A Biker's Funeral from the Novel, Running With Wild Blood By Gerrie Ferris Finger

I’m easily amused. Lake circled the rental car around Palms Garden Cemetery. A spiked, wrought iron

fence kept the dead in, otherwise, who knew? They might run out and vote. I didn’t say that to Lake for fear of an unappreciative groan. 

At the white stone gates, at intervals , the uniformed cop held up a hand to allow other boulevard traffic to flow past the line of bikes and cars waiting to enter the city of the 

dead.

My skin started to hum. The voltage in the atmosphere was amped to the max despite the fanning palms doing their damndest to make this day a celebration of the dead. “Don’t anyone light a match,” Lake said.

Riley "Big Red" O'Rourke

We weaved and shouldered our way through throngs of bikers, some startled at seeing three people not wearing cut, sleeveless denim, or leather, or visible tattoos— until they caught the badges. They growled and spit, then went back to their conversations. Lots of fucks and fuckers being said, Lake noted . They were paired with all the adverbs and adjectives known in the English language. The last of the attendees were in place at O’Rourke’s grave. On the gold-draped stand stood an obviously hand-painted casket with the motorcycle club’s colors and a patch on the foot. I spotted Rassler and the Chattanooga brothers milling around the head of the coffin. The Raleigh boys were at the sides and the Birmingham chapter at the foot. I wondered if there was some kind of strategy in the stations of those nearest the bier. I looked behind me. Pressing forward was so much human flesh in leather, cattle pens must have been emptied to supply the hides. The crowd quieted. The service was to begin.

Holding a microphone, the preacher began the service with a prayer, and those bikers in front of me removed whatever head gear they wore except those with do-rags. Bad hankie hair maybe. The silence quivered with tension and I was glad for the “Amen.” Immediately, Rush’s “Ghost Rider” flared from speakers hidden in palms. I thought it an apt song. When Neil Peart, the drummer and lyricist for Rush, lost his daughter and wife, he went on a motorcycle journey across America, and then wrote the song.

When the track ended, the preacher did the “we are gathered together” thing. The preacher paused, stepped back and Steppenwolf’s “Born to Be Wild” erupted from the speakers. The crowd let out a collective yelp. 

...the preacher read a passage from the Bible. It rang out in enunciated tones through the speakers , as if the preacher wanted everyone to hear and believe. “I declare to you, brothers, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable , and we will be changed. For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality. When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: ‘Death has been swallowed up in victory.’ Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting? The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” Halfway through that passage from Corinthians I had my doubts about it being right for a biker funeral, but when the preacher said “Amen” a collective , testosterone-laden “whoop” blew through the air. Into the whoop came the Eagles , “Life in the Fast Lane.”

I swear every biker sang. They must have been nipping from flasks... Once the song ended and voices settled, the preacher read from another Bible passage: “To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, And a time to die . . . A time to kill, And a time to heal . . . A time to weep, And a time to laugh, A time to mourn, And a time to dance . . . A time to lose; A time to keep . . . A time to keep silence, And a time to speak; A time to love, And a time to hate; A time of war, And a time of peace.” 

As expected, the blaster fired up another motorcycle song, this time Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” I’m thinking funeral as an excuse for a heavy metal concert. Certainly the crowd was much less restive than they had been before the music.

Next up, The Doors, “Riders on the Storm.” I’ve always loved that song, the thunder and rain effects. It was inspired, they say, by “Ghost Riders in the Sky,” a cowboy song. I reasoned that biker music must be standard at funerals. It certainly had a calming effect on the crowd, but I stayed alert, wary.

The music died and the preacher said, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Amen.” He held up a cross. “Go with God and our Lord Jesus Christ brother Riley O’Rourke.” After a quiet interval, the casket was lowered into the ground by some automatic button. Shovels began to fly; their blades had the club’s patch painted on it. The Raleigh club was literally burying their dead. I got a good look at Rassler who worked his shovel demonically, his face red with sweat. The silent crowd was rapt with awe. It was then I sensed something in the air, a quiet determination. At the same time, something moved rapidly to my left. A man rushed forward, passing not six feet from me, weaving through the biker fraternity intent on seeing their brother buried. They’d let down their guard.

