My credit card was the only thing preventing me from having to beg dinners off my mother until next payday. I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Replacing your ID and credit card is going to be a real pain,” Jenny added. I knew Jenny was retaining twenty-five years of fried food, not water, but she was my best friend so I supported her delusions of water retention, just like she supported my fantasy that being able to type seventy words a minute meant I was physically fit. “Of course I’d be able to catch him myself, if I wasn’t retaining all this water.” “Maybe he just snatched the cash and dumped the rest.” Jenny took a deep drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke out in a long stream. “What’s the point?” I asked, sulkily digging up sod with the toe of one of my wrecked shoes. “I’d rather-” stick a pen in my eye, have a pap test, visit my mother… “-not.” She lit up then nodded her head in the direction the thief had taken. Next, Jenny dug in her purse and pulled out a cigarette. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the red hair color, Claret Classic, was courtesy of this week’s sale at Neuman Drugs. “This is what happens when your car dies and you’re forced to stand around on Baldwin Street,” corrected Jenny. “A senior citizen junky makes off with your bag and leaves you whimpering in a graveyard.” “This is what happens when you can no longer afford to go to the gym.” I panted. She propped herself up at the opposite corner of Samuel Harvey’s resting place. “He got away?” Stumbling in my direction, with high heels sinking in the sodden grass and with ample bosom rising and falling in deep gasps, was my good friend Jenny. I apologized to Samuel Harvey, 1910-1973, whose tombstone I leaned against while recovering from the impromptu workout. I had a choice, I could either A) continue to run with the hope that I’d eventually wear the thief down with my persistence or B) give up on ever seeing my shoulder bag, a suede Prada knockoff, ever again.Įxhaustion won. To top that off, the purse snatcher, who was at least double my twenty-six years and probably a heroin addict as well, had easily outrun me. My mouth wheezed in great mouthfuls of dreary afternoon drizzle while I ruined a perfectly good pair of black leather sling-backs. I charged through Seattle’s Memorial Cemetery with my arms pumping and heart pounding. This is her debut novel.įor showing me laughter through all things.įor my husband, Brent, for saying I could,Īnd for my children, Sarah, Daniel, Donovan Wendy now resides on the west coast of Canada with her five biggest fans-her husband and their four beautiful children. After a writing hiatus that lasted a few decades, she rediscovered her muse, her sanity and a sated harmony in putting pen to paper once again. Her earliest childhood memories are the musky, dusty scent of the local library bookmobile and losing herself in the adventures of Nancy Drew.Īt the tender age of eight, Wendy’s writing career sprouted when she penned the poignant tale of a cup of flour’s journey to become a birthday cake. Was born and raised in Winnipeg, Canada, where she alternated between fending off frostbite in winter and mosquito bites in summer.
#N7MB IN THE MIDDLE OF MY FOREHEAD PLUS#
(On the plus side: she could use legal advice, so she and Clay have something to talk about.)And somewhere is the real culprit, who wants this clairvoyant dead… She didn't ask for this talent, but it clings to her like a thong and is just as uncomfortable.Her goals are simple: A) to rise above law office receptionist B) to spend Friday nights uncovering the mysteries of butterscotch schnapps with her comrades, and C) to get more than a passing glance from Clay Sanderson (Greek-god-type lawyer).But her sight has turned life upside down–and she finds herself in the middle of a murder investigation where the only clues are in her premonitions–making her not only key to solving the mystery but a suspect. She has visions of black magic rituals and dismembered bodies, and she's not sure what to do. Some gifts are easy to return–like parrot earrings from Aunt Ruth–but when your gift is clairvoyance, Tabitha Emery finds there is a definite No Refund Policy.