Showing posts with label mystery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mystery. Show all posts

Read an Excerpt from Rosemary and Larry Mild's mystery 'Death Rules the Night'


Genre: 
Mystery

Website: http://www.magicile.com


Publisher: Magic Island Literary Works

Find out more HERE.

About the Book:
 

In Death Rules the Night, the fourth Dan and Rivka Sherman mystery, Rosemary and Larry Mild deliver a smart, suspenseful tale that will keep readers spellbound.

 

About Death Rules the Night: Reluctant sleuths Dan and Rivka yearn for a tranquil life as owners of The Olde Victorian Bookstore in Annapolis, Maryland. When copies of a tell-all book on the prominent Atkins family go missing from the bookstore, from all the local libraries, and even from the author’s bookshelves, Dan wants to know why. But the price of “why” brings threats, stalking, break-ins—and a brutal murder. He and Rivka fear for their lives.

 

The Atkins family secrets are weaving a sinister web. Tom Dwyer, a retired truck driver, is ready to confess to a crime that he and Frank Mulhaney, another driver, committed twenty years ago. Frank plots revenge on Tom. Bookstore clerk Ivy hears ugly gossip aimed at derailing her wedding. Will the family secrets finally see the light of day? And will the killer ever be caught?

 

Death Rules the Night is a tightly woven, cleverly plotted tale with an irresistible cast of characters—including Lord Byron, the wily bookstore cat who springs his own surprise.

 


About the Authors:


ROSEMARY AND LARRY MILD, cheerful partners in crime, coauthor mystery, suspense, and fantasy fiction.  Rosemary and Larry have published award-winning novels, short stories, and essays. They co-authored the popular Paco and Molly Mystery Series; Hawaii adventure/thrillers Cry Ohana and Honolulu Heat; and three volumes of short stories, many of which appear in anthologies. After forty-plus years in Maryland, the Milds currently make their home in Honolulu, where they cherish time with their daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren. 

 

ROSEMARY, a graduate of Smith College and former assistant editor of Harper’s, also delves into her own nonfiction life. She published two memoirs: Love! Laugh! Panic! Life With My Mother and the acclaimed Miriam’s World—and Mine, for the beloved daughter they lost in the terrorist bombing of Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. On her lighter side, Rosemary also writes award-winning humorous essays, such as failing the test to get on Jeopardy; and working for a giant free-spending corporation on a sudden budget: “No new pencil unless you turn in the old stub.”  


LARRY, who was only called Lawrence when he’d done something wrong, graduated from American University in Information Systems Management. In 2019 he published his autobiography, No Place To Be But Here: My Life and Times, which traces his thirty-eight-year professional engineering career from its beginning as an electronics technician in the U.S. Navy, to a field engineer riding Navy ships, to a digital systems/instrument designer for major Government contractors in the signal analysis field, to where he rose to the most senior level of principal engineer when he retired in 1993.


Making use of his past creativity and problem-solving abilities, Larry naturally drifted into the realm of mystery writing, where he also claims to be more devious than his partner in crime and best love, Rosemary. So he conjures up their plots and writes the first drafts, leaving Rosemary to breathe life into their characters and sizzle into their scenes. A perfect marriage of their talents.


THE MILDS are active members of Sisters in Crime where Larry is a Mister in Crime; Mystery Writers of America; and Hawaii Fiction Writers. In 2013 they waved goodbye to Severna Park, Maryland and moved to Honolulu, Hawaii, where they cherish quality time with their daughters and grandchildren. When Honolulu hosted Left Coast Crime in 2017, Rosemary and Larry were the program co-chairs for “Honolulu Havoc.”


Over a dozen worldwide trips to Japan, China, Australia, New Zealand, Thailand, Cambodia, Burma, Great Britain, France, Italy, Israel, Egypt, and more have wormed their way into their amazing stories. In their limited spare time, they are active members of the Honolulu Jewish Film Festival committee, where Larry is the statistician and recordkeeper for their film ratings.  