The would-be shooter and I were leaving a commotion in our wake . The grave shovelers halted. Rassler turned. Switch— on the other side of the coffin—paused. The shooter raised his gun hand. I aimed low in case I was jostled into an errant shot. Two shots rang through the air, cold and sharp. Mine got him in the buttocks. 

His bullet went into the palms. He faltered a step forward, then went to his knees. I felt the stampede then the pause of movement. At least fifteen bikers jumped the prone, injured man and began stomping him. Grady spoke rapidly into a police radio. Lake stared at me. Rassler portaged around the carnage. Parting the crowd, he came up at the same time Grady arrived with his FBI contingent, the ATF and the police. The cops waded into the men bent on murdering the gunman. Lake stood next to me. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes were narrow with anger. Rassler said, “You saved my life.” Switch came up and raised his fist in salute. 

I couldn’t respond for the hollowness in my chest. It was like someone or something had pulled a plug and drained away my core. I feared what lay ahead, what Lake’s expression was telling me. I simply could not speak for fear my body, its organs, would shut down. The faraway voice was Rassler’s. “You okay, girl?” He gave me a side hug.

I think I nodded and watched six burly cops pry bikers off the body of the would-be assassin. I didn’t look down, though I knew he was dead. “Come with us,” Grady said gently, taking my gun and my elbow. As we left the O’Rourke family plot, I heard a murmur, and then a rousing number sprang from the speakers: “Bat out of Hell” by Meatloaf. 

Lake walked behind us, jaws locked, eyes like hard brown granite. Better if they played AC/ DC’s “Highway to Hell” for me.

PREPARE To Experience Hotelles by French Author Emma Mars... Available Tomorrow in USA!

Ten-Oh-One: 22 +1 = 23. I am twenty-three years old.
I push open the gilded door of the Josephine. Monsieur
Jacques gave me a keycard, no questions asked. He almost
seemed relieved to see me. I am now also part of this hotel.
Along with Marie, Margaretha, Caroline, Esther, Lola, and
the others. I am one of them now.
The room is as it was when I visited it two weeks ago with
my athletic client. But then I only saw it in the dark, and 
here it is bathed in the light of the setting sun. The star only
disappeared three minutes ago, if that, and the building is
covered in its dying glow. The window is open. The light
dives through it, licking the gilding.
~~~

Hotelles

By Emma Mars

"Listen, I didn't even know you were getting married until about five minutes ago...At least you won't have to worry about being a Hotelle anymore."
"A ho-what? Excuse me?"
"Rebecca never told you?"
"No..."
"Apparently, another girl named Elle used to work for her. She got pretty well known for ending all of her missions in a hotel room. And, you know, 'hot' plus 'Elle' equals 'Hotelle,' Not bad, right? I guess it stuck."
The other girl may have been named Elle, but she sounded a lot like Sophia. A girl who sparked male desire during the day from her booth and put it out at night in a hotel room for a fee.
"I had no idea Rebecca was so creative," I joked.
"Anyway, for you, that's all finished."
I wish I could have been more sure. I had really wanted the interview to go well so that I could close the door to the Josephine--and all the other rooms in the Hotel des Charmes--once and for all. To be simply Annabelle. Not a "Hotelle."
                                 ~~~

June 3, 2009
I was curled up in the
sheets of the Josephine's
unmade bed. On that day
my limbs were free.
Free and yet so ill at
ease. I had only met the
man who was about to
share my bed three hours
before, four at most.
"Which position would
you prefer, Elle? he
asked as he helped me
unzip my delicate
white dress.
~~~

From the country of love, of romance, I certainly support the phenomenal Literary Erotic Novel, Hotelles. As usual, I recommend that anybody offended by erotica not consider this book... It does not deserve to be treated lightly in evaluations, especially since the publicity clearly explains content.

If you do decide to read it, my second suggestion is that you...prepare...for your time with the book. I suggest you read it while alone and at a time when you will not be disturbed--you will not be able to stop reading until you finish...plan to do so...

