I just found 2 more secret hidden compartments in my Puzzle Desk!

Read PEGGY’S POST entitled. The Puzzle Desk and why I could never let that desk go, especially after this discovery today!

The Puzzle Desk

 “Sarah is relatable with her flawed character and raw emotions.”

“Just as all her novels before, “Cache Cache” is deeply engaging, descriptive, and exciting. Peggy seems to have a magical way with words that captures the reader’s imagination and attention.”

“My death frees us both, Butterfly. Caché, caché…” These are her husband’s last spoken words on his deathbed. He hands her a golden key, then the love of her life, David, passes from this world to the next.

“You will be glued to the pages as the author sets the stage with her wonderful ability to make vivid descriptions and scenes out of her words.”

What does he mean? Frees them both from what?

“As always, the author has a way of setting up a mystery that immediately draws in the reader.”

Confused, torn, and hurt, Sarah becomes consumed by this mystery. She is driven by a terrible desire to solve it, but she can’t question a dead man, can she? Instead, she must look at their past, and her own. What terrible secret is out there, waiting to be dug up? Can she handle what she will uncover? Does she even want to know the truth?

“Edelheit weighs everything. She tells what she sees and not see. She shows the reader with words of a wordsmith, how Sarah’s mental, spiritual and emotional side mill her thoughts.”

With a handful of clues, including a secret note and the key, Sarah must work to solve this mystery and decode her husband’s final words. Confusion, love, and heartbreaking regrets only scratch the surface.

“I loved how the author used the origins of words to really make some points and how words were used throughout the book really making this book a great one for me.”

Caché, Caché is a contemporary romance/mystery. If you enjoy an original story, then you will love Edelheit’s newest book filled with choices taken and those not taken.

“Edelheit drops significant indicators that keeps the suspense alive by referring to a back story. She strings past with present and gives the reader a visual inventory to decipher the mystery.” And what about fate? Does that play in all this?

“There are romance elements and that suits it just fine, and the writing style is something I really appreciate with this author. She really knows her way with words, sentences are well crafter and it is a joy to read, it is like you float through pages without any effort.”

“All in all, this is a very gripping book. I loved it!”

Words count, hold power. Use them wisely.

Did he? Did she?

In this romance mystery, secrets/questions blindside Sarah hard.

She is a national bestselling mystery author. Her books have sold millions of copies. At the height of her success and fame, tragedy strikes—the worst of blows—something she never expected.

“My death frees us both, Butterfly. Caché, caché…” These are her husband’s last spoken words on his deathbed. He hands her a golden key, then the love of her life, David passes from this world to the next.

What does he mean? Frees them both from what? Confused, torn, and hurt…Sarah becomes consumed by this mystery. She is driven by a terrible desire to solve it, but she can’t question a dead man, can she? Instead, she must look at their past and her own. What terrible secret is out there, waiting to be dug up? Can she handle what she will uncover? Does she even want to know the truth?

With a handful of clues, including a secret note and the key, Sarah must work to solve this mystery and decode her husband’s final words. Confusion, love, and heartbreaking regrets only scratch the surface.

Cache, Cache is a contemporary romance/mystery. If you enjoy an original story, then you will love Edelheit’s newest book filled with choices taken and those not taken.

And what about fate? Does that play in all this?

Peggy: So far I’ve written a mystery series. My protagonist is Samantha Jamison, an author, who solves mysteries with her crew. Although I did write a French Memoir, The Riviera Is Burning. It’s a true story about me, and my family fleeing fires from our home in France. It is told in the first person, just like my series. So you only see it playing out from my point of view. It was a frightening experience I wanted to share with my readers. Trust me, what we experience stays with us and affects how react and think in the future, which is a premise I base my 10th mystery on. I also wrote a  Contemporary Fiction: Cache, Cache about a widow, Sarah and the choices that she must face whether she likes it or not. 

How do you deal with writer’s block?

Peggy: Don’t let it stop you! Try to write everyday, even when the words are not flowing. That to me is important. Keep things moving along, no matter what. I just keep plugging away. I don’t set hours or have a rigid schedule other than writing each day.  Of course I may delete a lot of it, but feel it’s important not to give up. I will consider anything, even swapping dialogue to do a change up for an unexpected twist, providing the chemistry works. Many times it does. I also make sure I keep a small journal handy (a gift from my son) to jot thoughts down when a particular idea strikes me, or some dialogue pops into my head wherever I am.

