 | Jess discusses the release of August Moon on Twin Cities Live! "Move over Stephanie Plum. There's a new bad girl in town!" William Kent Krueger
"...slam-bang...take your breath away!" St. Paul Pioneer Press
"...hilarious, fast paced, and madcap!" Booklist (starred review)
Learn more. |
 | Jess' Virtual Book Tour
If you're unable to make one of Jess' traditional booksignings, you can check her out at these great blogs as she kicks off her virtual book tour (book giveaways included)! The University of North Dakota has made the Murder-by-Month series their official summer reading list. They're reading them month-appropriately--May Day in May, June Bug in June, etc. Thank you, Popular Librarians! |
It was the first Thursday in July, the hottest month in Minnesota. The thermometer was busting my hump at a moist 86 degrees, and it wasn't even 8 AM. The Channel 7 news, the only station that came in clearly at my double-wide in the woods, was predicting the hottest July in history. The humid, sticky weather made the whole state feel like a greenhouse, or the inside of someone's mouth. As a direct result, people who had to work were cranky, people on vacation were ecstatic, and crops were growing like a house on fire. Locals said that if the corn was knee high by the Fourth of July, it would be a bumper crop. We were two days shy of that date and the corn was already shoulder high on a grown man. That strangeness should have been a warning to us all.
I stepped out of the shower into the sauna of my bathroom, wrapped a towel around my wet hair, and crossed the house to flick on the TV. The droplets of water on my naked body felt deliciously cool against the heavy morning air.
RINNNG.
A phone call while the sun is still pinking the horizon never bodes well, particularly for someone like me who was lucky enough to have been within two feet of one fake corpse and two real ones in as many months. I let down my hair and rubbed it, stirring up the spicy smell of rosemary ginger shampoo.
RING.
I tossed the towel over the back of a chair and reached for a pair of tattered jean shorts.
RING.
I threaded the button fly and reached for a midnight blue tank top with a built-in shelf bra to rein in the booblets.
RING. My answering machine clicked over, and whoever was calling hung up. Must not have been important. I unclenched my shoulder blades and went to brush my teeth. I squeezed out a pea-sized glop of Tom's of Maine cinnamon toothpaste, trickled a little water on it, and started scrubbing.
RING.
Shit. I ran through a list of people I knew who could be dead or hurt, of money I owed, of anyone who might be mad at me.
RING.
The sigh came from the bottom of my soul. A few years ago, I could have ignored the ominous early-morning call, but the older I got, the less reliable my denial mechanism became. I wondered what other cruel tricks my thirties had in store for me. That simultaneous wrinkles-and-pimples one was my favorite so far. No matter. I was gonna have to answer that phone.
