Please welcome EPPIE award winning author Karen McCullough!
Karen McCullough has published six romantic mystery/suspense novels, two romantic fantasy novels, a Middle-earth RPG tie-in book, and most recently a paranormal novella, “Vampire’s Christmas Carol” in the Christmas paranormal anthology from Cerridwen Press, Beneath a Christmas Moon. Her most recent full-length novel release is also from Cerridwen Press, a romantic mystery/suspense thriller titled Shadow of a Doubt. Karen invites readers to learn more about her at her web site and her Myspace home.
Karen tells the story behind the story of Shadow of a Doubt:
When I set out to write Shadow of a Doubt, I planned it to be a pretty simple, straightforward mystery, with a twist. (No, I can’t tell you what that is.) I knew I wanted to set it in a small city in the Blue Ridge Mountains, with a heroine who was the only actual detective in the small police department and a hero who might or might not be involved in the crime she was investigating.
I did a lot of research for this story, including quite a bit about police procedures in general and homicide investigations in particular. I talked to a number of police officers, not just to get information but also to get a feel for how they think, how they approach both the job and life. Being a police officer is more than just a job and their attitudes spill over into the rest of their lives. I wanted to capture some of that.
I was aware that this was a risky book to write. As a police officer and a detective my heroine, Liz Ramsey, should not be romantically involved with a suspect. It’s a serious breach of ethics and any cop would know it.
One of the themes I’ve found recurring in my stories is the conflicts among duty, honor, loyalty, and love. I wanted to put my heroine in a position where she would have to wrestle with the conflicting demands of all of those things. To keep Liz from looking either stupid or morally questionable, I had to set up the situation carefully.
At the beginning of the story Greg Conyers wasn’t a suspect in the murder she’s investigating, and there was absolutely no reason to think he might become one, so there’s no reason she can’t date him and shouldn’t be attracted to him. By the time the first hint surfaces to connect him to the crime, she’s well on her way to being in love with him.
At the same time, Liz is beginning to realize the case is not as simple as it appears on the surface. The obvious answer to the mystery may not be the right one.
When it becomes clearer that Greg does have more than a casual connection to the murder, Liz is put in a terrible position. She knows she shouldn’t continue as the investigator in the case, but she also knows that the person who would take it over is just barely competent. Given that there’s more to the situation than appears on the surface, she fears that relinquishing it would result in a terrible miscarriage of justice. She believes herself capable of facing and dealing with the truth, no matter how devastating to her personally, so with the support of her captain, who trusts her as much as he can, she continues her pursuit of justice for a murdered girl.
The following scene is from fairly early in the story, when Liz is just beginning her investigation:
Shadow of a Doubt
by
Karen McCullough
Excerpt:
The fire popped softly. Warmth surrounded her and sank into her bones. She was trying to work up the energy to rise from the soft, warm, comfortable seat, leaning forward and rubbing her eyes when Greg Conyers come back into the room. He carried a tray laden with teapot, cups and condiments, which he placed on a table beside her chair.
“Detective? Tea?” he asked. “A soothing, herbal brew. You look like you could use it.”
“That bad?” she asked.
He studied her for a moment. “Not bad. A bit worn, maybe.”
“Probably. I’ve been up since one-thirty this morning.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Three or four times a year, maybe.”
He poured a cup of tea and passed it to her, then offered cream, sugar and lemon. She accepted the tea but declined the rest.
“You mind if I join you?” he asked, taking a cup himself and heading for an adjoining chair.
She laughed a little. “Mr. Conyers? This is your home, I believe?”
His lips quirked into a crooked, short-lived grin. “Your investigation, though. And your privacy I’m invading right now. Would it be unprofessional to call me Greg?”
“Only if you don’t dispense with the ‘Detective’ bit.”
He sat down and crossed one long leg over the other. “I heard one of your coworkers call you Liz this morning.”
“That’ll do,” she agreed.
He swirled the tea in his cup and looked down into it for a moment before he said, “Is it bad form for a layman to ask how an investigation is going?”
“Natural curiosity, I’d say. And technically, of course, you’re my employer.”
He looked up, startled, but she didn’t have to explain it to him. “I suppose so,” he agreed. “But the police don’t tell the public everything.”
“Nope. It’s always a bit of a tightrope, balancing what you owe the public against what you owe to the requirements of the job.”
He nodded slowly.
“I spent too much of today ducking reporters or talking with them,” she continued, “trying to be careful exactly what I told them. But they’re just doing their jobs too.”
“I suppose every job has its share of walking tightropes.”
“You ran a successful business once. I expect you know the drill.”
His eyes widened and she saw surprise and a hint of alarm, quickly hidden. “You checked my background.”
“Sheer, brazen curiosity,” she admitted. “And it wasn’t hard. Half the people I talked to remembered the article about you a couple of years ago.”
“That thing.” His eyebrows angled a bit. “Speaking of trying to duck reporters.” He shifted uncomfortably.
“I got a copy of the article. I’d say you were pretty good at avoiding journalists.”
He shrugged and took a sip of his tea. “I’ve learned how to guard my privacy.”
“Can I ask you a question? One that might impinge on it?”
He gave her an ironic look. “You’re the detective.”
“This one is personal.”
“Then I don’t have to answer it.”
“No one ever has to answer any questions. People with nothing to hide don’t seem to mind doing it as much, though.”
He might have been reading her mind when he asked, “Are there really people who have nothing to hide?”
“You’d make a good cop. You’ve got the right mindset.”
“Maybe.”
“What made you decide to sell the business and paint full-time? They’re so different, the world of commerce and the world of art. It’s hard to imagine a man who was happy in one being happy in the other.”
“How do you know I was happy in the one?” He set the teacup aside, stood and moved to stand behind the chair he’d just vacated, leaning on the back.
“Were you?”
He ran a hand through his silver hair, leaving it intriguingly disarranged. “Actually, to be honest, I guess I was. When I was running Conyers Properties, I was content in my way. Driven, always on the aggressive, always looking for opportunities, chances, connections. There was purpose in it and a goal, the challenge of finding ways to succeed. It was interesting. And satisfying, in a way. But it wasn’t very deep. And after a while it was almost too easy.”
He straightened and paced around the room. “There was still a thrill in it but I got tired of the effort. It was just about making more money and I already had enough. More than enough. I’d actually dabbled in art all my life, but I realized after a while that I was finding painting more satisfying than negotiating land deals. There are more interesting challenges than figuring out how to earn the next few million. And a way to say things I never could in business. I actually had the arrogance to believe I had something to add to the world besides new office buildings.”
“I understand you’re very good at painting too.”
He shrugged off the compliment. “Getting there, maybe. There are things I could do better. Some techniques I haven’t mastered yet.” He stopped in the middle of the room and turned to her. “What about you, Liz? What led you into police work?”
“I don’t know. Actually, I can’t remember ever not wanting to be a cop.”
“Anyone in your family?”
“No. It just seems like I was always watching a detective show on television or reading mystery novels when I was growing up. I cut my teeth on Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys. Went on to Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, Spillane, Hillerman, Ed McBain, all the others. The police procedurals were my favorites. That didn’t change as I got older, I just became more practical. I badgered my parents to let me practice shooting, I took a few martial arts classes and I spent a lot of time at the gym working out. I went to college and got a degree in criminal justice. And here I am.”
“You’re fairly young to have made detective, aren’t you?”
“You’re pretty young to have started, built and sold a business for enough money to let you retire in state, aren’t you?”
“That’s a point,” he admitted.
“But you’re right. I am fairly young. And I’m female. And it creates problems. But I’ve done my time on the street, issuing traffic tickets and breaking up rowdy parties. The degree helped and the fact that I had some training with the FBI a few years ago. Plus, this being a small town meant the competition wasn’t as fierce.”
“And you’re very intelligent and very competent.”
She sighed and rubbed her temples. “Right now, I’m very tired and frustrated.”
“It’s not going well?”
“It’s not going at all. No one heard or saw anything. The people who might know something are nowhere to be found, while the people I can talk to don’t know a damn thing.”
“So you talk to people tomorrow or the next day. Does it make that much difference?”
“Actually it does. The first twenty-four to forty-eight hours after a murder are critical. Memories are fresh, people are still rattled, stories haven’t been coordinated yet.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned her head back, drinking in the soothing aromas of the wood fire and fragrant tea. She didn’t realize he’d moved in behind her until she felt his hands fall gently on her shoulders and begin to knead her tense, knotted muscles.
“You’ve done all you possibly can for today. Let it go for a while.”
What his hands were doing to her made it easier to forget about murder cases and her job and everything else but the sensation of his fingers rubbing her back and neck. She sighed. “That feels terrific.”
“Good.” For the next few minutes, she let him knead, easing the tension. A small voice in the back of her mind whispered that this might not be a good idea, but even the rational part of her was hard-pressed to come up with an exact reason why it wasn’t.
He stopped and came around the chair to stand in front of her and drew her to her feet. He bent over and kissed her, gently at first, then not so gently. After a few minutes, though, they split apart, almost by mutual consent.
“Was that wrong?” he asked her. “It’s hard to know.”
“Know what?”
“Where the police officer ends and the woman begins.”
“It can be a problem,” she agreed. “Sometimes I’m not sure I know myself.”
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