What’s the best thing about being an Author?

Peggy: I get to start each book with a blank slate, making something out of nothing by writing whatever flows from my fingertips after I get that first basic idea of where I want it to go. I thoroughly enjoy my characters constantly vying for my attention, telling me what they should say and do. They have become so familiar to me, they’re like family. Like I’ve mentioned in interviews over the years, several times I’ve had to yell, “Stop! I can’t write fast enough to get what you are all saying.” Sometimes it gets ugly and we have disagreements. That’s when I have put my foot down. After all, I’m the author, right? The idea is to enjoy what you are doing and the process. When it becomes a chore, I get up and walk away for a few hours, a day, whatever it takes to refresh and recharge my imagination. I do something completely different.

What’s your advice for aspiring writers?

Peggy: Make a commitment. Become very familiar with the genre you’re interested in. Read and learn from the styles of other authors, but most importantly, create your own style. Make your own footprint. Have confidence and don’t ever stop believing in yourself. Surround yourself with things that motivate you to write. Your writing space is (your) space no matter how big or small.  Network with other authors of all genres. There is a wonderful community of talented people out there that you can learn from. They can give you valuable advice and guide you in the writing process. Read some of their blogs. Learn from their mistakes and advice. Only you can make it happen. Once you’ve made that plunge and are ready to publish, get a good EDITOR! I cannot stress that enough. A good Editor will tell you what you need to hear, not what you want to hear!

What inspires you?

Peggy: Many times what happens to me in real life experiences or places that I’ve been to, or articles inspire me to write a particular mystery. Each of my mysteries takes place in locales that I am extremely familiar with, which keeps the details and storyline accurate and true. Then I throw in my crew and let them have fun with it, sometimes with a serious side, even at the expense of Samantha, my protagonist, who is constantly riding that learning curve of life.

Where did you get the idea for your 9th mystery in your series, Too Close For Comfort? 

Peggy: After researching my last mystery, #8, The Lush Life, I fell down a set of 150-year-old Victorian steps, breaking and fracturing my right leg, which led to a wheelchair, crutches and physical therapy. Well, it was while I was in my second round of therapy for back damage from being in a wheelchair for so long, that I got to thinking. What if someone were to approach me while I was in therapy, dragging me into an unexpected mystery from my past? Thus, #9, Too Close For Comfort was born. That Vertigo attack in that one actually happened to me, including my ER visit. I just wasn’t poisoned by a cookie, and as they say, the rest, (forgive the pun) was history. 

Your series is always seems to be evolving. Why?

Peggy: To give it depth on a more personal level. Starting with #1, The Puzzle, the first in my series, I explain how Samantha starts solving mysteries by trying to find out who killed her husband and how she meets her sleuthing crew. With each mystery, you follow their escapades and sleuthing capabilities, or in Sam’s case some humbling blunders along the way. With each mystery, Sam morphs from a hesitant sleuth to a strong-minded woman, who realizes she is good at solving mysteries. In #10, Saving Sindia, I take a striking departure for Sam. She takes a timeout for some self-perspective and the reader learns more about her on a more personal level. Sam solves this mystery while recalling some of her past and discovers we are who we are for specific reasons. It shapes how we think and react. After that there is #11 Diamonds Are Not A Girl’s Best Friend, which explores collecting canes and discovering some startling true facts about the diamond industry with an unexpected turn of events at the end. In #12 Write Yourself Out of This One, Sam’s relationship with Clay is challenged along with her writing career, both become victims of outside forces where she finds herself questioning everything that is dear to her.

What is on the horizon?

I am working on #13 in my mystery series. 

Any last words of advice?

Don’t take your life for granted. Make the most of it!

Life is one big mystery. I’m still trying to solve mine…

Let me share with you a slice from one chapter to give you an idea of what some of those dicey conditions were like. In my mystery, my protagonist, Samantha Jamison was in Highlands to find out who killed her husband. She’s alone, inexperienced in situations such as this, and not sure what to expect when everything goes south.                                     A sample from that storm chapter:

Chapter 12

Resolutely, I set off for the front door, opened it, and clung to the frame, as an arctic blast assaulted my body and face. Its unexpected force stung on impact, whipping my hair wildly about, while I weighed my odds for escape.

