could talk to you a minute about some odd goings on in Merry Acres.”
“I suppose so.” His dark eyes appeared glazed. He blew his red, bulbous nose.
I stood well back. “Cold?”
“Allergies.”
“Melaleuca blossoms?”
He nodded.
“A South Florida curse. For some.”
“Sure are.”
“You don’t remember me, but I was in Punjab Palace a while ago. I was having lunch that day with Augusta St. James of the—”
“I know who she is.” The waiter appeared and held a salad in the air as if uncertain what to do. “Your coffee is getting colder by the minute, and I’m hungry.” He looked at the waiter. “Why don’t you serve me and bring the lady’s coffee and dessert over here. Frees up a table for you, too.”
“Thanks.” I slid into the booth across from him and watched the waiter comply with the man’s directives.
I looked down, averting my gaze when he stabbed a forkful of salad so as to not watch him eat. “I’m sorry to invade your privacy.”
He hitched his shoulders. “How can I help you?”
I felt my neck and face light up in a raging blush that extended to my hairline.
“Relax, the only thing I’m biting today is this salad. The baklava here is good. Eat yours.”
His comment made me a little less nervous so I cut the tip from the diamond shaped sweet and forked a tiny bite, savoring the nuts and flaky phyllo dough. I wiped my mouth with the new napkin the waiter provided. “How much is left on my face?”
“It’s all gone. You’re safe, at least until the next bite.” He winked.
That put me more at ease. “I live in Merry Acres. You know about Mr. Mendez, of course. That business with the tire iron. Well, I was wondering about—”
I stopped talking because the man’s expression changed. He wasn’t kidding around or winking now, that was certain.
“About what?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy, but I was wondering if maybe the recent deaths that looked like natural causes or accidents, and ruled that way, really were…accidents or natural causes.”
“I have no idea which deaths you mean, but nothing on my desk, and I work homicides, pertains to that planned community, except Mendez.”
“I’ll just go.” I felt foolish. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Wait a minute. Finish your coffee and dessert.”
Since it was more a command than request, I took another tiny bite. I’d ruined the coffee by adding too much sugar.
“I have a question for you in return. I’m not sure Ms. St. James introduced us, if so, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Mrs. Daniel Duncan. Georgiana.” I actually gulped. This was ridiculous. I was almost a decade older than this guy, but he made me feel as if I were six years old. “What’s your question, officer?”
“You’ve forgotten my name, too. It’s Detective Morgan. Mike Morgan. And, for the record, I hate the name ‘Mikey'. Where’d you hear about a tire iron?” He continued eating.
I stammered. “I-I read it in the papers, didn’t I?”
He put his fork down. He looked hard at me. “No, you didn’t.”
Read the reviews!"...I enjoyed the witty dialogue and wonderful characterization as much as trying to figure out, who did it."--Night Owl Reviews"Well-written, fast-paced, and clever, Merry Acres Widows Waltz is a must-read for anyone who enjoys curling up with a good mystery."--The Book ChickPURCHASE MERRY ACRES WIDOWS WALTZ AT AMAZON! ALSO AVAILABLE IN A KINDLE EDITION!A native Texan, Nan Arnold worked for a life insurance agency and it was here she garnered her first commercial writing success. She created an office procedures manual which the home office issued to all its agencies. For that Nan got a bonus, and the writing bug.
A move to Florida landed her a position as assistant purchasing agent for a petrochemical engineering firm. Later she tried out the other side of the negotiating desk and went to work for a manufacturer's rep-whom she married.
Nan joined Romance Writers Of America and started writing novel-length fiction. Her work finaled in several RWA chapter-sponsored contests as well as back to back finals in The PACIFIC NORTHWEST WRITERS ASSOCIATION’S annual literary competition, adult genre and romance genre respectively. She is published is women’s fiction, romance, and mystery.
Nan, hubby, and cats recently moved to Georgia upon her husband's retirement. Nan is taking a year off from the nine to five life to write full time while doing the "for better, for worse, and for lunch thing".
You can visit Nan online at www.nandarnold.com/.
