Douglas R. Cobb, of New Yorker Times

“(The) books are sure to please the most discriminating palates of Indie bibliophiles everywhere.  They are well worth your time to check out, and what better month to do so then March?”

“This unusual Mystery/Thriller series is about author, Samantha Jamison, aka Sam, who writes about how she gets caught up in unexpected mysteries with a touch of humor, while constantly talking to her readers. Peggy’s mysteries are always fast-paced page-turners with unusual twists and turns, and of course, her signature surprise endings.”

Read the rest of this article here

“1. Who is Samantha Jamison and why are terrible things always happening in her life?

Samantha Jamison, my protagonist, is an Author whose husband, Stephen, was suddenly killed in a questionable death. After receiving unsatisfactory answers from the authorities, Sam goes back to the town of Highlands, North Carolina, where her husband had some history to find out what happened. Once there, Sam befriends several characters that not only end up in the follow-up books, but also are a major influence in future scenarios of trouble for Sam in the Samantha Jamison Mystery Series.”

Read the rest of this great interview here!

Chapter 1

The French term, Entr’acte means between the acts. In this case, it is a pause in my series, a brief intermission, so to speak, for a personal memoir of mine.

I remember my father telling me I could smell the damp earth as it traveled on the winds of time and that was how I was able to predict when it was going to rain. Being very young, I was intrigued. I guess that was his simple way of explaining to a small child why I knew when rain was approaching. He said it was my keen sense of smell for mother nature: a part of my being, a special gift.

To this day I ask to blank stares, “Did you smell that?”

Whenever I’d pick up a scent, my father’s simple explanation that captured my young imagination always came to mind. His words left no doubt whatsoever. I’d always be forewarned by instinct. No problem. I’d have plenty of warning, or so I thought.

This story begins on a summer day many years later in France at my old villa on the Cote d’Azur. It was a place where predictable and ordinary quickly turned on a dime to become unpredictable and extraordinary. Disturbing and alarming are significant understatements in what was about to happen. And remember my ‘special’ instincts? Well, that was unexpected, too, because…

This time I smelled trouble.  

The day started out ordinary enough, with the crickets chirping away as the sun rose. Just another sizzling summer morning, better suited to an iced coffee than a steamy hot one. Like watching the surf incessantly splash against the rocks on the beach, I stared in silence. But then the deadly possibilities looming out there began to unsettle me.

How could this be?

I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. My typical day was falling apart right before my eyes with every minute that ticked by. Just when I thought I’d seen the worst of what could happen, my vulnerability became a reality with my family’s safety hanging in the balance.

This account is from my point of view only and how I experienced it. I don’t want to bore you with statistics, just relate how my family and I got caught up in an incident that escalated into something unthinkable.

Those memories are so vivid that sometimes it feels like it was yesterday, especially that sinking feeling of dread that swept through me and how intense fear, then panic, took hold. To this day, it has left an indelible mark on my psyche, a dent in my usual resilient armor against the unexpected, and a very real and permanent fear of fire…

http://chloegetsaclue.com/a-chat-and-a-chai-with-samantha-jamison/ …

Here is an excerpt:

Chloe: After we finish our chai lattes, we can shop! In the meantime, I’ve got to ask: in your books (and there’s been five of them since 2009), you’ve dealt with ice storms, bikers, a mysterious cat lady, antique enthusiasts, drug dealers and, of course, murderers. Who knew writing came with so many occupational hazards?

Samantha: Hey, even Peggy surprised me with some of those unusual mysteries. She’s running me ragged, even dragging me over to her old house in France on the Riviera. I believe that was Volume 3, 86 Avenue du Goulet (Sam pauses and smiles) …Okay, I must admit that wasn’t so terrible. I mean some of those French guys were really hot! And she did eventually invite my girlfriends, and then Clay over, who also happens to be very hot.

To read the rest of this interview, please visit…

http://chloegetsaclue.com/a-chat-and-a-chai-with-samantha-jamison/ …

“I’d say there’s a lot of Samantha in me, and visa versa. We seek advice, give others credit more so than ourselves, and are reluctant to take center stage. Although we get carried away on occasion, we have a great sense of humor. Just looking at the quirky characters we both have to deal with proves we’re unpredictable, too.”

To read the rest of this post, go to Ellis Vidler’s “How Samantha Found her Settings“

Here is an excerpt:

“Jill:  WOW! You’ve released five Samantha Jamison Mysteries between 2009 and now (busy gal!)  Do you ever feel like taking a break, or is the momentum what keeps you going?

Peggy:  To me writing is like breathing. I can’t live without it. My only small break is to mentally contemplate my next mystery, having already let the reader know at the end of the one before where it was going next. The characters are my driving force. I love their unpredictability. I might do a Volume 5 ½ though as a brief pause, so to speak. The subject? Ah, another mystery!”