Connect with the authors on the web:

https://www.magicile.com

https://www.facebook.com/rosemary.mild.1

https://www.linkedin.com/in/rosemary-mild-930



Brother and Sister

 from Death Rules the Night by Rosemary and Larry Mild


Cora drove her bright green Mercedes SL Class convertible up to the Annapolis Waterfront Hotel entrance and turned the car over to a young, good-looking valet parker, who tried unsuccessfully to flirt with her. Inside the lobby, she ignored the reception desk and headed straight for the elevator. Dressed in a navy business suit, she made her way directly to room 233. She knocked rapidly four times and waited.

“Who’s there?” a deep male voice answered. 

“Your sister.” 

Muddy opened the door and blinked twice. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

“That’s no way to greet your sister. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” 

“Sister schmister. What the hell are you up to? You’re not one to make social calls, especially not to me. Out with it, woman. You must want something from me.” 

“Of course not, dear brother. It’s just that I hadn’t heard from you in several days, and I wanted to thank you for handling the movers at the old house. It sure made our lives a lot easier on moving day. At first, I wondered why you volunteered, but then I realized that you were just being nice.” 

“Meaning you thought I was acting out of character?” he asked. His sarcastic tone was not missed. 

“Don’t get me wrong, Muddy. Motive aside, you were appreciated. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to come in and sit down.” 

“Of course, my manners seem to be malfunctioning today.” His hand swept through a healthy arc, showing her the way in. 

Cora took a seat in front of the wide glass sliding doors. The expanse revealed a view of the Annapolis City Dock and its famous Ego Alley, a tiny harbor inlet where boat owners paraded their floating prides and joys during the summer season. Muddy sat down on the bed opposite her and tried to analyze her real reason for coming. 

“Yeah, I was just being nice.” He sounded as though even he wasn’t convinced of his own generosity. Her gratitude didn’t sound right to him. She hasn’t any idea that I really needed time in the empty house to seal off the secret room from the new owners. 

“Muddy, I know you were opposed to Rae selling the house, but Daddy left it to her, and she should be free to do with it as she pleases. I believe she sold it for money to support her writing career.” 

“Rae should’ve asked each of us whether we wanted to buy it beforehand,” he complained. “She never asked me. That’s why I’m so pissed at her.” The old buzzard could have left something for his only son. The house would have been nice—even a partnership, so I could have blocked any sale. 

“I didn’t know you wanted to buy the house,” said Cora. “Were you able to save that much dough serving in the Merchant Marines all this time?” The Merchant Marines pays well, but not that well, she thought. 

“No, but one of you sisters might have wanted to keep it—maybe turn it into a bed and breakfast or something.” He admitted to himself, No way I could have saved that much, even if I’d behaved and avoided spending the lion’s share on whisky, waste, and whores. 

“I have no interest in that sort of thing,” said Cora, “and Gloria certainly couldn’t handle a project like that. No, Rae did the right thing in selling it. There are far too many rooms to clean and take care of without maintaining an expensive household staff.” 

“But our house has been in the family since colonial times,” Muddy protested, “and I don’t want to see strangers living in it.” Ordinarily, I wouldn’t give a crap. 

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” she said. “You’ve never taken any interest in the family history before.” The sonofabitch is lying. What’s his motive? 

“There’re a lot of things you don’t know about me,” declared Muddy. 

“I’m sure there are, but one thing is nagging at me.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Why are you so suddenly interested in Daddy’s book?” 

“Who says I am?” 

“It’s kind of obvious. I hear you’ve been following Dan Sherman, that bookseller, all over the place ever since he borrowed Daddy’s manuscript from Rae.” 

“Damn it. You’ve been talking to that Sherman guy, haven’t you?” 

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But why are you following him around otherwise?” 

“That’s my business—and you’d better stay out of it if you know what’s good for you.” He hadn’t meant to voice an ugly threat; it just spilled out. 

“What are you trying to hide, little brother?” Now I’ve got him, she thought. 

“That also is my business, not yours.” The bitch is getting too close. 

“I’ll bet dollars to donuts it has something to do with the house. Doesn’t it, Muddy dear?” 

“You’re all wrong, Cora. You couldn’t be more wrong.” Too damn close. 

“Ah! Perhaps you protest way too much, little brother.” 

“Now you’re getting much too obnoxious, I think you ought to leave.” 

“Why, Muddy? Am I getting too close to the truth?” 

“You wouldn’t know the truth if you stepped in it. Now get the hell out of here before I throw you out.” 