Bewildered at first, I stared further out, stunned. Solid ice was everywhere. The trees had grown grotesque frozen fingers that swayed heavily back and forth. I stepped forward and lost my footing. I barely managed to grab hold of the doorknob to get upright. I found myself staring directly at my car. My car! I turned and tore a heavy jacket from the coat rack, grabbed my car keys and gingerly made my way to the car. The wind propelled me backward as I tugged hard on the handle, finally opening it, and jumped inside. Shivering, I jammed the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing. I tried again. Dead. How could that be? I pounded the dashboard.

With my fingers going numb, I ditched the car, inched back to the house, slammed the door behind me and slid the lock back in place. I stood there, shaking from the cold and rock-solid fear. Sneakers (my cat) anxiously ran around my ankles. I tried to catch my breath, feeling my world closing in. I knew I couldn’t walk up the ice-coated steep driveway and I couldn’t escape through the woods. I might get disoriented in the dark and freeze to death. Besides, even if I did make it to the road, who in their right mind would be out there at this hour and in this weather?

I scanned the interior of the house. The candles were barely flickering and my flashlight was dead. I could wing the rest, but I needed heat if I were to survive. I quickly threw the last scrap of wood into the fireplaces, frantically taking a quick look around. What else could I possibly do? I came up short and stood absolutely still when it finally hit me. … I was trapped.

The actual story for us was: Having already bundled up in layered sweaters, socks, pants, and gloves, (I could not feel my fingertips) what I never mentioned in my book was that the water froze in our toilets just before they cracked. We were using Dixie cups lined up on the back of the toilet. (Too frigid and icy to step outside to go) Being Christmas Eve, I decided we should open up our gifts, and then we burned the wrapping paper and boxes in the fireplaces after running out of firewood to keep us warm. We wrapped the boys in blankets by the burning fireplace.

The trees did have grotesque frozen fingers that swayed heavily back and forth. A coating of that thick ice covered our car door lock, so my husband ran to the fire, placed the fire tongs holding the car key in the fire then ran outside to slip it into the door locks to get in the car to try to start it. The diesel engine was too cold and would not turn over. Trying repeatedly had killed the battery. As we began to have sporadic electricity, he hooked up a battery charger to an extension cord from the house to jumper cables attached to the car battery. But it was so frigid the diesel fuel had turned to gel. (Diesel fuel gelling occurs when the paraffin usually present in diesel fuel begins to solidify when the temperature drops. At 32 degrees the wax in liquid form begins to crystalize, leaving the fuel tank clouded. At 10-15 degrees it begins to gel clogging the tank.) It was well below that. We had to wait it out for higher temps. The driveway was a steep sheet of ice, along with recurrent freezing rain/hail with high winds and a low wind-chill factor.

Every thirty minutes my husband would run outside to try to jumpstart our car, as the temps began to rise slowly to try to start the diesel engine. Finally, it came to life. Afraid to turn it off, he left it running, cranked up the heater, raced into the house and told us to get packed up. We were driving back home, rather than risk freezing to death. In thirty minutes the tree was stripped and thrown over the cliff into the woods to decompose, we were packed and loaded, and by daylight we slipped and slid up our steep driveway and made it to the main road, cheering as we slowly headed down the icy mountain roads toward home from that colder, higher elevation.

Back then there was an old cafeteria just outside of Atlanta that was somehow miraculously open that Christmas day on our trip back home. We pulled in starving to death. Inside it was toasty. We were the only ones there. We grabbed a table, tray, and food from the Christmas Brunch buffet that was set up, the steam and savory smells tempting our palates. When we were settled with our food at our table, and after giving thanks for surviving our dangerous ordeal, I turned to my family (who were wolfing down their food) and smiled. We were safe. We (and I might add, my childhood ornaments) had survived an inconceivable nightmare.

“Merry Christmas,” I said, feeling grateful and truly blessed.

I hope you enjoyed my 3 true Christmas tales:                                                                                   ‘Ah, Christmases: some good, some bad, some downright nightmarish.’    One was a bit humorous, one upsetting, and one downright scary.

There was also another one about when I packed a small, decorated tree in our luggage for our ski vacation in Switzerland. I can imagine what the luggage handlers were thinking when they scanned our bags. The kids had no idea it was in there. We surprised them Christmas morning, saying Santa found us all the way over there, leaving a few wrapped gifts for them under it too. In Book 6, Death Knell In The Alps, Samantha experienced some true incidents that actually happened to me on one of those Swiss trips we took.