"And you? Did you have a good night?
"One might say," she said smirking.
"Rich client?"
"Disgustingly rich, you mean...he
really pulled out all the stops: the
Pompadour suite and all the
trimmings.
~~~

There is one main reason that many buy erotic books. Yes, reading about Annabelle--Elle will be titillating, so you will not be disappointed, if that is your reason. Ahhhh, but for me and millions, it is the suspense, an almost palpable urgency to discover what in the world was going on! If I dare add, and at my age I do, this novel also could be helpful to women in encouraging an exploration of their sexuality. No, I don't mean learning about sex. I mean, exploring their own feelings, opinions, and desires and allowing those opinions to affect their lives.

The eloquence displayed in the writing and the setting brings images of a historical novel--but this happened only a few years ago... Annabelle was a Journalism major when it was discovered that her mother had cancer. Annabelle needed money both to finish her degree and to, hopefully, send her mother to America for treatment only available there... Unfortunately, as many young students know, there is only one way to easily make a lot of money fast. Annabelle knew little about sex and what she knew came mostly from Cosmo articles. But her best friend Sophia Petrille, 2 years older, was "at least 5 years ahead" of her in the world of men and sex.

Elle and Sophia would share about their client activities and especially about what rooms they had visited at the Hotel des Charmes where each of the rooms was named after a well-known...French lady...

The format of the novel takes particular attention--there are many indented quotes, some of which Elle writes, but some are anonymous notes. Then there are little phrases, sometimes from somebody else, but also sometimes her own thoughts. Elle started keeping a journal which had been slipped into her bag in a crowd. Some of them she wrote. Others were what she received anonymously, but they were written as if they, too, were Elle's thoughts... Quite intriguing so be alert. For instance, as she was considering becoming an escort, which could, on her decision, become more, she had written:

What makes you come, Elle? Year, what does make me come? Do I really know? What exactly is it that makes me melt, deep down inside? That makes me wet without being touched, just at the thought of it? A man's naked body? His smell? The sight of an anonymous cock erect for me? Against me? In me...

While one she had received was:

Doggy style bothers me because it's animalistic. I only like to do it with men I know. Doggy-style makes me come more than any other position...precisely because it's animalistic! I fantasize about doing it with someone I don't know, preferably with a mask on.

I found myself thinking of the story line for Sabrina, an old movie some of you may know where two brothers are interested in the same woman... Although the lives and actions were totally different, I always loved Sabrina, so naturally I began to place those characters into their roles...LOL Want to see the result?

Obviously, Elle began to meet many men who needed escorts for various functions where she would meet other men...but one she had recently seen in the news and had been attracted to him. At the same time, she had seen another man at one of those events, to whom she also was attracted. They were brothers. She became involved with the former, but was continuing to receive the notes and sometimes presents were included. She began to suspect the brother.

Things moved fairly fast regarding a relationship and Elle soon found herself engaged. The background on the two brothers is an important psychological component of the mystery. For whatever reasons, rather than assume that the eldest would inherit, he had pitted the two boys against each other. They were in competition for grades, activities, girls--everything. At an appropriate time, the father would decide the results--to whom the majority of the estate would go. Unfortunately he died and their lives had remained competitive... Enter women and sex...

Then Elle realized that she was in essence being blackmailed. Whoever it was, especially if it was her fiancee's brother, they were in a position to share her past! Could she give up the man she had fallen in love and would be marrying--and later, with whom she was now working? But would he be willing to accept that she was a Hotelle? Soon, the blackmail was very specific. She was being called to the Hotel des Charmes

Each time she was presented with a statement, something like a commandment...

1--Thou shalt love thy body. With the first one, she was to go to the Hotel at 10...

 Considering the options, Elle came to the final foolish conclusion--she had no choice but attend.

"The person who sent you that note must know the hotel quite well, Elle."
That was the first time, I think, I'd ever heard him use my nickname. One of my clients must have told him was it was.
"What do you mean?"
"'Zelle' is not a mistake on your first name. It's the family name of one of our most famous muses." 
Each room bore the last name of a great seductress or courtesan.
"Really? Which one?"
"One of the greatest: Margaretha Geertruida Zelle."
"Excuse me?" I was scanning my memory...
"Mata Hari."
Oh.

The room was empty but gorgeous...It was decorated in Belle Epoque style...
~~~

Elle had finished touring the beautiful room and was just about to take off since nobody had appeared. She was so frustrated that she started to cry from anger, lack of power, then saw a note slipped under the door, "Take off your clothes." Afraid, she started banging on the door--it had been locked. Minutes, hours went by for all she knew, then suddenly all of the walls reversed. The walls were completely covered with floor-length mirrors... She started screaming, asking if that was how [he] got off, as a voyeur. No response; nothing... Elle was wild with her thoughts... Then...