Cora stood and walked toward the door. As she passed him, he reached out and pinched her hard on the rump. It was his way of curbing his frustration—a way of having the last word. She spun around and slapped him—a stinging blow across the face in one swinging action. Stunned for only a few seconds, he returned an even stronger slap. She ran out the door in tears, the left side of her face wearing a red mark half the size of his hand. It smarted now, but later, it would turn sore, black and blue. She had failed to get Muddy to admit to anything, but she thought she knew what he might be hiding.


Spotlight and Excerpt: The Art of Betrayal, by Connie Berry

AUTHOR: Connie Berry

WEBSITE: https://www.connieberry.com

PUBLISHER: Crooked Lane

FIND OUT MORE: 

1. Amazon: The Art of Betrayal: A Kate Hamilton Mystery: Berry, Connie: 9781643855943: Amazon.com: Books

2. Barnes&Noble: The Art of Betrayal: A Kate Hamilton Mystery by Connie Berry, Hardcover | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

3. Booksamillion: The Art of Betrayal : A Kate Hamilton Mystery by Connie Berry (booksamillion.com)

4. Indiebound: The Art of Betrayal: A Kate Hamilton Mystery | IndieBound.org


ABOUT THE BOOK: 

American antiques dealer Kate Hamilton is spending the month of May in the Suffolk village of Long Barston, tending her friend Ivor Tweedy’s antiquities shop while he recovers from hip surgery. Kate is thrilled when a reclusive widow consigns an ancient Chinese jar—until the Chinese jar is stolen and a body turns up in the middle of the May Fair. With no insurance covering the loss, Tweedy may be ruined. As DI Tom Mallory searches for the victim’s missing daughter, Kate notices puzzling connections with a well-known local legend. Kate’s most puzzling case yet pits her against the spring floods, a creepy mansion in the Suffolk countryside, the murky depths of Anglo-Saxon history, and a clever killer with an old secret. 


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Connie Berry is the author of the Kate Hamilton Mysteries, set in the UK and featuring an American antiques dealer with a gift for solving crimes. Like her protagonist, Connie was raised by antiques dealers who instilled in her a passion for history, fine art, and travel. During college she studied at the University of Freiburg in Germany and St. Clare's College, Oxford, where she fell under the spell of the British Isles. In 2019 Connie won the IPPY Gold Medal for Mystery and was a finalist for the Agatha Award’s Best Debut. She’s a member of Mystery Writers of America and is on the board of the Guppies and her local Sisters in Crime chapter. Besides reading and writing mysteries, Connie loves history, foreign travel, cute animals, and all things British. She lives in Ohio with her husband and adorable Shih Tzu, Emmie. 


FOLLOW CONNIE BERRY: 

Website: www.connieberry.com

Facebook: https://facebook.com/thekatehamiltonmysteryseries

Twitter: https://twitter.com/@conniecberry

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/conniecampbellberry

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/@conniecampbellberry



CHAPTER ONE:

Long Barston, Suffolk, England

The fourth of May was one of those glorious spring days in England that almost convince you nothing evil could ever happen again. Mild, green-scented air wafted through the open door of Ivor Tweedy's antiquities shop. A curious bumblebee meandered inside, had a quick look-around, and buzzed out again in search of the window boxes along Long Barston's main street.

I was perched on a stool behind the counter, polishing silver, when I heard a soft cough. 

She stood framed in the doorway, clutching a large striped tote bag as if it held her firstborn—a ridiculous image because the woman had to be in her late sixties. Her thick, iron-gray hair was pulled into a coil at her neck, and she wore a pair of those light-sensing eyeglasses that never quite make it to clear. She was obviously ill at ease, which in itself wasn't unusual. Antiques shops often attract timid souls hoping to raise a little cash by selling grandma's pearls or grandpa's collection of vintage cameras. They come expecting to be cheated.

"Hello." I pulled off my latex gloves and came around the counter, feeling like a kindergarten teacher on the first day of school. "Welcome to The Cabinet of Curiosities." 