Oh, the stories I could tell… Hey, wait a minute! Come to think of it, I do…chuckle.

Remember, everyday is a blessing. Don’t take any of them for granted.

The minute I saw the house I knew just where my tree would go. I’d put it in front of the tall windows in the living room facing the woods under the fourteen-foot ceiling. I was overjoyed at the prospect of having a huge tree to do it justice. So when Christmas rolled around we went to hunt for the perfect ‘tall’ tree for that spot. We ended up coming home with a huge twelve footer. My husband kept reminding me it might be too big, but for me, the dreamer, it wasn’t tall enough!

What I didn’t mention was it didn’t quite fit into our old tree stand that always held our usual seven-foot tree. I hadn’t thought of that at the moment I’d spotted that impressive-looking fir. The five of us stood there looking at the tree resting on the hardwood floor trying to figure this out.

Never tell a woman it won’t fit.

I said to my husband, “Simple. Let’s cut a large chunk off the base.”

“Might work,” he replied, leaving to retrieve his saw.

That tree trunk was huge and heavy. It had taken all five of us to drag it in the front door. We weren’t dragging it outside again. We were cutting it in place on the hardwood floor.

Hey, that’s what vacuums are for: moments like this, right?

After much sweating and sawing, about a foot was removed. We all strained and grunted, but managed to fit it into place in the tree stand, which strained under the weight of it. To our amazement, it held. We all cheered and began decorating it. When it was done it looked majestic and magical.

Pleased with the end result, I went to the kitchen to make dinner while the boys set the table for me, and my loving husband vacuumed up glitter and sawdust at the base of the tree. The tree lights were left on so I could turn and see through the archway from the kitchen table our beautiful tree.

We were busy laughing and talking when suddenly we heard a crash. We turned, gaping at the spectacle. The tree had toppled over. We jumped up, hustled over to it, and with grunts and groans, set it upright.

My husband checked the base. A screw was loose. He retightened it. I observed the damage: a few broken ornaments and some loose garland. To my relief, the broken ones were not any of my older, cherished ornaments.

We then returned to the kitchen to eat our dinner. But within minutes, we heard another loud crash. The tree had fallen again. We hurried over and repeated the same process of uprighting it, but this time my husband used a wrench to tighten all the screws at the base, which had come loose.

“I guess the added weight of the ornaments didn’t help,” I said, as I surveyed the damage on the floor. Although saddened by more broken ornaments, none of them were my prized ones. Again, we cleaned up and returned to our dinner. I stared at that tree for a full minute. It held.

The others were already talking and laughing. Every once in a while I took a covert glance back at the tree that was still thankfully holding its own. I finally relaxed and resumed eating and joined in on their dinner banter.

But then the unthinkable happened: another loud crash.

Silence…

I dropped my head into my hands as tears began to fall. “I can’t do this.”

I couldn’t bring myself to look. The odds that my cherished ornaments survived this last fall: impossible. I wanted to pass them on to my children and their children. Overwhelmed with the tree’s beauty, I’d chosen one that was too tall and heavy for our tree stand, and with the added weight of all the ornaments, it became top heavy. A major blunder on my part.

I heard the scraping of everyone’s chairs but mine. I couldn’t bring myself to move and face the disaster. I felt physically sick. All I heard were grunts, whispering then some hammering, and finally silence.

Then I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder and opened my eyes and turned to see my youngest smiling. “Dad fixed your tree, Mom! We helped!”

I sighed and forced a smile. “We let’s see what you guys did!”

He dragged me over to the others standing in front of the upright tree.

My middle son pointed to the window frame, grinning. “Look!”

Then my oldest son said, “Dad wired the tree to the window frame.

My husband stepped forward. “This time it’s not going anywhere!”

“But I’m afraid to look closer,” I said frowning, teary-eyed, as I heard the crunching under my feet and everywhere around us.

That’s when everyone laughed then said, “Look down!”

I did, then up to the tree, and then back down to the floor again, my mouth agape. None of the broken ones were my cherished prizes from my youth. Not only had they survived that highway broken ornament box disaster, (in my 1st Christmas story) now this. How could that possibly be?

My family came close and hugged me. Then we all stared at our tree.

I touched each child, kissed my husband then eyed my old ornaments.

I guess Christmas miracles come in all sizes and shapes.

