Every one in awhile you come across a story that scares you, yet you can't put it down. That is what Sharon Donovan has done. Scare me to death!
Imagine if you found out you had just married a serial killer. What would you do?????

How would you feel if you realized you had just married a serial killer?

I would like to explore some of the most famous serial killers of our time and their psychological backgrounds. Serial killers are deeply disturbed individuals. What do Charlie Manson, Ted Bundy and Jeffery Dahmer have in common? Childhood abuse seems to play a significant role in the destruction of their psyche. According to psychologists, if a child is traumatized before the age of twelve, it can cause irreparable damage. Even though a child that has been abused may block it out by dissociating, the trauma festers in the darkest recesses of the mind and can cause the mind to corrupt and can create the very horror we know as a serial killer.

Who could forget Charlie Manson and the Manson murders? The book Helter Skelter still gives me the wee willies. What could have caused this monster to orchestrate such a string of violence that still shocks and horrifies society several decades later? He was neglected as a child and did not know who his biological father was and suffered from severe psychological problems as a result. During a prison interview, Manson said that his mother beat him up and stole money from him, and he in turn, beat her back.

Ted Bundy was plagued with fear and self-doubt from the sixth grade into high school and college. He was a very disturbed individual, and evidence suggests his trauma began when he learned his sister was his mother. The aura surrounding Ted Bundy is still a mystery to this day. How could he lead such a double life? A family man and a demented killer?

Then there is Jeffery Dohmer. He had parents that loved him yet he still grew up to be one of the most repulsive killers of our time. Why? What would cause a seemingly normal child to become so violent? What would cause him to do unspeakable things to his victims yet show no shame or remorse?

For whatever reason, morbid curiosity or wanting to figure out the puzzle, serial killers draw us in. We want to read about them, talk about them, study them. I am no exception. The mind fascinates me. It’s a tricky faux. It can bend. It can break. It can snap. I took psychology classes for this very reason, to get into the mind of a killer. And once I had all my research and notes in short order, I created my most complex character to date. Michael DeVeccio is a cold-blooded killer in my newly released novel Mask of the Betrayer. In this psychological thriller, I take the reader on an incredible journey of one man’s life and the destruction of his psyche. What could have caused an innocent blue-eyed boy to grow up to become the most chilling serial killer of his time?

Michael DeVeccio is a sociopath. He is highly intelligent, devastatingly handsome and charismatic. He is sole beneficiary to a billion dollar dynasty and rules the world with absolute power. Yet if anyone dares and betrays him, he will kill them with a sword and shroud their corpse in a macabre skull mask with no remorse. He has the right to decide who will live and who will die. Something so traumatic happened in Michael’s life at the age of twelve, causing him to totally dissociate and lose his identity. Michael fell victim to a domineering uncle, a feared and revered leader of organized crime who trained his nephew to be his number one assassin. I hope you will enjoy reading Mask of the Betrayer as much as I enjoyed writing it. Here is a blurb and excerpt.

Mask of the Betrayer
Sharon Donovan


Fiction-Psychological thriller/suspense
Whimsical Publications,
LLC/paperback 282 pages
April 2010
$13.95
ISBN-13: 978-1-936167-06-7

Blurb
When the whispers in the night, the whispers of her lover, are the whispers of a killer, will Margot escape before she becomes the next victim? Deep in the foothills of Red Rock Canyon, a serial killer stalks. He leaves his signature—a skull mask on the corpse. But when the homicide cop realizes the crimes are the reenactment of a case never solved ten years ago--all fingers point to Michael DeVeccio. And when Margot realizes she is married to the killer, her life becomes a living nightmare. Suspecting her affair with Carlos, he had surveillance equipment installed all over the mansion. Once he showed her the very graphic video of her and his uncle going a tit in the satin-lined coffin, he’d used it to his advantage.
Michael suspected his uncle knew more about his parents’ accident than he’d let on, but couldn’t prove a thing. Desperate to uncover the truth, Michael blackmailed Candace into getting Carlos to confess on tape. If she failed, she’d be killed. Stuck between a rock and a hard spot, Candace had done things to the old coot that disgusted even her. But those things had made the old man sing like a canary and the taped confession had saved her life. After her mission was a done deal, Michael kicked her out of Vegas and told her if she ever returned, he would rip her lungs out.