To read the rest of this interview, please visit Sasha Jackson Mysteries

Here is an excerpt:

“What is the best thing about being a writer?

I get to make something out of nothing by writing whatever flows from my fingertips. I thoroughly enjoy my characters constantly vying for my attention, telling me what they should say and do. Sometimes it gets ugly and I have put my foot down. After all, I’m the author, right?”

To read the rest of this interview, please visit David’s site.

Chapter 1

Who was the rat with the kiss of death?

* * * * *

I was about to hit the button when the door whipped open. I stepped back in surprise, then smiled at my old friend Mona. My blonde hair was in a ponytail, but because I still had on multi-layered clothes from my trip I was sweating profusely in tropical Boca Raton, Florida.

Mona sighed in relief. “Sam, you came! If I sounded cryptic and panicky on the phone, I hope you’ll understand. This whole thing was so sudden and unexpected.”

I stood there, staring at my ample-figured, dark-haired, quirky and impulsive girlfriend. “Cryptic about sums you up …and cagey. As usual, you knew I’d fall for that dead part of your urgent phone message.”

Mona chuckled. “And maybe a potential mystery…”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “What amazes me is how I’ve managed to survive this long to keep writing another one.”

Come to think of it, so were my agent and editor.

She looked past me, grinning. “I see you’ve dumped your three crazy old sleuths back in Highlands.”

“You sounded desperate so I rushed here. They say hi.”

“Come on in.” She grabbed one of my bags and led me inside. “I’m still settling in from my move.”

Mona showed me around the spacious first floor condo overlooking the golf course in the gate-guarded enclave. It was a corner unit in a building that housed four in total. Her area was Mediterranean style with clay-barreled roofs. It looked pretty pricey to me, including expensive, high-end leather and wood furniture.

Where was she getting the bucks for this?

She smiled, as though reading my thoughts. “It was his.”

“Whose?” I asked, verbally lost as usual with Mona.

“Marco’s.”

“But he’s dead. You said so yourself.”

“I know.”

“So what gives? How did you end up with it?”

“…He sort of bequeathed it to me.”

“I’m not getting the bequeathed part of that sentence.”

“It’s not what you think. It’s all perfectly legal.”

“What is?”

“Our marriage.”

I dropped down to the couch, shocked. “…Married?”

“Marco insisted.”

“Why?”

“So his car collection wouldn’t be stolen by his wife.”

“…He’s married?”

“Was.”

“What happened?”

“It’s complicated.”

Ha! Like she’s telling me something new, right?

Hey, Someone Stole My Woods!

I lifted my head off the pillow when I heard a phone ringing. It was mine. I glanced at the clock. It was 6:35 a.m. I waited a beat, trying to focus, looked over at a dead-to-the-world Clay, and finally grabbed it.

“Hello,” I whispered sleepily, while yawning.

“Someone just stole my woods!” shouted a woman on the other end of the line. “You have got to help me, now!”

I sat up and shook my head to gather my thoughts. What did she just say to me? Had I heard correctly?

“Excuse me? I think you’ve got the wrong phone number,” I said, fuzzily.

“You are Samantha Jamison aren’t you?”

I sat there still in my sleep-induced stupor.

Was I?  Well of course I was! “…Yes, that’s me.”

“Well, I was told you were real good at figuring out unusual mysteries, so you have got to help me. Someone has stolen my woods!”

I held the phone away from myself and stared at it, then put it back to my ear. “Is this some kind of prank call?”

“Does this sound like one?” cried the hysterical woman on the other end of the line.

I couldn’t believe I was still having this conversation with someone at… I looked over at the clock …6:40 a. m. “You do sound a little off the charts, ” I said doubtfully not wanting to be rude.

“Well, I’m Sarah Smith. We’re descendants of the original Smiths that arrived on the Mayflower!”

I shook my head in disbelief. I doubted that. “Okay, the Ms. Sarah Smith. How about I call you back in about an hour or two and you can explain further, okay?” I was about to hang up the phone on this lunatic when…

“No wait! I’m not some nut.”

She could have fooled me.

“I am Sally and Tom’s neighbor down the road. My property is on the corner after you make a left heading toward Robinson’s, her other neighbor off that dirt road.”

I paused. …Was she legitimate?

“Take down my number and please call me later.”

To humor her, I did just that, and then fell back to the pillow, irritated and baffled from the conversation. Was the woman for real? Was she nuts? Was I crazy to even consider calling her back? I have heard some strange things in my time, but this one was really weird.

How could someone steal someone else’s woods?

…Let me stop right here. I think that before I go any further, I’d better take you back to the very beginning of this story and explain how I got here and how all this craziness started in the first place.

It was about two days ago… 

It was an old estate property built in 1954 by a married couple. It was all stone, with stone courtyards and curved arches, surrounded by elaborate gardens. Here is an excerpt from Vol. 3 describing the mysterious gardens and why it was a perfect backdrop for my next mystery. This was the exact way the gardens presented themselves when we first bought the villa. I merely added the intrigue and mystery, and, of course the storyline.