Next up: my 3rd Christmas tale, the one from hell. To be continued…

Ah, Christmases: some good, some bad, some downright nightmarish.

Let me first say that when we left our home to travel to our vacation log home in Highlands, N.C. (The one I used in my first mystery, The Puzzle) we were upbeat and excited for the holidays. Our log home was cozy, deep in the forest, and remote with spectacular views of the mountains and valley below. I had visions of toasting marshmallows, baking cookies, sledding, ice-skating, searching out that perfect Christmas tree, and decorating it with my family in front of a roaring fire.

The road trip there would be a breeze. We were jam-packed with our clothes and wrapped gifts in our Jeep Cherokee. But then my husband and I saw the ornament box still sitting in the driveway. Having run out of room inside the Jeep, my husband and I both eyed the luggage rack on the roof. We could put our Christmas ornaments in the large box strapped to it! Brilliant! It worked! Finally, we were on our way!

I had packed sandwiches and drinks so we wouldn’t be slowed down except for gas and bathroom breaks for our three young boys. Cruising on 85 northbound I heard some giggling and a lot of whispers from the backseat. I turned to see what all the commotion was about. Our boys were waving out the window at the passing cars. I then looked out the window too. People were waving. How nice!

My husband turned briefly to look and waved back. “Boy, they sure are friendly here in the South, aren’t they?” he said, grinning. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Well, this kept up for a few miles, people passing and waving, but then I noticed one woman drew alongside us and was pointing, first at us then behind us.

“Why is she pointing?” I asked. “Is our tire going flat? Did we hit something?”

My husband glanced at her again. “Hey, it looks like she pointing to our roof.”

Then everything clicked in place. I yelled, “Stop the car!”

After pulling to the side of the road, we all jumped out to have a look. Our large box of ornaments had blown open in the back, exposing the tightly packed ornaments for my not-yet-bought Christmas tree. I turned to look behind us and spotted one of them laying far out on the highway right before an eighteen-wheeler ran over it. My husband and I both jumped on the running board of the Jeep. Apparently, several of our ornaments were scattered between Atlanta and where we were now parked on the side of the highway. My children were staring at me, knowing mixed in with those ornaments were ornaments from when I was little just like them and cherished every Christmas, smiling each time I hooked them on our tree for Christmas. I had no idea if they were still in there. Teary-eyed, I pasted on a smile and said, “Well, it’s a good thing there is a Christmas store in downtown Highlands. We’ll pick out special ones to add to our collection for new memories. I hope you guys will find some special ones.”

My husband took down the box off the roof. Then the boys dragged it into the jeep and across their laps, refusing to let it go. I got it. Great minds thought alike. Why temp fate twice? Setting aside sentimental value, I knew things could be replaced, but not the people I loved. I smiled. “I am truly blessed.”

P.S. After checking that night, I found I didn’t lose any of my old ones.

Next up: a 2nd Christmas tale. I swear fate played a role in it. To be continued…

I guess you could say that November is the perfect time to give thanks. And we should. But will it be a blanket thanks that covers just about everything you’re grateful for? Do you really mean it? Or are you actually going to sit back and really think about exactly what you should be grateful for? I do, all the time.

I am so very grateful to have been blessed with a mother and father who taught me respect for others, even those we disagree with. They are no longer here, but their love, which was a constant, still surrounds me everyday. I know it goes without saying that I love the rest of my family to death, even the ones who annoy me and drive me crazy. Of course, my friends are also included in that. But what I’m really talking about, are the things that occur when you are too busy to think about at the time, but are still extremely grateful for, nevertheless.

I am grateful to my husband for rubbing my aching back when I was hustling to get an approved and final edit of one of my books out. But in the sheer ecstasy of the massage, I pressed the wrong key and didn’t discover that zzzzzzzzzz blunder until just before my book was to go to print. I made a panic-stricken call to my publisher, who I am also grateful for, who caught it and corrected it in time.

I’m even grateful to my critics who point out my faults and shortcomings…chuckle.

And here I thought that was strictly my husband’s territory.

John Locke said it perfectly when referring to one of his novels. “…Who’s gonna get hurt if you brake a flippin’ rule once in awhile? I get a lot of criticism from purists for my writing, but I can live with it, because English teachers aren’t my target audience. Not all English teachers. Just the cool ones…”

I’m grateful for several authors whose friendship and sage advice over the years has meant so much to me. More than they will ever know. Thank you!