Excerpt
Reaching Carlos DeVeccio’s bedroom, she got a little thrill as old memories surfaced.
Just a few more seconds and she’d fall into the arms of her lover. She smiled to herself. She had returned to Vegas for a reason. She was flat broke. But after tonight, Michael would be her ticket back into the world of luxury. Then she’d be mistress of the manor once more. And more to the point, she’d have access to his billion dollar bank roll. With a devious smile, she pushed her way through the heavy mahogany door.
Crossing the threshold, she entered the house of horrors. Carlos DeVeccio had been a real nut, one straight out of the books. But with her fetish for face masks, she loved his collection and had often come into his wing just to admire them. What a thrill it had been to have sex in the coffin, howling along with the werewolf. Some might think it a bit kinky, but they didn’t know what they were missing. Calling out to her lover, her pulse quickened a beat. “Michael? Are you here yet, darling?”That’s when she heard it, manic laughter from the final circle of hell. A slither of fear trickled down her spine, releasing a wild rush of adrenaline. Carlos? She thought about the death of Lacy Diamond. Two Ninja assassinations were no coincidence. Sensing danger, she felt for her sword. It was gone. Panic soared through her. Where the hell was it? The laughter got louder and louder, moving in closer and closer. It seemed to be bouncing off the walls. She couldn’t tell from which direction it was coming. Just then, the bell in the tower gonged, thundering off the walls like canon balls. Instinctively, she covered her ears with her hands. Where the hell was Michael?
Evil eyes from the face masks followed her every move. She had to escape this hell before it was too late. She couldn’t think over the gonging of the bell. Every few seconds, the werewolf howled at the moon. She screamed, even though she knew no one would ever hear her. Floundering in wild disarray, disoriented by the darkness and relentless gonging, she searched in vain for the door. Her arms swam in mid-air, like a person drowning, desperate for an anchor, something to hold onto. She reached out and grabbed at nothing. She had to find a way out of this mausoleum of the living dead before it was too late. Where the hell was Michael?
The laughter got closer. Perspiration drenched her skin. The chilling laughter echoed in her ears, louder and louder, closer and closer. The bell in the bell tower broke through the thin filament of sanity she had left. The werewolf open his mouth and howled at the moon. Where was Michael? He’d know what to do. He was a master. His fencing skills were extraordinary. He could wield a Ninja star with his eyes closed and hit the mark. Where was he?
Blood thundered in her ears, but not loud enough to block out the manic laughter. It was close but she couldn’t see a thing. She wished she had her sword. She turned to run; it was too late. She heard a distinct click. The killer had just depressed the button on her Zorro sword, releasing the thirty-seven inch blade. His psychotic laughter reached an ear-splitting crescendo just as the bell in the tower gonged out its last chime. From the dark shadows, Valentino pounced, her Zorro sword gleaming in the moonlight.
“Surprise!” he thrust the sword into her heart. “I promised to make you scream, darling Candace. Let me hear you scream.”

Thanks for a great preview Sharon welcome to the Pink Fuzzy Slipper Writers Blog, we are so proud to have you here.
We hope you have the best of luck with a wonderful tale. Just don't shut out the lights please!!



MASK OF THE BETRAYER
AVAILABLE NOW!
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www.whimsicalpublications.com


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For Adults Only! Complete anthology contains graphic love scenes.

