MUSE MONDAY
Please welcome my guest today, Laurel S. Peterson. Read on!
Thanks
for having me on your blog, Brenda. I’m really pleased to be here.
It’s
fun to hate. I particularly love movies or books with juicy villains.
In
my new mystery novel, Shadow Notes, protagonist
Clara Montague has been away from her home town for fifteen years, avoiding her
mother, who didn’t listen to Clara’s intuitions, even when they might have
saved her father’s life. Clara has come home because she’s had a dream that her
mother is in danger, and shortly after she arrives, her mother is jailed for
the murder of her therapist. Is Constance a villain? Is she the kind of woman
who could kill someone? Clara doesn’t know.
Figuring
that Constance’s enemies will know her even better than her friends, Clara
joins the political campaign of her mother’s worst enemy: Andrew Winters. Winters
slithers through the novel, oiling his campaign with donations from the town’s
elite. Is it true that the enemy of her enemy is her friend? Clara can only
find out by sifting through her mother’s and the Winters’ pasts to figure out
where their mutual hatred originated. Winters’ sister runs his campaign and
nastily teases Clara with dirty secrets from her mother’s past. Are these
“secrets” even true? Is there anyone in town she can trust—or are they all
villains? You will have to read and judge for yourself! Who are the villains
that you love to hate? Thanks for reading and I’d love to hear from you.
EXCERPT from Shadow Notes, by Laurel S. Peterson
Going
home meant returning to Mother; it meant dealing with my own guilt. I’d never
told her my dream about father’s death, how I’d seen the sleek black casket,
the priest, father’s face made up all waxy or plastic, like he belonged at
Madame Tussaud’s. I’d never told her
he’d whispered from the casket, “Heart attacks happen, Clara.” I knew when he’d
said it that I could prevent it, but I hadn’t. I blamed myself. I blamed her.
Mother
lied. When I was little, before I knew better, I would tell her my dreams, and
she would get this frightened look on her face. The look intensified whenever I
could point to a correspondence in real life. Like the time I dreamed that
Timmy Lefkowitz would throw up blood, and then he did on the playground the
next day. I shouted at her that if we’d told Timmy’s mom or the teacher, they
might have kept Sean Gallagher from beating Timmy half to death in the bathroom
because Timmy said the Virgin Mary was just another girl, not a saint. …
Then
I’d had the dream that predicted my father’s death, more terrifying than any
dream I’d ever had. Was it
symbolic? real? She would tell me to ignore it, as she had
all the others. I didn’t want to
frighten my father, in case it wasn’t true, and I didn’t want to stay silent,
in case it was. While I was paralyzed by
indecision, he died. I hadn’t forgiven
myself for ignoring my intuition. That was fifteen years ago.
Now,
here I was again—and this dream felt the same: if I didn’t act on it, Mother
would die. She’d pushed me away—but she was my mother, and no matter how angry
I was with her, I couldn’t lose another parent. If I saved her, maybe then, I
would have done something right, and if I’d done something right, maybe she
would be the mother I wanted.
Amazon Buy Link
Visit Laurel's Amazon Page
Amazon Buy Link
Visit Laurel's Amazon Page
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