The woman stepped into the shop. I couldn't see her eyes behind the darkened lenses, but she seemed more wary than timid, which set off alarm bells. Twice in my life I'd been offered stolen property—in both cases, the items brought in by dodgy looking men in their twenties. This woman looked respectable, even old-fashioned. She wore a well-cut linen skirt, a crisp white blouse, and flat orthopedic sandals. An expensive but well-worn Gucci handbag hung from one bone-thin arm. "I was expecting the owner, Ivor Tweedy." 

"I'm afraid Mr. Tweedy is recovering from surgery. I'm filling in while he recuperates."

"You're American." Her lips thinned in disapproval.

"I am." Obviously.

Once, this woman had been quite beautiful. I could see it in her bone structure, the line of her mouth, the way she held her head and shoulders. 

She studied me for a moment. Her eyes shifted to the small-paned front window. "Do you have somewhere more private?"

"Of course." I grabbed the binder Ivor used to record sales and commissions. "Just let me lock up." I closed the shop door, shot the bolt, and flipped the Open sign in the window to Closed. "My name is Kate Hamilton. And yours?" When she didn't answer, I tried another tack. "Have you brought something for appraisal?"

"Not for appraisal, no." Now that she'd been out of the sun for a few minutes, her glasses had partially lightened, allowing me a glimpse of pale, hooded eyes. "I have something I wish to sell."

I led her through a maze of display cases to an alcove furnished with an early Regency pedestal table and two folding campaign chairs that, according to Ivor, had traveled with Wellington into the Battle of Waterloo. 

Once we were seated, the woman settled the carry-all on her lap and peeled down the fabric, exposing a large, roundish object swathed in bubble wrap. 

"Be careful. It's heavy." She handed the bundle to me.

"Well, let's take a look." I placed the object on the table and used the edge of my thumbnail to peel back a strip of clear tape. That's when I felt it—the tingling in my fingertips, the flush of heat in my cheeks, the pounding of my heart against my ribcage. I've experienced these symptoms from childhood in the presence of an object of great age and beauty. 

Some would call it a gift. I've always thought of it as an affliction. My father, who taught me about antiques, had half-jokingly called me a divvy—an antique whisperer—born with the ability to spot the single treasure hidden among the trash that frequently passes for antiques. He wasn't right, of course. My eyes can be fooled by a masterful fake as easily as the next person. 

It's the internal symptoms that never fail. 

The client watched me, her bony fingers clasping and unclasping in her lap. 

I peeled back a layer of bubble wrap and took a sudden breath. 

Even before the wrapping was fully removed, I knew what was inside. The technical term is húnpíng, a distinctive type of stoneware jar found in the Han-dynasty tombs of early Imperial China. 

The final layer of wrapping slid away. Each húnpíng is unique—some fairly simple, others wonderfully complex. This example was nothing short of dazzling.

The bulbous jar had the earthy gray-green glaze known as celadon, typical of the period. The lower two-thirds of the vessel featured a procession of mold-pressed figures—leaping chimera; riders astride coiling, dragon-like creatures; peak-helmeted warriors wielding long pikes, ready to strike. The fullest part of the jar culminated in a wide mouth supporting a fantastical, multi-storied architectural complex with triple-tiered, tiled roofs and curved corner eaves surrounded by gates and pillars, each entryway guarded by a pair of oversized guards. I tilted the jar to peer at the bottom. Unglazed, unmarked—typical of the Han period. 

"Do you know what this is?" I asked.

"Some kind of urn?" 

"It's an ancient Chinese funerary jar from the Han dynasty. In English we call it a soul jar or spirit jar."

"Han?"

"They ruled much of China for four centuries, roughly 200 B.C. to 200 A.D."

"Is it valuable?"

"If authentic, very." 

"Oh, it's authentic. How much is it worth?"

"My guess would be thirty or forty thousand pounds, but to be sure I'd have to consult someone who specializes in early Chinese ceramics. I'm not an expert." 

She blinked and shoved her glasses higher on her nose. "How long would that take? To consult, I mean."

"Two or three days, perhaps a week." I clicked open my pen. "First I'll need your name and the history of the piece, as far as you know it."

Her shoulders stiffened, as if I'd asked to see her bank balance. "My name is Evelyn Villiers. My husband bought the urn forty years ago in Hong Kong. He traveled a great deal for business and often purchased pieces for his art collection. If necessary, I can tell you the name of the shop and exactly what he paid for it. He kept meticulous records."