All proceeds benefit the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer Research

Purchase the anthology in a large trade paperback edition

or

Purchase the anthology in an eBook edition

Coming Together for the Cure

is a multi-author erotic romance anthology

Excerpt from A Town Called Night

By Sammie Jo Moresca

An erotic vampire romance

Jaynie Petrov stowed her purse on the floorboard of the ambulance, tucking it away on the front seat passenger’s side.

“Hi, Petrov.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the unfamiliar voice. It emanated from the tall, dark and hunky paramedic dressed in the pressed blue uniform. She’d seen that perfectly coiffed raven hair before, last week when she pulled a double shift at the commuter bus accident. This was… hmm… What was his name? His partner was Gary, and, if she worked at the Parthenon, she’d usher them both to the front row. Gay gods. Yep. Nobody is that good looking and heterosexual.

Jaynie forced her eyes to the brass name badge on his left shirt pocket. H.L. Bledsoe.

“So, how come you’re letting me drive tonight?”

What a familiar question from someone she’d never met. How did he know she usually drove Medic-7?

“Have we met?”

He extended his hand. She stood and shook it. And then had to exert a little force to pry it out of his grip. Great. He’s gay and weird. I have all the luck.

“I’m Hal Bledsoe.”

“I saw you last week on the commuter bus call. What an adrenaline rush, eh?”

“Blood everywhere. We transported the driver.”

“Did she make it?”

“I don’t know. I never follow up.”

Jaynie walked to the rear of the vehicle, opened one door and stepped up. Hal followed. She jabbed a key into the drug box and twisted it open.

“I don’t follow up either. As it is, I have a hard time not hugging all my patients. Gotta remember this is just a job and leave it when the shift ends.” Satisfied the narcotics were all accounted for, she locked them back up.

They climbed into their seats. Jaynie hit the remote control button and the firehouse doors parted.

After positioning the driver’s seat to accommodate his long legs, Bledsoe buckled up then adjusted the mirrors. He toggled the headlights on.

Jaynie noticed he didn’t primp as she’d expected a pretty boy to. She strapped in and rolled the window down an inch.

Hal radioed the dispatcher. “Communications, this is Medic-7. We’re off the air, en route to our special detail.”

The disembodied male voice said, “All right, Medic-7.”

And away they drove through the streets of a town called Night.

Jaynie reached down and grabbed her purse. Nervously fumbling through the contents, she felt for the smooth flat plastic and pulled it out. Peering into her lighted mirror, she finger fluffed her short brown hair, flipping it up and under. She shook her head to distribute some volume.

Hal asked, “So, you didn’t answer me. Why aren’t you driving tonight?”

“You have a license, don’t you?”

“Duh.”

She rolled her eyes at him. What a jerk… with an impossibly perfect jaw line .“Fine. Pull over and I’ll drive.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to push your button.”

“I’m just a little distracted tonight.” I hope I don’t throw up. Not that I’d been able to choke down more than a hard-boiled egg all day. Well, if I do, at least it will be over with quickly and I’ll feel better.

Jaynie stared at the oncoming headlights, mesmerized as they wound through the mountains. She finally asked, “So’d you do something wicked and they punished you by detailing you to Medic-7 on the p.m. tour while my partner’s on light duty?”

“I put in for a transfer to p.m. tour. No slots available except this temporary detail.”

“You like working at night? I mean at night in Night during night season?” After five years of living in the township of Night, Jaynie was accustomed to the two lunar months every autumn when the sun didn’t rise. Actually, she looked forward to the extra sleep it stimulated.

“Call me a creature of the night.” He shifted in his seat, adjusting his crotch.

She watched. Jaynie enjoyed studying a good-looking man while he touched himself, even if it was nonsexual.

He placed his right hand back on the steering wheel. She looked for a gay wedding ring. Nope.

“Let me see your left hand.”

“Relax, I’m not armed.” He held it up.

From the green-lighted glow of the dashboard, she observed that one was also bare. Hmm… so no state sanctioned civil ceremony took place either. “Did you and your significant other have a falling out?”

