HBS Mystery Reader's Circle features R. P. Dahlke

R.P. Dahlke is in the HBS Mystery Book Reader's Circle.

Author Genre: Mystery, Romance, Humor

Website: R.P. Dahlke
Author's Blog: R.P. Dahlke - Infrequent Blog
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Twitter: @rpdahlke
E-Mail: rp@rpdahlke.com
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Author Description:

R.P. (Rebecca) Dahlke was raised on her father’s 80 acres of Almonds & crop dusting ranch south of Modesto, California. She’s been writing since 1994, first with a writing group in the East Bay Area and then when she and her husband went sailing, via the Guppies of Sisters in Crime, National.

When they settled in Southern Arizona, Rebecca started a chapter of Sisters in Crime and A Dead Red Cadillac was published by Treble Heart Publishing.

She was doing the rewrite on her second Lalla Baines Novel, A Dead Red Heart when her son, John Shanahan, died in a tragic crop dusting accident in California. Writing about anything, much less crop-dusting became too painful and she stopped writing until 2010.

I sort of fell into the job of running a crop-dusting business when my dad decided he'd rather go on a cruise than take another season of lazy pilots, missing flaggers, testy farmers and horrific hours. After two years at the helm, I handed him back the keys and fled to a city without any of the above. And no, I was never a crop-duster.

A Dead Red Oleander

The Lalla Bains mystery series

Author: R.P. Dahlke

Amazon
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"The main protagonists and all the supporting characters, have larger than life personalities, which lend themselves to some great dialogue exchanges and some pretty strange and esoteric action scenes. In preparation for the couple's forthcoming nuptuals, Lalla's relatives have arrived in California, from Texas and now the fun really starts!!"

When a late in the season emergency forces Lalla Bains to accept a greenhorn ag pilot for her dad's cropdusting business, she sighs in relief . After all, he comes highly recommended, his physical is spotless, and with a name like Dewey Treat, what could possibly go wrong?

Then her quirky relatives arrive from Texas and things go south in a hurry: Dewey Treat drops dead, his tearful widow claims he was murdered, clobbers Sherriff Caleb Stone with his own gun, and makes a run for it. Lalla, convinced the widow is innocent, sets out to prove it--against the express wishes of fiancé Caleb Stone.

Feds, local law, suspicious ag-pilots, nutso relatives, and her daddy's new sidekick, Bruce the goat, make life a living hell for Lalla. Will her nosey nature solve the crime and save the day? Or put them all in mortal danger?
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Chapter One: Six weeks earlier:

Summer progressed as it always does: tires go flat, trucks break down, oil lines in the big Lycoming engines split—in which case, I’m on it—not about to let another split oil line trigger a forced landing, not mine or anyone else’s. I still can’t tolerate the smell of tomatoes, too close to the snootful I got a couple of years back when I was forced down into a field of them. That led to a whole lot of trouble I couldn’t have avoided, but tomatoes and I are still not on speaking terms.

We were in our final season as Bains Aero Ag Service and my dad and I agreed that with my upcoming wedding to Caleb Stone, it was finally time to sell the business. Unfortunately, my second pilot’s bum knee decreed he wasn’t going to make it through this last season. Short-handed and neck deep in work, I was desperate to find a replacement. So naturally I was happy to hear from my dad’s best buddy, Burdell Smith, who was calling to tell me he had just the man for the job.

“The guy may only have one season under his belt,” Burdell said, “but Dewey’s a hard worker, a self-starter, smart as a whip, and won’t be back-sassing just because a woman’s running the show.”

“Done,” I said. “How fast do you think he can get here?”

<><><><>

With a name like Dewey Treat, I was thinking cowboy, broad shoulders, plaid shirt, and too much facial hair. I would have to talk to him about the facial hair. Chemicals cling to beards, get absorbed into the skin, even with the showers and a scrub brush. Flight suits and helmets can’t keep it all out, and I’d be damned if I was going to have a sick pilot to deal with before the end of this season. I’d have to insist he shave. Okay, he can keep it as long as it’s just a mustache, or that little comma thingy on the chin; that’s doable.

So when I heard a motorcycle rumble into the driveway, I knew our new pilot had arrived. Booted footsteps approached and I stood, expecting the big man to duck under the door, filling the office with too much testosterone and sucking up all the oxygen.

What I got was, a short, thin-shouldered man with the uncertain near-sighted squint of someone who’s just had laser eye surgery. Maybe there was some extra swagger in his walk, since he must’ve known I was desperate for the help, but his handshake was firm, dry, and on closer inspection, the gaze was steady, intelligent and sure.

“Ms. Bains,” he said, pumping my hand, “I sure appreciate you taking me on this late in the season.” He squinted, looking to see how I was taking it so far, and added, “Burdell Smith said to say ‘hi’ to your dad.”

That’s right, bucko, tip the scales why don’t you, since Burdell and my dad were old buddies in a dying industry. “No worries in that department, Dewey. I may run the show, but if Burdell vouched for you, you’re in. That way, if you crash and burn, he has no one to blame but himself.”

Dewey’s face blanched and I had to remind myself to back up on the humor. “Just kidding, okay?”

“Oh, sure. You do know Mr. Smith retired soon after I left.”

“I heard that too. Have a seat?”

I passed over the medical information and didn’t add that he was leaving one sinking ship for another. Then I explained our percentage numbers, medical insurance, and handed him the W-2 form and a pen.