...My cotton panties with black details over my pelvis slid effortlessly down my thighs, joining the rest of my clothing on the floor. Now nothing came between his gaze and my private parts. I don't think I'd ever even shown myself to David like this, with such rawness and indecency. I didn't even have the reflex to hide my lower region, where the lips came together and drew a line under my dark curls...

Looking at my body in the mirror, from all angles and depths, I had the sensation of discovering it for the first time.

So this is what men desired when I undressed in front of them. This woman, as opposed to the one invented by my critical gaze, the one deformed by years of acquired body image issues. My imperfections hadn't disappeared. But seeing my list of faults, together in one image, I couldn't deny how attractive they were, though I had trouble really believing it.

~~~

So a secret life began, continued even while she went on interacting, living and loving her fiancee... But, more importantly, she began her own investigation into the life of her fiancee...and also his brother... What she discovered, ahhhh, that is the whole point of the novel, isn't it?!

If you were here, I would love to talk about this book! Emma Mars' book is nothing short of

eloquent... On the bottom of the front cover it says, "You will burn to add your own..." She's talking about the stories in the rooms of hotels, if only they could speak... Readers will have no choice, they will remember romances, loves of their past, their present, and, perhaps, even their future! I adored this book. I so hope that you will come to realize that this book is all about Elle, not about the other characters...about finding her own room...

Or, perhaps, it is all about the man with whom she chooses to live her future with...

Or, maybe it's about...us...each of us...

Mysterious, Suspenseful, sensual, titillating, hot and sexy...eloquent in its fluidity and expressiveness... I'll be looking for the next one out...

Song from Music List - Also included as an appendix is erotic literature as suggested in book...

GABixlerReviews

Emma Mars is the pseudonym of an author who lives in France.

Side-Kick Eleanor Visits to Tell About Armed and Outrageous by Madison Johns! Come Meet Her!

Eleanor had blue eyes that simply danced, and her well-wrinkled skin was covered with large moles, as if she collected them. Her thin, gray hair was curled today – her hair appointment had been only yesterday. When she laughed, which she did often, her whole belly shook.
"Why would I lock the door? I knew you’d be coming straight here after getting the paper. How is Roy this morning?" She giggled and tried unsuccessfully to stop. "You’re the one that has eyes for him, not me, Eleanor." "Really? Do you think he would be interested?" Her eyes danced suggestively. Ignoring her chatter, I held up the newspaper and handed it to Eleanor to read. She carried it to one of her white wicker chairs and sat reading the article before handing it back to me. 
"It said the same thing on the news this morning. The girl’s father is on his way here too," Eleanor said, putting her hand against her mouth as if someone else could hear her. "Word is that he is staying at Robinson’s Manor while he's here... 
"Put your hand down, and start acting serious for once. How in the world does he think he can get in there? They are always booked this time of year." 

"There is one suite that is always empty. I heard they remodeled it real quick like just to accommodate him." 

"Certainly not … the suite?" 

"One and the same." "The suite where Mrs. Robinson was raped and murdered?" I couldn’t believe it. "Nobody in their right mind would want to stay in… that room. Maybe he doesn’t know." "Beats me, but word is he wants to be close to the place where his daughter went missing." I cleared my throat. "Where exactly would that be, Eleanor?" 

"I was hoping you would ask. Not far from Quick Stop. It was the party store she was going to on Tuesday." I stood and walked back through the house with Eleanor hot on my heels. "You won’t find anything there. If the police haven’t found anything, what makes you think you will?" "Eleanor, I’m a concerned citizen, and it’s my god given right to get to the bottom of this. It could be related to Sophia’s disappearance. What if all of these cases are related?" Eleanor put her hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Honey, I know you want to believe that, and I’m not saying you’re wrong, but it’s a long shot. I hope Sophia is still alive too, but Agnes, it’s been a year." I wiped away a tear that formed. "I know you’re right, but I have to do this." 

~~~

Armed and Outrageous

Madison Johns

I'm Eleanor and I don't mind being the sidekick for Agnes...she's got the smarts for solving mysteries, but I got...ahhh. where was I? Oh yeah! I've got fortitude! Or at least I used to have it 'fore all those shenanigans happened where I was working--but that's another story!