He changed lanes and passed a tractor hauling double trailers. “Significant other? Not me. I’m a lone wolf. Not the marrying kind. Not the shacking up kind. Not the commitment type.”

“So, did your partner give you the old ultimatum then, marry me or hit the road, Jack?”

“Partner?”

“Gary, or whoever worked with you on Medic-13.”

Hal swung into the drive leading up to the only sports arena/theatre/concert hall/’Pay-Per-View’ venue in the town of Night, their own version of the Parthenon. Jaynie performed another primping session. So he’s not answering my question. Must’ve been a bad break up.

He parked the ambulance at the rear service entrance. “Come on, you don’t need makeup, you’re beautiful, Petrov. Besides, most of the audience will be female. Who are you trying to look good for?”

Exactly why I have to look better than all of them. Jaynie slicked on one last coat of raspberry swirl gloss and rubbed her lips together. Capping the tube, she shoved it back into her purse and stowed it on the floorboard, under the glove compartment.

Her heart pounded as they traversed the bowels of the stadium, across the vault, nodding to the no nonsense security guards. This could be the night I’ve dreamt of.

They emerged on the floor in front of the stage, in the pit where the general admission ticket holders with neon orange armbands sat on the floor with their legs crossed.

Hal commented, “The house is only half full. These guys are fading.”

“Maybe so, but they sure used to rock my world.”

“So music moves you?”

“Of course.” Her eyes traveled up to the stadium seating. A few people sat all the way up against the wall in the cheap seats. But most of the audience was down low, to the left of the stage.

“Let’s go stand on the other side,” she said. Devin always performs on the left side.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Her hunky partner followed her across the floor. She glanced over her shoulder. Damn, I love his lips… so darned kissable. They positioned themselves near the stage. Jaynie studied Hal’s face. Oh no. I’m staring. Better say something. “Does your hair do that easily, or does it take a lot of work to get the disheveled cover model look?”

Hal smiled as the room went dark. The fans squealed as they clambered to their feet. Blue and green lights searched as the opening act, a Beach Boys cover band, warmed up the ladies.

Jaynie didn’t know if she wanted them to hurry up so the main attraction would commence or hope something went wrong and the main attraction didn’t show. No, I don’t want anyone to get hurt. There would be a revolt of the fans and a stampede–meaning cuts, bruises and bones to set. Jaynie enjoyed the latter. She’d been top in her cadet class at setting bones. Splinting compound fractures were a rush. Well, provided the patient was unconscious.

She turned her head and stretched up toward her partner. Damn. His ear was even perfectly wrought. All the best specimens are married or walk on the other side of the moon. “Make a deal with you. I’ll take the broken bones and you take the abrasions, cuts, and concussions.”

“Who’ll do the syncopes?”

“Yeah, the girls will be fainting tonight, swooning over Devin,” she sighed.

“I hope they stocked the triage room with water.”

“You didn’t inventory?”

“Have you seen me leave?”

“I guess it’s too late now.” Her mind drifted back to where she hadn’t let it in such a long time. To a sultry summer in Miami. She’d sneak out at midnight and make her way down along the bay. Her friend Samantha’s family ran a boutique hotel two blocks from the beach. Okay, Miami Beach is an island, and not very wide, mostly beach front, so, within that context, it was nowhere near the beach. And boutique hotel doesn’t exactly classify their establishment. Something along the lines of flophouse would be more accurate. Think transplanted New Jersey and New York residents, ancient Jewish and Italian men with leather faces and hanging skin.

The flophouse sat diagonally across the street from the recording studio where Devin and his band worked. Jaynie and Samantha would sit on the hotel roof and spy, waiting for Devin to emerge. Samantha was a fun girl, always eager for the next adventure. Jaynie felt a bit guilty sometimes for using her. He usually emerged around 2:00 a.m. God, he was such a fine specimen. And he had that extra something. Well, so the rumors went anyhow. He was supposed to be half-vampire.