"That would help," I said, tossing my earlier caution to the wind. This woman actually had documentation. "It's a wonderful piece. May I ask why you're selling?"

"Not for the money, if that's what you're thinking." Mrs. Villiers snapped open the clasp on her handbag and pulled out a white handkerchief. "My husband died eighteen years ago. We had one child, a daughter. When I'm gone, she'll inherit a large trust fund from her father. I can't stop that, but I refuse to let her inherit his art collection as well. I've decided to sell now, while I'm able." She met my eyes, as if daring me to criticize. 

Criticism was the last thing on my mind—pots calling kettles black and all that. My own daughter, Christine, and my son, Eric, had recently (and unexpectedly) inherited twenty thousand pounds each from their Scottish aunt, a sum I'd persuaded them to invest in a money-market account in Ohio. Eric's share would help pay for his doctoral degree in nuclear physics. Christine had intended to spend hers, meaning it would have been gone in months, with no more to show for it than a handful of receipts—and very possibly a lady's Rolex. Christine's latest boyfriend, the son of an Italian manufacturing executive, had a Rolex. Doesn't everyone?

Mrs. Villiers cleared her throat, and I put my parenting issues aside. Whatever had caused a rift between this woman and her only child had been a tragedy, and I wasn't about to take advantage. 

"We'd love to help you sell the jar, Mrs. Villiers, but you might want to consider Sotheby's or one of the other large auction houses in London. Buyers from all over the world receive their catalogs. Wealthy Chinese collectors are paying top prices for objects like this. I'm sure you'd realize more from them than you could from us."

"No public auctions. No catalogs." Mrs. Villiers pinched her lips together. "I insist on doing this privately, without publicity. That's why I came to you…well, to Mr. Tweedy. Just write a check. Whatever you think is fair."

I felt my cheeks turn pink. Ivor's checking account currently held just about enough to cover expenses for the month of May. "I'm afraid we're not in a position to purchase the piece outright. If you're sure you want us to handle the jar, I suggest consignment. We find a buyer. You get the proceeds, minus a reasonable commission. Why don't I show you our standard contract? If you're satisfied, we'd be happy to handle the sale." I turned to the back of the binder, snapped open the rings, and pulled out a printed legal document. As I organized the papers, I tried to make conversation. "Will you be going to the May Fair on the green this evening?"

She mumbled something that sounded like wagon bell.

I looked up. "Sorry? I didn't catch that."

"I said if you can guarantee my privacy, I have more to sell. A lot more."

That was not what she'd said, but I let it go, swept away by the glorious possibilities. What Mrs. Villiers was proposing was nothing short of a miracle—a source of high-quality antiques without any financial investment on Ivor's part. This woman wasn't offering an odd piece now and again but an entire collection, and if the húnpíng was any indication of the quality, a collection that would place The Cabinet of Curiosities among the highest tier of England's private dealers. I couldn't wait to tell Ivor. "What sorts of things did your husband collect?"

"Like the urn—you know, pottery, porcelain, paintings. Old stuff. Special figurines as well—nearly fifty pieces. I can't remember the name, but they're marked on the bottom with crossed swords."

"You mean Meissen." My heart kicked up a notch.

She brightened. "That's right. Meissen." 

 The famous Meissen factory near Dresden was the first European manufacturer to crack the closely held Chinese secret formula for true hard-paste porcelain. Europeans called it "white gold" in the eighteenth century, beloved for its translucency, resilience, and pure white hue. The Chinese had been producing porcelain since the seventh or eighth century, exporting it all over the world. Then came Meissen with its crossed-swords mark, creating stunning pieces that surpassed even the Chinese in beauty. I couldn't wait to get my eyes on them.

"And jewelry," Mrs. Villiers said. "Wallace loved fine jewelry." 

She obviously hadn't shared that interest. Except for a small heart-shaped locket around her neck, she wore no jewelry of any kind. 

"We have a tiered commission structure," I said. "The higher the sale price, the lower the percentage." In the description column I wrote Chinese Húnpíng Jar, Han dynasty, approx. 16" high and 11" wide. Value to be determined. "Now, if it's all right, I'll take a few photographs. That way you can take the jar home until I've arranged for an expert to examine it."