…I hustled up the stone path, but was startled when confronted by a massive several-foot-high cactus. I barely edged around it and pressed on, briefly turning now and then; noticing the views of the Mediterranean getting better the higher I climbed. A few empty pedestals with broken shards caught my eye, too.What happened to the statues?

So many pathways crammed this unusual upper garden, but then they always seemed to turn off to a narrower connected pathway, which automatically led you right back toward the villa.Why the strange maze of paths?

I stubbed my toe and looked down. In the dark, these paths could be hazardous. On the edges of the path, stones were angled in an upright pattern.
Intentional?
Whoever initially designed all this must have had a specific purpose in doing it this particular way.
Why? Was I over-thinking the garden’s strange quirks?
I turned back to view the villa and spotted that the flat surface of the roof over the garage was also paved with the same earthy colored stone. At the very end of it, two old cement angel statues faced each other. That was it. Nothing else was up there.
Why were they the only things up there?
A metal, spiral staircase led up to them. Like a magnet, this property began luring me in and latching onto me.
Why was the staircase locked at the bottom with a gate?…
I finally reached the upper level area where an abandoned swimming pool sat in disrepair, the mosaic tiles around its perimeter falling off or missing. The unusual structure I had noticed from below was a collapsed cabana, a stark contrast to the well-maintained gardens.
Why the disparity between the pool and lush gardens?

…I turned again. The panoramic view at this height was spectacular, but being on a timetable, I had to keep going. I paused once more at a gated ‘fruit cellar’ that I was tempted check out, but staying focused, I turned away instead and hastily walked out the back gate to head for Martine’s.
However, my fascination for the villa and its property wouldn’t let me go. I stole one last look at the gardens that seemed to be calling me back for further scrutiny.
Strange. Something wasn’t right. I could feel it…

I also tried to capture the beauty of not only the property but the whole area in general in describing what Samantha saw the first morning she woke up at her leased villa and looked out her second floor terrace at the Mediterranean Sea.

…I stepped out onto the deck. The residential area and town of Les Issambres had not changed much since I was here a year before; just a few new villas and houses here and there had sprouted among all the beautifully landscaped properties dotting the mountainous terrain. Yachts and jet skis crisscrossed far below, as the sun reflected off the sea’s surface.
To my left, in the distance, were the beaches of St. Raphaël jutting out into the water and the magnificent Esterel mountain ranges beyond. Off to my right, in the distance was the lovely town of St. Maxine, and the bay of St. Tropez.
I looked downward. The small manicured lawn off the living room directly below was shaped in a half circle, just like the upper terrace where I stood. A stone wall, three feet high, bordered it to protect people from falling below.
Part of that curved wall dropped about two stories to the neighbor’s house and their pool, and then it curved around to my villa’s side gardens. Red bougainvillea spilled over it and trailed to the bottom. If you didn’t know where the wall was, it appeared as a lush carpet of red, and although beautiful to the eye, to a veteran, it concealed lengthy thorns, as sharp and painful as miniature daggers.
The wall continued from the back to along the side of the villa where stone arches ran parallel, wrapping around to the front entrance. I looked far to the right where an expansive stone stairway descended from the kitchen patio to a mosaic, tiled fountain.
At the bottom of those steps, a maze of pathways cut from the same stone sloped downward along the lower gardens that contained benches and flower-filled urns.
I leaned out further and noticed in one shaded corner a cement table and chairs under a blooming magnolia tree. Ah – a perfect writing spot. I felt as though I had stepped into a Monet painting. At every turn, a blended brushstroke of color! With my agent lambasting me for taking this vacation instead of staying focused for my next novel, it seems as though this burial mystery was just the ticket I was looking for. Apparently my next book was emerging and unfolding right in front of me…

Our neighbors really were Martine, Jean, and their dog, Sonia, as in the book. Jean passed away in the last year, and so I dedicated the book in memory of him with a special thanks to Martine. All the rest of the names in the book are fictitious. I did spend time working in the gardens with our French gardener and the location of all the other properties that surrounded us and their exact locations played right into the mystery, including the house with the red light across the way. The mysterious cat lady who came and went at dusk, slipping cat food under our garden gate really did exist.

All our neighbors were from Paris with second homes on the Riviera. They were always gracious and hospitable to us on every occasion and the complete opposite from which I described the neighbors in the book, then again, you never know. I mean, after all, this was fiction, right? Since then, we have sold the property and I explain in the beginning of Vol. 4, A Lethal Time, which comes out this spring, what really happened (which was true) to the old villa and it’s property after Samantha and her ‘crew’ left.

Like I said, I merely added the intrigue and mystery, and, of course the storyline. …Okay, Okay, so maybe my characters had a little say in it.

Chase your dreams and remember, everyday is a blessing.