That’s what drew Jaynie to him more than his music. She had always wanted to be kissed by a vampire, and to bite one. Yep, bite one. Taste his blood to see if it rocked her world.

©2007 Sammie Jo Moresca

For Adults Only! Complete anthology contains graphic love scenes.

All proceeds benefit the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer Research

Purchase the anthology in a large trade paperback edition

or

Purchase the anthology in an eBook edition

Steamy Romance Excerpts:

Diet Another Day

Smolder

Type Dirty To Me

Wish Upon a Jinn

Mystery Excerpts:

Christina’s Fear

Dying to Love Him

Hundred Dollar Bill

Immaculate Deception

Lady Katherine Seymour followed a servant across the withdrawing room while smoothing down her travel-worn dress. After making her wait an intolerable period of time—it was already one of the clock, more than an hour after her arrival—Lord Drayton had finally summoned her. In one damp hand, she clutched her slate.

The servant gave a tentative knock on the door.

“Come,” a deep voice spoke from within.

Katherine stepped into a dim, unadorned room, her startled gaze at once drawn to the striking profile of the man writing at a massive desk. She wondered that the slender white quill he held didn’t snap in two within his large hand.

“Sit.” Without glancing up, he flicked his free hand toward a wooden chair near his desk.
Despite his rude greeting, Katherine approached and sat, back straight and head high. She laid the slate in her lap and pulled the chalk from its holder, ready to answer his questions about her circumstances. How much information had the king given him?

She wanted no sympathy or pitying looks from this man. Only shelter and security. And to keep her pride. It was all she had left.

Pausing in his writing, he glanced at her from beneath furrowed brows. Briefly his features went slack. “You are the Lady Katherine?”

Katherine swallowed at the sudden dryness in her throat.

Blue eyes, lonely and steady and deep, engulfed her senses, emptied her lungs, made the chalk slick in her damp hand. An odd heaviness stirred within her. Stranger still was the sudden yearning that filled her, a desire to reach out to him.
At her hesitant nod, surprise—and something else she couldn’t identify—flickered in his eyes. For too long he stared at her while ink bloomed black on his paper from the tip of his quill.
Then, scowling, he returned his attention to his work.

Taken aback, Katherine glanced around the austere room, warmed by a crackling fire in the hearth. Candles atop the desk added more illumination, but heavy drapes over the windows shut out whatever light could be gleaned from the gray, rainy day outside.

While the scratch of his quill filled the room, she waited, holding herself erect, the chalk clutched in her fingers.

Where was the widower? This man’s intense concentration on the bookwork signified that he might be the steward, here to help with the ledgers. From the appearance of the papers piled in disarray on the desk and a nearby table, Lord Drayton needed help.

She fell to studying him, the way his dark blond hair fell in damp waves to his shoulders, the ends curling as they dried. An aquiline nose led to sensually curved lips over a strong cleft chin, on which a scar nestled within a light shadow of beard.

After a few moments, Katherine began to nibble at her lip in mounting perplexity. Did his confirmation of her identity sum up her introduction? Had she been dismissed?

She waited. He continued to write. Perhaps he wanted to complete a letter for her to read. It wouldn’t be the first time someone thought she was deaf as well as mute. She leaned forward slightly to see, but his arm, which looked strong enough to toss a horse into the air, blocked her view.

At length, Katherine released a thinly disguised, impatient breath. Indignant heat rose to her cheeks and a little knot of anger balled in her stomach. He was ignoring her!

No more.

Her chalk’s shrill screech could bring boisterous chatter in Whitehall’s banqueting room to an abrupt halt. Now, watching him with narrowed eyes, she set it to her slate and dragged it hard across the surface.

The man’s head jerked up and his shoulders hunched. Ah, now she had his attention, grimace and all. And she would keep it. With raised brows she wrote, And you are? She turned the slate for him to read.