Agnes is my best friend--and I don't have many. At 82, there are slim pickin's for finding somebody that accepts you as you are and still sticks around...But I doubt I could live with the woman--she's just lookin' to git killed 'cause she never gives up until she solves a case and I'd like to live a little longer. Still, when those goons threw that Molotov cocktail into her home and burnt it to a crisp, I was sooo scared they'd finally got her! Who? Well, let me tell ya the story...

We spooned in our delicious concoction when

 Dorothy and Frank Alton walked in and hugged

 Sally, who’s their granddaughter. 

Eleanor froze with her spoon midway to her mouth,

 and chocolate syrup dripped down and

 rested on her cleavage. Frank drew his gaze

 as if on radar, openly staring at Eleanor’s 

now chocolate-covered chest. Dorothy’s eyes

 grew large when she saw Frank ogling Eleanor.

 Her nostrils flared, and she resembled a bull about

 to charge when the wife started to bark or so it seemed. 

 "It’s not my problem your husband knows

 a good look-in’ woman when he sees one." 

Dorothy cleared her throat. "Good looking?

Miss Melanoma." What I saw next baffled my mind. 

It seemed to happen in slow motion. Eleanor

 tackled Dorothy, dog and all. They scuffled on

 the floor and rolled around resembling a pair of flailing

 fish while the dog yipped and yapped up a storm

 to Frank's laughter. Eleanor got in a few punches,

 but Dorothy yanked her head back, and spat

 in Eleanor’s face. At this point, even Zeus had sense

 enough to retreat from the pair. Dorothy managed

 to make it to her feet, but as she tried to

 stagger away, Eleanor snatched her wig from her head.

 Gasps were heard about the room, and Eleanor

 lifted her head up and walked away.

 "I so showed that bitch," Eleanor said. 

Dorothy wasn’t through yet. I could see it when he

r eyes glazed over. She planted a tub of ice

 cream over Eleanor’s head, and cackled

 when she couldn't immediately get it off.

~~~

                                

First of all, Agnes is a retired Private Investigator, so it's kinda in her blood. But when her granddaughter went missin' there was just no stopping her! She even dug out her old ID even if it was out-of-date...

Sophia has been missing about a year and now a new one, Jennifer, has disappeared! Seems there had been others that are missing as well! Jennifer's father came into town and she immediately didn't trust him, but guess who came with him?! Agnes' former boss! Now, let me tell you, she'd always had the hots for him, but he was married and never paid much attention to my poor girlfriend... Once I saw him, I had to admit that he was one cool dude, even if he was younger than me...

Hey, I look when I can!

Now, I'm going to tell you something about this book! There is a scene in it about me... And it's just not true! That writer was trying to make us sexy ole broads and, of course, we are...but that scene at the senior citizens home...twasn't me! Why, everybody knows that I haven't been able to get down on my knees for "anything" for decades! 

A shame, really...

Well, Agnes did start finding clues--a shoe along the road where Jennifer was taken...

Then we found her boyfriend's cabin and he gave us her backpack which we promptly went home to dump and review...Wasn't much but everything helps a little and, of course, Agnes had to later turn the backpack over to the Sheriff, so we didn't even have that...Then her boyfriend got all beat up and so did Roy at the Bait Shop...


Buttttttt, well, I shouldn't tell on myself, but I really played a good one on the Sheriff! Now, what is it they say on TV--now, don't do this at home?

Welll, I did...when they came in unannounced to get that backpack!

"I’ll follow you to Eleanor’s and retrieve the backpack." He added. "I’d like to be home on time tonight."

 I stepped outside and felt a chill as if being watched. I got into the Cadillac and drove back to Eleanor’s house, followed by the sheriff. Once there, we walked into her house, and we both froze in our tracks. Eleanor stood buck naked in front of a fan. We were shocked, but from the look on Eleanor’s face, she couldn't care less. I’m not sure who was more shocked, the sheriff or me. 

Sheriff Peterson turned his back, and I’m sure he planned to gouge his eyes out later. Her rolls and sagging skin covered most of her private parts, but it was a sight I could have gone without myself. 

I handed the Sheriff the backpack, and he ran out the door. I heard him stumble in his hasty retreat. There was something about the sheriff’s demeanor that I just didn’t trust. He was hiding something. I wish I knew what. 

"Eleanor!" "What?" She smiled. "I was hot, and I needed to dry off." She giggled. "If I knew you were bringing a man, I’d have made my bed." 

"You’re not very choosy, are you?" She paused as if lost in thought. "Not at my age."

 "I left to question Kevin again." "Without me, no fair." Sticking her lower lip out, she looked even funnier. "Someone – they don't know who – beat the boy senseless, and he’s on his way to the hospital." "You think Jennifer’s dad tried to off him?" "Yes, that'd be my first guess, but he has an alibi. He was at the State Police Post filing a missing person’s report." "Likely story." Eleanor disappeared into the other room, then returned dressed in a low cut black shirt with matching Capri’s, still wearing her Ted Hose and tan canvas shoes. 

"What’s up with the sudden show of skin?" "It worked earlier. I like men to leer at me. It reminds me of working the streets in Saginaw."

Now while I was having a wee bit of fun here and there, Agnes had been getting reacquainted with her former boss, Andrew who was now single...I told you, right, that she'd always had the hots for him... Well, one night at my place, we had some drinks...nice little romance is developin'!

 I heard another explosion. The bullet struck a metal pan on the wall this time and ricocheted in the small shop until it stuck the only  man left standing right in the ass. 
"Freeze suckers," Eleanor shouted. She walked forward with a menacing look on her face. Her eyes darting between the men, her lips curled back into a snarl. She was holding a pink gun in her shaking hand. 
"You better listen to her," I shouted. I’m not sure if they felt intimidated, but they lit out into the back room. We heard clattering followed by screams and a growl. I could hear them kick the back door open, and we watched through the windows as the trio ran for their cars, leapt into them, and screeched onto US 23. Roy’s face mirrored mine.
 "Eleanor, where in the hell did you get that gun?" ~~~

But all that aside, our investigations were getting dangerous and shots were flying left and right--our car windows had to be replaced often! They definitely wanted us to stop searching for the killer, especially when Agnes realized that this just had to be tied into a cold family murder that had occurred years ago! Agnes had gone back to review that cold case and was on her way to talk to a guy who had once been a suspect...When we got there, he was dead, hung on a clothesline! With this murder, the state police officer even was willing to have us openly help with the case--of course we had to take a gun safety course, but I got my pink gun out and showed him I was ready! 

And I'm not even going to mention anything about the Mama coon...and her babies...

Well, sure, there's a great mystery to solve if you're into being a PI like my friend, Agnes...But, seein' as this was my first novel as a primary character, I just had to share some of what I got into! You know, Agnes saved me from slowly dying in an old people's home, so I owe her and heck, I even saved her life at least once from the goons! But I don't consider that payback! We're partners now, ya know...

Thanks so much for having me here at Book Reader's Heaven. I hope I told you 'nuf about this great cozy mystery debute and that you'll be following us in the next books! So, see ya soon!

Eleanor

GABixlerReviews

Amazon bestseller ~ Armed and Outrageous.

Author Madison Johns early days weren't spent writing -- they were spent dreaming. Her vivid imagination ran wild and took her places only dreams could. She read books, tons of books, they were her only friends. As a child, Madison Johns preferred to distance herself from other children her age, and had been described as a dreamer. Even as a small child, she remembers staying awake many a night fighting dragons, whisked away to foreign lands, or meeting the man of her dreams. She was a voracious reader of historical romance in her teen years and has always wished to one day journey to England, France, Ireland, and Scotland

The writing bug bit her at the age of 44 and she pounded out four books since that time. As the publishing climate changed she took a risk and decided to self publish, first a collection of two horror short stories geared for YA, Coffin Tales Season of Death.

Madison's caring nature had led her to work in the healthcare field, where she was employed as a nursing care assistant at a nursing home, and it was there that she was inspired to write her first mystery, Armed and Outrageous, introducing amateur detective, Agnes Barton. The book depicts two elderly ladies digging up clues with enough laugh out loud antics to make James Bond blush.

In late April of 2012 she released her first novel, Armed and Outrageous and it went on to become the #1 senior sleuth on Amazon.