I am so very thankful to all my followers, many friends, and all the other wonderful multi-talented authors I have met on Twitter. You know who you are.

I am also appreciative for all those wonderful people who left such heartfelt comments on my website to my posts, and the many thousands of readers out there who really do enjoy my books and give me great feedback and constructive advice. You are valued!

But most of all, I am grateful for every day that I am lucky enough to wake up and write knowing so many wonderful people who are a part of my life. And as long as my fictional characters, I’m not mentioning any particular names, they know who they are, restrain themselves and stop telling me their dialogue is better than mine, I am good to go.

Be grateful. Life is too short. Give thanks.

Chase your dreams, not someone else’s.

Remember, every day is a blessing. Don’t take them for granted.

“Great minds think alike! I knew there was some kind of karma thing going on between us the minute I sat down. What a novel, forgive the pun, idea! We deserve some payoff, don’t you think? We’re the ones taking all the risks out there. The way I look at it, it’s a win-win situation that tips in my favor. Peggy may get all the glory, but I get to have all that fun. Who do you think is the one whispering all those crazy scenarios in her ear, especially after she’s had a glass of wine? Trust me, she’s not so uptight then.”

In your books, you’ve dealt with ice storms, bikers, a mysterious cat lady, antique enthusiasts, drug dealers and, of course, murderers. Who knew writing and sleuthing came with so many occupational hazards?

“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 Book 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.”

In Book 1, The Puzzle, you initially began solving mysteries when the details of your husband’s death didn’t add up. What’s kept you sleuthing since then?

“I guess my life and my crazy friends have not exactly been what you call normal. But I kind of liked that. It made everything so unpredictable. They kept dragging me into capers that I found I was good at solving. Now my author, Peggy? I could bend your ear with a few of her escapades over the years, but since I don’t wish to end up like some of her antagonists in the series, my lips are sealed.”

Were you surprised to learn you were good at cracking tough cases?

“Yeah, I was. It was empowering, taking charge and shaking things up. It became addicting, figuring out all those angles and details, and then watching them fall into place, sometimes neatly, and at other times, sort of on the messy side. Between Peggy and I, we always managed to come up with a great whodunnit ending!” (Sam looks both ways, whispering,) “Those endings are mine, but I let Peggy take all the credit.”

You solve your mysteries with the help (and sometimes hindrance) of some wonderful friends. They don’t mind the dangerous situations you sometimes get into?

“I hate to spread rumors, but I think if I left them to their own resources, they would be worse than I am. But maybe that’s why we bond so well, accepting each other’s idiosyncrasies and are willing to overlook our imperfections, although, sometimes we can’t help pointing them out. The way I look at it, age has nothing to do with how well we get along. In my books, if we’re all crazy-minded to begin with, accept each other for who we are, and look out for each other, then that’s the glue that binds us. Oh, they complain, including me, but I think they love it just as much as I do.”

One of your ‘senior consultants,’ Martha, is rowdy and fashion challenged to say the least. If you could give her a makeover, what would she look like?

“I wouldn’t. I figure Peggy’s made her an older, pushier version of me, but with short, spiky white hair for contrast. Otherwise dialogue and storylines would be so boring. Where would the clash be? The arguments? I just love it when street-wise Martha gets right up in my face and goes at it. It keeps me on my toes. Besides, I like being shocked and blinded by all that color, flair, and exuberance of hers. I must say sunglasses do help.”

Mona’s reappearance in your life in Book 2, Without Any Warning caused all kinds of chaos. So when you got her cryptic message in Book 5, The Mouth of the Rat, were you tempted to just hit delete?

“Tell me about it. She was the last person I expected to hear from. But that dead part of her message said, gotcha and I was hooked. And as usual, she was trouble from the get go, lying, sneaking around, deflecting and bending the truth. It just about drove me crazy until I realized I loved every minute of it. I just had to outwit her so I could stay on top of things. You know, I still have that raincoat and hat I wore for my surveillance of her in Without Any Warning. I do have a sentimental side.”

Your adventures mean a lot of packing and unpacking. What are some items that you never leave home without?

