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Sunday, November 6, 2011

Poison the Well (excerpt from a work in progress)

Here's the first bit of my latest work-in-progress, a paranormal murder mystery called Poison the Well.  I'm using NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) as an excuse to get a big chunk of it done... so far, so good, I've written a bit over 15,000 words in six days.  Here's to keeping up that momentum.


            “There he is.”
            Bethany Hale’s voice, although quiet, somehow had the ability to be heard over the noise of a busy night in Arcangeli’s.  The silver-haired man across from her, dressed in an immaculate, perfectly tailored Armani suit, nodded at her, and made a little gesture with the balloon glass of cognac he held in his left hand.
            “You should go to him, then?”
            “No,” Bethany said.  “Just watch.”
            The man they were observing had just entered the restaurant, and stood for a moment in the doorway.  After giving a rather imperious look around the room, he went to the bar and sat down, a confident half-smile on his face.  He was wearing an expensive-looking pale green shirt with a sport jacket, but its cut accentuated, rather than hiding, the body it covered.  Even with the fabric in the way, Bethany got a sense of the muscles rippling underneath, and wondered how many hours a week he spent in the gym.  When he turned his head she saw an angular face, jaw darkened with five-o’clock shadow, and the smooth tan suggested that he spent a great deal of time in the sun.  His hair was black, and gave the appearance of being carelessly brushed, but Bethany suspected that every strand was exactly where he’d intended it to be.
            The man was sitting on a bar stool, leaning to the side with leonine indolence, elbow on the bar.  He spoke a few words to the bartender, and a moment later had a drink in front of him – it looked like a gin and tonic, or something else clear with a wedge of lime in it.  He took a sip from his drink, and made a comment to the woman who was sitting next to him, who half turned toward him with a faint smile.
            She was elegantly, but simply dressed, with a close-fitting garment of a watery silver, cut modestly but deeply enough to be alluring.  A necklace with a white stone, perhaps an opal, lay against her skin, and caught the light when she moved.
            They spoke in quick sentences; it was clear, even from across the room, that they were strangers.  Something about her reserve made it obvious.  But she was friendly, smiling, and then laughed at something he said, looking down immediately afterward and lifting her glass of white wine as if to say, “I’ll drink to that.”
            Bethany, watching them from across the room, cleared her throat, fidgeted with her silverware.
            “What are you waiting to observe, Ms. Hale?” her companion said.
            The man at the bar said something to the woman next to him, reached out and touched her necklace, and Bethany tensed, and said, “Now.  Watch.”
            The silver-haired gentleman half-turned toward the bar, seeming slightly embarrassed to be so blatantly watching the couple at the bar.  Bethany, however, had no such compunctions, and kept her eyes fixed on the man in the green shirt.  He lifted the opal from the woman’s neck, and held it briefly, and said something.  The woman smiled, and reached up, touching the stone herself as it lay against his fingers.
            The man smiled, and let the necklace drop gently.  The conversation between he and the woman next to him continued for a few moments, but then she finished her wine, set the glass on the bar, and after a quick word to the man and the bartender, picked up her purse and left.
            “Fascinating,” Bethany said.
            “You’ll go to him, then?” her companion responded.
            Bethany nodded, and her lips compressed into a thin line.  “Yes,” she said, but privately thought, And if he tries to touch my necklace, I’m going to slap the hell out of him.
            She made her way across the room, and up to the now empty seat at the bar.  The man turned a little toward her, and nodded, and said, “Evening.”
            Bethany gave a chilly little smile, and said, “Would you mind very much coming over to my table?  I and a business associate have a proposal that you may be interested in.”
            The man’s eyebrows went up, and he gave her an amused grin.  “Now there’s a pickup line I’ve never heard.”
            Only one of Bethany’s eyebrows went up, a fraction of an inch, and she said, “It’s not a pickup line.”  And she thought, Maybe I’ll slap him anyway, just to be on the safe side.
            “Oh?” the man said.  “And how do you know what sort of business I’m in?  Maybe I’m a stockbroker, maybe I’m a used car salesman, and as far as I know I’ve never seen you in my life, so unless your business is professional stalker, you have no way of knowing what my talents are.”
            “Let’s just take as a working model that we believe you might be interested to hear what we have to say.  Then you respond, ‘Okay,’ and follow me across the room, and we can tell you about it, rather than wasting our time speculating.”  Bethany’s voice, always level and no-nonsense, took on that almost clinical tone that she seemed unable to prevent when speaking to someone she instinctively disliked.
            The man, far from put off by her iciness, simply smiled again, and said, “All right, you win.”  He stood, tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar, picked up his drink, and followed Bethany across the room.
            Bethany gestured at her silver-haired dining companion, and said, “Allow me to introduce Mr. Parsifal Snowe.”
            Mr. Snowe stood up, held out a neatly manicured hand, which the younger man took in a firm handshake.  “Seth Augustine,” he said. 
            “A pleasure,” Mr. Snowe said.
            “Likewise.”  Seth turned toward Bethany.  “I’m told you have some sort of business proposal to make to me.  Correct, Ms…?”  He gave his crooked half-smile again.
            “Hale,” Bethany said.  “Bethany Hale.”
            “Ms. Hale,” Seth said.  “Nice to meet you, as well.”
            Bethany didn’t respond, but merely sat down, waiting for Mr. Snowe to speak.
            “Please, Mr. Augustine,” Mr. Snowe said, and gestured to a chair. 
            Seth sat, and leaned forward, his dark eyes full of curiosity.  If he is in the least ill at ease, Bethany thought, he hides it well.
            “Ms. Hale and I are colleagues,” Mr. Snowe said.  “We are two members of a private detective agency.”
            Seth smiled, and turned his hands palm upwards.  “I’m not a detective, Mr. Snowe.”
            “We know that.  However, you do have a talent that we might be able to find a use for.”
            “My only training is in finance,” Seth said.  “Somehow, I doubt you’re looking for someone to set up IRA plans for your employees.”
            Mr. Snowe smiled blandly.  “No, you’re quite correct about that.  We’re referring to another talent of yours.”
            “You’re a psychometer,” Bethany said.
            Seth turned toward her.  “I’ve never heard it called that.”
            “You know the term, though?”
            Seth shrugged.  “I can guess what it means.”
            “You pick up information from objects.”
            “Yes.  It’s useful.”
            “Such as when you want to know if a woman is interested in you.”
            He grinned.  “Sure, why not?”
            Bethany bristled.  “A bit of an unfair advantage, don’t you think?”
            “Why?  Women complain about men making unwanted passes at them.  If I can find out ahead of time if she’s ready and willing, it saves the woman in question the discomfort of having someone she’s not interested in coming on to her, and saves me the frustration of spending an entire evening pursuing someone for no… payoff later.”  One eyebrow went up.  “Of course, in your case, I hardly need to pick up your wine glass to find out that you pack pepper spray.”

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