A heartbeat passed. Two. Then, he locked crystal eyes with her. “I am Lord Drayton. Your guardian.”

Oh, mercy. The chalk slipped through Katherine’s numb fingers and dropped to the wood floor. With her defiant action, she had just compromised her chance to be sheltered, and the king would not likely attempt to help her again.

Even so, she held Lord Drayton’s gaze and fought to breathe. In turn, he scrutinized her as if searching her mind for some secret she might hold.

“You are trembling,” he said. “Have you a chill?”

No. Not a chill. The shiver was due to something else entirely, a restlessness that heightened all her senses. She shook her head—more in confusion over the new sensation than in answer to his question—and leaned forward to pick up her chalk.

“Wait.” He reached down, fetched the chalk, and held it out.

Careful not to touch his long fingers, Katherine took it, then wiped her slate clean with an attached cloth. When she began to scribble an apology for her discourtesy, he put up a hand. The hostile distrust in his eyes made her draw back in alarm and almost drop the chalk again.

“No games. I want the truth. Do you know why you’re here?”

Through her bewilderment at his harsh tone, she tried to keep the chalk steady in her trembling fingers. The king wished to provide for me, she wrote.

The slight narrowing of his eyes indicated his disbelief. “I will make myself clear only once, Lady Katherine. Had I refused the king’s suggestion to send you here, he would not look favorably upon me. That is the sole reason you are in my home.” He leaned toward her and his voice slowed, but rose in volume. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

She drew back from him, frowning. Of course, she wrote. I am not an idiot. Nor deaf. She tapped an index finger on the last word for emphasis, wondering if Lord Drayton was aware of how stridently his voice had echoed in the bare-walled room.

Indeed, she would go deaf if he kept that up.

Contemplation passed over his features as he read. Then, his face became impassive, his voice low and cold. He stood. “Your opinion of yourself is of no concern to me.”

Katherine couldn’t voice her sharp retort regarding his disgraceful conduct, and writing it would diffuse her point into a petty, time-consuming reaction. Her head felt suddenly heavy and she lowered it, trying to will away the familiar weary despair. His statement summed up her existence since the fire that had raged through London and consumed everything dear to her, including her voice. No one cared to ask what she wanted. None of her opinions mattered.

She became aware that Lord Drayton’s snug rust-colored breeches, buttoned up his thighs, were directly in her line of vision. No fashionable loose petticoat breeches hid the powerful lines of his legs. In the midst of her stunned hurt at his discourtesy, Katherine felt heat blaze her cheeks.
Rising to her feet, she found her eyes level with his broad chest. She tilted back her head and ran her gaze to his face.

The man was a castle unto himself: tall, formidable, all hard lines and impenetrable fortitude. No one, to her memory, seemed packed with more strength. What was such a man doing out here in the countryside? He should be in London, where the women of the Court would drink him up like fine Madeira wine.

The rapid cadence of his pulse revealed itself on his neck above the unlaced collar of his white linen shirt. Warmth emanated from his body. Breathing him in, Katherine found his clean, masculine scent pleasing. Stirring.

She couldn’t pardon his insulting reception, however, and returned his scowl with a glare.

“I sympathize with your loss,” he said. “You’ve suffered a great deal.” He turned, and with a grace that belied his size, walked to the door. “Whatever the past, you are safe in my home, and may make yourself comfortable while you’re here. I will find you a suitable husband who will treat you well. But try to understand, my lady, that as soon as I make the arrangements, you will leave.” He opened the door.

It seemed he would waste no time in passing her off to someone else. Struggling for composure, Katherine remained rigid by her chair and waited for him to speak further.

Instead, he left the door open, returned to his desk, sat and picked up his quill.

His dismissal came without words.

On Silent Wings is available at Amazon.com
--©2007 Pamela Roller

England, April 1667

“She’s here,” Alexander Fletcher said to the lanky rider beside him. “Would that I had declined the king’s request.” From his vantage point on the hill facing Drayton castle, he scowled through the misty rain at the coach halting before his door.

“At least she’ll be silent,” his neighbor Robert Cooke said. “She’d make a perfect wife.”

“To anyone but me.” Alex shifted in the saddle to conceal a sudden, ridiculous loneliness that banded his chest. Crushing the feeling, he studied the prize sent to him by King Charles II, noting that she alighted from the coach with no companion. One pale hand at her throat clutched a cloak that covered her from head to knees. She paused, and her upper body bent and shook with what looked like a bout of coughing.

Even at this distance, Alex sensed her desperation. Useless sympathy sparked, and died, within him. “She looks sickly. Perhaps ‘twas another reason fat Rochester made her cry off their betrothal after she became destitute.”

“Mmm. Ailing, poor, and mute.” Robert shook his head, causing the drop of rain on his hooked nose to fall. “And likely mindless from the fire. You have the luck.”

“‘Twasn’t luck that brought her to my doorstep.” Alex didn’t explain further. Despite what her father had done, there was no cause to invite malice toward her from others. He watched his cousin Elizabeth appear at the door to greet the woman. “Forsooth, I’ll rid myself of her without delay.”

Robert glanced at him. “You won’t act on the king’s suggestion?”

“No.”

“‘Tis well you do not,” Robert said. “Taking a woman like that to wife—God knows she would cause you no end of trouble. And your pain over Mary’s death still runs deep.”

Alex was silent, his hands fisting around the slippery wet reins. Abruptly, he pivoted his horse toward the open fields. “Enough. We’ll check the north end for your runaway mare. But I’ll wager she’s returned to her stall by now.” He pressed in his heels. “Fly, Neos!”

In seconds Robert’s mount galloped beside his. Alex stared straight ahead and allowed the wind to whip back the hood of his cloak and the rain to slap the bitter past from his thoughts.

**Look for the next scene in On Silent Wings September 6.**

Excerpt from Hundred Dollar Bill

by Sherry Morris

Chapter One

Washington, D.C.

February 16, 1945

Sometime before midnight, freezing rain pelted out a maddening symphony on the window. Benjamin Franklin gazed compassionately from the bloody hundred dollar bill floating near Miss Chloe Lambert’s breasts. The redhead lay soaking in a claw-footed tub at Mrs. Grogan’s boarding house on Nichols Avenue in the District of Columbia.

Her skin was flushed from the steamy water, but she was sure she’d never feel warm again. With eyes dehydrated from crying, Chloe stared at her black, blue, green and yellow bruises.

* * * * *

Earlier that night, across town, Mrs. Anna Eleanor Roosevelt’s footsteps resonated army-like as she stormed the west wing. A black Scottish terrier rounded a corner and scrambled toward her. “No, Fala, no!” Dodging his excited leap, she caught the fluffy sash of her emerald evening gown on the edge of a marble pedestal displaying the bust of Abraham Lincoln. She twisted and caught old Abe, but the taffeta tore. Eleanor replaced the sculpture, picked up the little dog and marched to an office.

She shoved the door open. Stepping inside, Mrs. Roosevelt vigorously petted the wiry-haired pooch while closing the door with her back. It hit the jamb with an audible resolve. “Vera, I am well aware of your…your little game, and I’ve had quite enough of you.”

Mrs. Vera Blandings stopped typing. The long-legged brunette stood, removed her librarian’s glasses and snuffed her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. She blew a plume of smoke at the first lady before running manicured fingers along her starched beige shirtdress. A smirk twitched the corners of her scarlet lips. She crossed her arms and turned toward the wall.

The first lady crinkled her nose and bent down. Fala leapt from the crook of her arm. He scampered over to sniff the closed door to the Oval Office.

Eleanor rose, thrust her shoulders back and stomped to the rear of the desk, launching a rolling chair out of her way. She squeezed between her husband’s newest secretary and a portrait of George Washington.

Vera took a step back, grinning.

Mrs. Roosevelt demanded, “Just what will it take to make you disappear?”

“A new job.”

“Done.”

“A role in the next Alfred Hitchcock movie.”

Eleanor laughed.

Vera glared. “I’m quite serious.” She cocked her head, retrieved her chair and tucked it under the desk. Pulling out the bottom drawer, Vera removed her reptilian pocketbook and gently shut the drawer.

Eleanor silently seethed in the stale smoky air while composing a response. I will not allow this woman to slip me into unsavory territory. “Fine then. So be it. Pack your snakeskin. No more games in the interim or—”

The magnetic purse clasp clicked when Vera opened it. After removing a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches, the President’s secretary sashayed out of the office.

The first lady glanced at her diamond watch and groaned. She pulled the chair out and plopped herself down. It hissed as the cushioned seat compressed. She opened Vera’s top desk drawer and rummaged through stubby pencils, rubber bands, a loose deck of playing cards, a crumpled issue of True Romance magazine that was caught in the back, a piece of yellow police chalk and several pistachios. Eleanor briefly picked up the waxy chalk. What in the devil is she doing with this? The stuff they outline corpses with…

She shrugged her shoulders and dropped it back inside with a clunk. Digging out a paper clip, the first lady wove the coiled wire through the soft frays of her ripped sash. It popped right off. She noticed a little chalk had transferred from her fingers to her gown. What else can happen?

Yanking the middle drawer open, she found a stapler inside. After three squeezes and some creative tucking of the taffeta, she was good to go. When Eleanor replaced the stapler, a metallic glint in the back caught her attention. She opened the drawer all the way and pulled out a pearl-handled pistol. What the…

Eleanor heard giggling. Her eyes darted around the office as she shut the drawer, shoved the gun under her waistband and covered it with the sash. She jumped up, wrapped her arms around her midsection and tiptoed to the open door to peek into the corridor.

Eleanor watched Mrs. Stoneburner meandering toward the kitchen. Claude Fuji, the President’s valet, was finishing up a good bubbly laugh.

“Hello Missus First Lady. You are so beautiful in jade.”

She exhaled and stepped into the hall.

He reached out to shake hands with Mrs. Roosevelt, as was his nature, but she awkwardly declined.

“Thank you, Claude.”

His face saddened at the slight. “Anything I do wrong to you?”

“No, Claude, no…oh…come on to my study. Follow me.”

Mrs. Roosevelt’s evening gown swished as they hurried to her private room.

“Close the door, Claude.”

He obliged.

Eleanor gingerly peeled back the delicate folds of taffeta and yanked the gun out.

“Look what I found in his secretary’s desk!”

“Missus First Lady, please do not go waving that thing at Claude.” The valet snatched the firearm from her.

Eleanor moved closer, hovering over him. Her stomach knotted as she whispered, “Is it loaded?”

“Please step back,” he said with a sternness she’d never before witnessed.

She complied.

He proceeded to her small desk. An envelope flew to the floor as he shoved a stack of stationery away to clear a space. He emptied the chambers into his hand and then spread the contents on her desk. Yanking the chain on her desk lamp, Fuji picked up one nine-millimeter brass bullet and held it under the light. “Blanks.”

“Blanks? How can you be sure?”

“The ends of the casings are crimped down and sealed. Live ammunition is rounded and smooth. These are definitely blanks. Look.”

Mrs. Roosevelt leaned down and examined the projectile as he twirled it slowly.

Just what are you up to, Vera?

Claude Fuji replaced the projectiles. “Put back where you got from. We watch her.”

“You mustn't tell the President about Vera’s gun. I don’t want to upset him unnecessarily.”

“What gun? No gun.”

©2007 Sherry Morris

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