New Review of Armchair Detective

New Review of Armchair Detective on weRead

BRAVO! Kelli Jae Baeli, Armchair Detective had me captivated from beginning to end. I really hope you plan on doing a sequel to this book as I'd love to read more about Jobeth O'Brien and Phoebe McMasters. Jobeth O'Brien is a paper delivery girl trying to make ends meet. She wants to be a private investigator, so studies this in her 'off' time. Phoebe McMasters is a rich, lonely housewife who is married to a not so nice man. Phoebe and Jobeth have a chance meeting when Jobeth is delivering Phoebe's paper. They soon become firm friends then lovers. Jobeth takes on an 'unofficial' PI job from a man who is being blackmailed. This leads to some very sticky situations as Jobeth tries to help him. The graphic descriptions of these characters made me sit on the edge of my seat, hardly containing myself, wanting to know what is going to happen next. I found myself laughing, crying and holding my breath with Jobeth and Phoebe. I felt like I was there with these ladies experiencing all that they saw and did. As the plot got more intriguing, I found I couldnt just put this book down, I HAD to read more. This is definately one of my favourite books.
~Jo Cincotta,
Australia

New Review of Armchair Detective

Baggage (excerpt, Mainstream novel)

Excerpt from
Baggage
(c) Kelli Jae Baeli

(*This is my second novel written for a mainstream audience. Most of mine are lesbian-oriented. This excerpt is formatted for legibility on the web)

During Hurricane Katrina, Patriarch Dominic Fontaine meets his freakish demise—the rubble of his “hurricane-proof” mansion all around him—and no one suspects that a vengeful woman came to kill him.

In the aftermath, the secrets held in a safe deposit box spur the Fontaine offspring into a journey of enlightenment and self- discovery as their lives converge with strangers, and the mystery of synchronicity takes over.

CHAPTER 9

AS HURRICANE KATRINA SPUN CLOSER TO THE GULF coast, Sienna realized Dominic's intent to ride out the storm, just as he had in all the other hurricanes. His decision was no marvel to her. He obviously considered himself invincible.

She peeked through the slightly ajar door to the attic stairway. He was, of course, too rich to have a standard pull-down ladder; no, Dominic Fontaine had to have a stairway to his attic.

Sounds of shattering glass came from the foyer. The formidable Katrina was hammering at the front of the mansion, morphing into a beast that clawed at the rafters, pounded at the flooring, and made promises to inflict still more. It was as if God Himself was behind the maelstrom. Sienna had never been in a hurricane, and anxiety crept into her mind. Was it always this bad? Was it only this frightening because she had never experienced it?

She had her own Katrina thumping against her chest cavity. Thrashing in the sea of her own trepidation, she tasted it in her mouth, then recognized it as meaningless. I am going to die anyway. He had made sure of that when he pushed himself inside her and mingled his diseased blood with her own. After all those years of being judicious. All those years when her party-happy friends were taking chances like a capricious vacation in Vegas, and prodding her mercilessly with monikers like Sainted Sienna, Sinless Sienna, Spotless Sienna, and even Snowy Sienna, to imply that she was frigid, rather than careful. Now, she felt the fear slipping away, replaced by her own resolve, her own fury; an apoplectic bitterness that was matched only by the tempest that pummeled the mansion of the man she despised.

Pleased to have placed herself correctly, she saw him hurrying up the staircase, silver briefcase in hand, dragging a yellow nylon rope. Pulling the door closed a bit, she observed him through the tiny crack as he lashed himself to the newel post at the top of the grand staircase that fed down into the foyer.

The compromised portions of the house were revealed with every slap of wind and rain. As the storm bullied on, moaning its feral incantation, the window beside the attic stairs blasted inward, shards of glass spattering to the hardwood floor, as Katrina sneezed into the opening.

Dominic held onto the rope with one hand, and the briefcase with the other, his own features touched by terror.

Shelving collapsed, and she heard more shattering glass downstairs. Pictures leaped from the walls along the stairs, their glass spitting out onto the steps. In the hall beyond the top of the grand staircase, Dominic's fish trophy plaques clattered to the floor. The gigantic swordfish rattled against the wall, as if preparing to reanimate and swim away in the sodden air of Katrina.

She reached down to pick up the small bronze sculpture she had taken from the occasional table at the top of the stairs. Her fingers closed around it firmly, and she waited for the right moment to confront him. As water began to drip onto the landing from above, and a puddle grew near the ravaged window, she pushed the door open and stepped onto the landing.
Raising her voice above the din, she said smartly, "Well, Lincoln Berringer, as I live and breathe-"

He turned to the voice behind him, a moment of keen astonishment and recognition on his features, that had little to do with his joy at seeing her, and much to do with the realization that she knew who he was. His fate became clear, when he saw her holding the heavy statue, saw her raise it high.

He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the moaning of Katrina, sucking the window frame from the wall. Debris struck her shoulder, and she fell to the slick floor, the statue toppling away.

Steadying herself by holding the door knob of the attic stairs, keeping her head low against the incoming sheets of rain and wind and debris, she watched the giant swordfish drop to the floor, and move toward the hole where the window had been. A shifting of wind, and the monster fish spun, rolled, became airborne, and in mindless seconds, had impaled Dominic's back with its rapier beak. She captured the attic door jamb, to stop herself from being sucked toward the window.

Her attention back on him, the swordfish rocked back onto its tail, as Dominic leaned backward into it, soon limp. The briefcase toppled to the floor, as his arms spread open, his torso propped on the swordfish, its beak protruding from his chest, his waist still secured to the newel post.

Stunned, she stared at him, splayed there like some fisherman's crucifixion. Euthanasia performed by God.