“Sounds fair enough to me,” he said, filling in the W-2 and then sliding it back to me across the dusty surface of my desk.

That finished, we stood and shook hands. “Your e-mail said you can start this week. Got a place to stay?”

“Yes’m. Wife and I found a nice rental in a fairly new subdivision between here and Modesto. I hear house sales are suffering from the recession, so if the job works out, that is, if you like my work, we’ll buy it.”

I cringed. Sometime soon, before he heard it from our other pilot, I’d have to tell him he should start looking for next year’s job. “Then let’s get you a look see at your aircraft. Burdell said you knew your way around an Ag-Cat, right?”

“Yes’m. Easy, peasy.”

“First names only here, boss lady included. So, call me Lalla, okay?” I wasn’t going to ask if he and the missus had kids. I have my own merry-go-around with my dad on that subject.

We stepped outside as Mad-Dog Schwartz rounded the corner and saw us. His ginger brows went up a notch when I introduced Dewey as the new pilot. When the two men shook hands, Mad-Dog nodded at us and turned to leave, but not before I noticed the tweak of smug satisfaction on his face. I think the name, Dewey Treat, got the same reaction from Mad-Dog as it did with me, and for once he was pleased to have gotten it wrong.

We were both wrong on that score.

A DANGEROUS HARBOR

Pilgrim's Progress

Author: R.P. Dahlke


Amazon
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"This is an engaging, well-written mystery with characters that took up residence in my imagination; moving in with all their baggage and quirks. I found them incredibly difficult to dislodge even several days after I had finished reading the book. I loved the setting; the beauty of the waters and the lovely hillsides existing alongside the abject poverty and ugliness of the slummy, sleazy habitats of those less fortunate. The day to day uncertainly of life is realistically portrayed in an area where powerful drug cartels operate from shadowy positions in almost all levels of government..." LauriJ's Reviews for Night Owl Reviews Reviewer Top Pick

"Take a San Francisco police officer who is on leave for shooting a man who threatened her sister, send her on a sailing trip into Mexican waters where she finds the body of a murdered teenage girl, and you've got the mix for an intriguing mystery. Add an irresistible Mexican-Italian man who happens to be the lead investigator on the case and the romance begins to sizzle. I loved the vivid descriptions of this coastal Mexican town, and the methodic way in which officer Katy Hunter helps with the investigation. A satisfying ending in which all the threads come together into a neatly plotted book." - Connie Shelton, author of the best-selling Charlie Parker mysteries and the new Samantha Sweet mysteries

Here's the set-up:
Bleary-eyed and sleep deprived after a long overnighter into Mexico, solo sailor and SFPD police detective, Katrina Hunter, thinks the mermaid twenty yards behind her thirty-two foot Westsail is nothing more than a sailor's hallucination But everything she knows about floaters convinces her to turn her boat around for another look.

Now, alone and isolated in the Mexican port's police station for six hours she's convinced that reporting a floater to authorities was a mistake. Even the arrival of a handsome, if somewhat dour, Mexican/Italian investigator does nothing to dispel her growing anxiety that she's about to be charged with the murder.

Chief Inspector, Raul Vignaroli, is as surprised by the attractive solo-sailor as he is to find that she's a respected member of the San Francisco police force, and after some well-placed phone calls he's sure that he's found the perfect partner to help him solve a murder, if not the cure for his broken heart. Released, she's free to go. But leaving the police station hits a snag when two policemen march in, dragging a listless prisoner between them. But before Katy can dodge them for the exit, the prisoner raises his head and a startling pair of aquamarine eyes meet hers.

He straightens his back, wincing at the angle of his cuffed wrists. "What the... Whisper?"

Suddenly, the sound of the ceiling fan is terribly loud. Blood pounds in her ears, her mouth goes dry, her palms are damp and her feet are nailed to the floor. In a knee jerk reaction, she hisses, "Don't call me that!"
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Synopsis:

Bleary-eyed and sleep deprived after a long overnighter into Mexico, solo sailor and SFPD police detective, Katrina Hunter, thinks the mermaid twenty yards behind her thirty-two foot Westsail is nothing more than a sailor’s hallucination But everything she knows about floaters convinces her to turn her boat around for another look.

Now, alone and isolated in the Mexican port’s police station for six hours she’s convinced that reporting the body of a floater to authorities was a mistake. Even the arrival of a handsome, if somewhat dour, Mexican/Italian investigator does nothing to dispel her growing anxiety that she’s about to be charged with the murder.

Chief Inspector, Raul Vignaroli, is as surprised by the attractive solo-sailor as he is to find that she’s a respected member of the San Francisco police force, and after some well-placed phone calls he’s sure that he’s found the perfect partner to help him solve a murder, if not the cure for his broken heart.

Released, she’s free to go. But leaving the police station hits a snag when two policemen march in, dragging a listless prisoner between them. But before Katy can dodge them for the exit, the prisoner raises his head and a startling pair of aquamarine eyes meet hers.

He straightens his back, wincing at the angle of his cuffed wrists. “What the… Whisper?”

Suddenly, the sound of the ceiling fan is terribly loud. Blood pounds in her ears, her mouth goes dry, her palms are damp and her feet are nailed to the floor. In a knee jerk reaction, she hisses, “Don’t call me that!”
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