"No. I want you to keep it." 

"All right—if you're sure." I turned the consignment form toward her and handed her my pen. "Read through the contract carefully. The payment terms are in the final paragraph. Print your name, address, and telephone number there, and sign at the bottom." 

While Mrs. Villiers examined the contract, I used my cell phone to snap several images. I couldn't believe our good fortune. I felt like pinching myself. Finally, laying the jar carefully on its side, I took a shot of the unglazed bottom. 

Mrs. Villiers turned over the final page. Placing her index finger at the top, she drew it down slowly, stopping briefly at the final paragraph. At the bottom, she printed out her information and added her signature.

Mrs. Evelyn Villiers

Hapthorn Lodge, Hollow Lane,

Little Gosling, Suffolk. 

She'd included a phone number. Her signature was a squiggly line. 

Standing, Mrs. Villiers smoothed her skirt and gathered her handbag and the now-empty carry-all. "Thank you for your assistance."

"My pleasure." I held out my hand, and she took it. "I'll put a copy of the contract in the mail. And I'll telephone you when I've arranged for the appraisal."

"No mail," she said firmly. "And I never answer the telephone. Text me at this number, and I'll contact you." Picking up the pen I'd provided, she scribbled a different number at the bottom of the contract. 

"Of course. I'll be in touch soon." Something floated in the air—a vague uneasiness. Why didn't Mrs. Villiers answer her phone? To avoid telemarketers?

I stood at the front window and watched her cross the High Street and turn left toward the river. She scurried past the shops—shoulders hunched, head bent—until she disappeared down a side street. Had she driven herself, or was someone waiting for her?

That was the least of my questions about Mrs. Evelyn Villiers.

I checked my watch. If I left immediately, I could be at The Willows by eleven thirty.

Time to break the good news to Ivor.



Guest post by Debra H. Goldstein, Author of 'One Taste Too Many'


“Write something new” is what agents and editors told me after my second would-be series became my second stand alone when its publisher folded. Great advice to an author who had been orphaned twice, but what should I write?

I knew I wanted to write something in the cozy genre, but I’d already exhausted the two traditional/cozy mystery themes that I was most familiar with. The main ones that were left – handicraft and culinary topics – were things I was neither interested nor skilled in. The reality is, unlike my sister who does everything from scratch, I buy already made arts and crafts things and I either eat out, bring take out in, or make dishes using prepared ingredients.

It’s not that I wouldn’t like to be more like my sister, but I never had an interest in pursuing these things. There were always other things for me to do. For example, while my sister shadowed my mother in the kitchen and learned to be a gourmet cook, I timed emptying the dishwasher, setting the table, saying “hello” to my father, and coming to dinner for when the commercials came on in the Perry Mason reruns I watched every afternoon. The more I thought about the contrast between my sister and myself, the more I realized there had to be other cooks of convenience out there.

And that is where I came up with the idea behind One Taste Too Many, the first book of my new Sarah Blair cozy mystery series from Kensington. Sarah is a cook of convenience like me. Some of her recipes include spinach pie made with Stouffers spinach souffle and Jell-O in a Can. Her twin, Emily, is a gourmet chef who has worked in many fine dining establishments. One Taste Too Many is the first of at least three Sarah Blair mysteries. Besides Sarah and Emily, they feature another major character – RahRah, Sarah’s Siamese cat. RahRah doesn’t have any magical powers, spoken thoughts, or secrets – he is simply a cat that Sarah and readers will love because he’s the real thing.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR 



Debra H. Goldstein is the author of the Sarah Blair Mysteries as well as Should Have Played Poker, a Carrie Martin and the Mah Jongg Players Mystery and the 2012 IPPY Award-winning Maze in Blue, a mystery set on the University of Michigan’s campus. Her short stories, including Anthony and Agatha nominated “The Night They Burned Ms. Dixie’s Place,” have appeared in numerous periodicals and anthologies including Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, and Mystery Weekly. A Judge, author, litigator, wife, step-mom and mother of twins, Debra is an involved community volunteer, MWA member, and serves as a national board member of Sisters in Crime, as well as being the SinC Guppy Chapter’s President. 

Connect with Debra on the web: