Buried Angel by Kim Smith
Shannon Wallace is finding trouble in the most bizarre places these days, but not as bizarre as the ones her sidekick Dwayne Brown is finding. When his friend. Bubba, is found stuffed in a cooler in his flower shop, the hunt is on to find his killer.
Could it be Bubba’s sister who is now his heir, or maybe one of the flower shop guys who works with Bubba?
You can be sure the dreadful duo of Shannon and Dwayne won’t rest until they have helped South Lake’s police department, and the Hispanic hottie investigator, Sal Ramirez, find his man. Or was that woman?
About Kim Smith
Kim Smith is the hostess for the popular radio show, Introducing WRITERS! Radio show on Blog Talk Radio.
She is also the author of the zany, Shannon Wallace mystery series available now from Red Rose Publishing. You can visit Kim’s website at www.mkimsmith.com.
Read an Excerpt
Hobbling along behind my lithe partner, I prayed he wouldn’t notice my less than full speed attempt. He glanced over his shoulder to find me.
“Oh Lawd Jesus,” he huffed as he slowed to allow me to catch up. “Tell me you are not wearin’ those peach heels we bought at Macy’s!”
“Okay,” I grunted as mud squished underfoot. “I won’t tell you. And they’re not peach, they’re apricot!”
Keeping the three dark silhouettes in view while maneuvering around the flat headstones embedded in the ground, I skirted the edges of the larger monuments. It was like playing chase in a maze in the dark.
“Don’t step on that grave,” Dwayne yelled behind me as I jetted ahead. “That’s defacing the dead!”
I pulled up short, tried to miss the grave in question, and ended up scraping my side on the odd-shaped tombstone. This threw my whole forward movement out of whack and I suddenly felt my balance tilt. Holding the camera overhead, I struggled to keep my feet on the wet grass around the grave. Gravity worked against me and I swiveled to avoid landing on my side. My butt wasn’t too happy with the change in plans when it took the impact.
The last time I’d landed on that part of my anatomy with such force, I caused my team to lose by sliding home on it in peewee baseball.
Dwayne skidded to a stop just before crashing on top of me. “Oh, shit!”
I moaned, trying to right myself, with one hand hobbled by the camera. I handed it to him. After brushing my derriere off and assessing the damage, I took a few experimental steps. A bruised tailbone, for certain, and a sore vanity to go along with it.
“Well, that proves one thing,” Dwayne murmured from behind the viewfinder.
“What? That I’m a certifiable klutz? Everyone knows that. Turn the camera off.”
He complied. “No, not that. Although you are one. It proves I was right. It ain’t the dead walkin’ around out here.”
I turned to gaze at the empty landscape, void of runners. “It’s not kids either.”