“My Spanx. For you guys that are reading this, it’s kind of like a body shaper. They make them for men too. It holds in all that uneven stuff we ladies prefer not showing off (like bulges where they shouldn’t be) I buy it one size too small, hence my size 2/4. Of course, sometimes it’s hard to breath, but I time myself for the evening, you know, it’s like how long I can wear certain shoes, 1, 2, 3 hours or, if I’m lucky, the whole evening. Oh, I mustn’t forget my iPhone for Facebook, Twitter, email, texting my girl friends…”

Your author, Peggy A. Edelheit, has, in addition to three sons and a husband, a Miniature Schnauzer. My author grew up with Miniature Schnauzers. Think that makes them kindred spirits?

“Isn’t that the oddest thing? Maybe we are! I do have to admit I’m still rankled about one thing. Peggy’s dog’s name is Samantha, Sam for short. Can you believe it? I mean, come on! She gave me her dog’s name? (Samantha pauses, leaning back) …Well, I do have to concede one point in Peggy’s favor. She did buy the dog before I came along. But I’m still touchy and feel kind of foolish when she calls her dog and I come running.” (Sam winks at me) “Trust me, one day I will get even….”

Peggy’s life as a novelist seems to mirror your own in a lot of ways. How are you alike and how are you different?

“Oh my! Come to think of it we are very similar in that we think out of the box and see humor where other’s might not. That spills onto the pages a lot, especially when we are both trying to be serious, but hey, you can’t take everything seriously, right? (Samantha looks both ways, once more) To tell you the truth, I think I am Peggy’s alter ego. That sure would explain a lot, don’t you think? It’s spooky sometimes.”

What does Peggy have planned for you next? Or should I say, what do you have planned for you next? Or what does Peggy have planned for you to have planned for you next? My head’s spinning a little.

“The Riviera Is Burning was a pause for Peggy for a quickie. And no, it’s not what your thinking. I meant a brief personal memoir from France. In Book 6, Death Knell In The Alps, (Sam sighs loudly and rolls her eyes) once again, involved a plane plus skis. Then in the subsequent books in the series they included some of the, and I use this term lightly, girls. So, what Peggy has planned for us, I can never predict ahead of time, but we always have a meeting of the minds to discuss the plots over a glass of wine. Who knows what’ll happen after the second glass? I know one thing. They always have surprise endings. That’s guaranteed!”

I do hope you’ve enjoyed this interview. And remember, everyday is a blessing. Never take any of them for granted.

Happy reading, Peggy.

One night as she scanned her and the neighbor’s front yard including the evergreen bushes that divided their two properties, an oddly shaped shadow caught her attention. Something wasn’t right. The end bush, which lay in shadow from the streetlight across the street, appeared altered from the night before. It was larger.

She leaned in, straining her eyes. Was something there? Was she imagining things? Should she wake and tell her husband? She sat very still in her darkened room and waited. It felt like forever, but was merely minutes. Could the larger shadowy shape be a crouching figure hiding there? Instinct kicked in. Better to be safe than sorry.

She woke up her husband. Slowly and still groggy from sleep, he finally came over and took a look. But there was nothing there but shadows. She relayed what she had seen. Her husband had never seen his wife so upset. She was convinced someone had been there and was concerned for the safety of their neighbor, who often came home very late with cash receipts from his store. Trusting his wife’s instincts her husband promised to go to the neighbor’s house and repeat his wife’s story to at least warn their neighbor to be on the lookout just in case.

Another hectic day passed and the woman sat at her window in the dark staring out once again. She sat in relative silence feeling better about warning their neighbor. Had she just imagined that moving shadow? This was such a safe, peaceful, and quiet neighborhood. But then her breath caught. There it was again: that moving shadow behind that same bush. Something was definitely there. Before she could react, a familiar car drove up the street and turned into the driveway next door. Her neighbor. Her eyes darted back to that bush. The shadow moved. Her eyes shot back to her neighbor’s car, as a police car pulled up and a scuffle ensued.

The next day her neighbor couldn’t thank her enough for warning him to be on the lookout. Her instincts were right. That moving shadow she’d seen behind the bush wasn’t the wind ruffling the branches, but an armed man waiting to rob him.

That woman, my mother, always loved sitting at her window staring out at night…

With Sam, the female sleuth in my Samantha Jamison Mystery Series, I continually stress, trust your instincts. Let them guide you. You know yourself better than anyone else. When something doesn’t feel right, don’t be complacent. Do something. Pay attention to your inner voice. Let that guide you. I did in my memoir, The Rivera Is Burning.

Remember, everyday is a blessing. Don’t take any of them for granted.