A blast of rain slapped the side of her face and she scrambled to the silver briefcase, which was already being sucked toward her on the sodden floor, snatched it up and ran down the hall to the bathroom, where she grabbed a rectangular wooden table, broke the legs off and huddled in the garden tub, holding the briefcase on her chest, the table over her head, waiting for the end of Katrina's blitzkrieg.

Baggage (excerpt, Mainstream novel)

Armchair Detective (novel excerpt)

,
(Lesbian Sleuth Erotica)
(c) Kelli Jae Baeli

A wannabe Private Investigator has to start somewhere. If that means incurring the wrath of her suspects, then so be it. When Jobeth O'Brien awakens from the floor of her kitchen, her battered face and the memory of an angry visitor tells her that she is close to something important in her investigation. She pulls herself together and goes to run her paper route--a job that pays the bills while she pursues her other vocation. Her romps in the backseat of her Falcon with a wealthy socialite, Phoebe, are a welcome distraction from her excursions into the developing facts of the blackmail and prostitution operation. As the case progresses, Jobeth fends off her growing need for Phoebe, as well as the advances from her barracuda landlady. Amid these challenges, she stakes out her prey and runs for her life, continuing the investigation that pulls her into close calls, unexpected allies, and more secrets. But Jobeth has secrets of her own, and only love can excavate them.


EXCERPT:

The Falcon rested in the alley across the street like a big metal dog. That's how I viewed this paragon of antiquity. It was like the pet I never had. I bathed it, fed it, communed with it, talked to it, even stroked it every now and then, although not when anyone was watching. If it wasn't so big, I'd let it sleep on the foot of my bed.

Hunkered low, I checked that the film was loaded properly and advanced a frame or two, laid the camera beside me and poured myself a cup of brew from Phoebe's green thermos. I loved her coffee. Hazelnut, I think, from fresh ground beans. I couldn't imagine someone like Phoebe dipping grounds from a metal can; it wasn't chic enough. More likely, she had it delivered to her door by Juan Valdez himself.

Halfway through my second cup, I decided it was time for a little evidence-gathering. Hanging the camera around my neck by its wide strap, I stepped quietly out of the car. crossing the street, blending with shadows, until I entered the alley beside the Salon. Behind the structure I found the garbage cans. Smiling, I freed the two full bags and started back to the car. Squinting around the corner, I lurched back when I saw a distinguished gentleman with short-cropped hair approaching the front door of the Salon. I lifted my camera and snapped a shot of him before he slipped inside. A teenaged boy came around the corner and went in soon afterward, and I hurried across the street with my treasures, sure that things were about to become a bit more interesting.

Warming my coffee again, I kept an eye on the front of the shop while I opened one of the garbage bags. I donned a pair of surgical gloves from a dispenser in the glove compartment, and put them on before reaching into the bag. I recalled the scene earlier when Phoebe had found the gloves while searching for a lighter.

"What are these for?" she had inquired with salacious interest.

"Not what you think," I had told her.

"Mmm-hm," she had said, unconvinced.

"But I'd be happy to use them for that. Is it time for an exam?"

She had grinned, "Maybe next time."

Now, glancing up every few seconds, I began to wish I had a partner; I wanted to look through the garbage without missing anything going on at the front door. It could be an advantage, I had to admit, but the bad outweighed the good on that one.

Thirty-five minutes later, the sound of the Salon door brought my attention away from the bags. The distinguished gentleman emerged and hurried into the darkness around the corner, his shirttail hanging loose, holding his coat in one hand. I snapped a shot of him before he got away. A tall, blond man opened the door and hauled another man out with him, gesturing angrily and pointing down the street. He looked like the same blond man that had been talking to Stacey that day. The man he talked to seemed to sigh, shook his head, then turned and headed in the direction of the gentleman.

The blond man lit a cigarette and remained outside the front door, agitated. I tried to get a close shot of him, and decided it would be a better picture if I could move outside the car. I removed the cover from the interior light and pulled the bulb out, then quietly, I opened the door, and kept my head down below the level of the front fender. Lifting the camera, I bumped the wheel well and the camera toppled to the pavement. The zoom lens separated from the body and I stifled the curse that came instantly from my mouth. The lens was history, for the moment. I discarded the injured mechanism into the car, and grabbed the regular lens, hurriedly screwing it on the body of the camera. Pushing the door almost closed, I took a position by the front of the Falcon again, peeking over the fender. He still stood there, smoking. I'd have to get much closer, for a clear shot. I waited until he turned around, then crept over to the blue mailbox at the corner, concealing myself behind it. Ebon cloaked the street, but dawn approached with a luminous mist, and left me with one chance for a clear picture of him.

I tilted out from behind the mailbox and focused. His eyes swept over my area, and then seemed to pause. Click! He saw me then, and threw his cigarette to the sidewalk, breaking into a sprint toward me. The camera firmly in hand, I dashed down the walk and around the corner as fast as my tired legs would carry me. Rounding the building, I cut to the right across the main roadway into another alley and scrambled up the board fence and over.

Landing in a trash can, I kicked free of it and continued down the adjacent alley. I could hear him behind me-heard him climb the fence and continue the chase, cursing as he fell on the same trash can. Coming to a "T" in the alleyway, I found one exit blocked by a Dumpster, and the other by a drainage ditch.

I picked up a piece of concrete gravel and threw it hard toward the Dumpster, producing a telling thwang, then leapt feet first into the shallow water of the ditch. Stooping to enter the concrete culvert pipe, I scurried through, pausing thirty yards later to listen for approaching steps. I waited, catching my breath and listening, certain I'd lost him.

I imagined him pausing at the end of the alley, having heard the noise of the gravel against the Dumpster, and stealthily raising the lid. I also imagined the grimace on his face when he lifted the lid and found only putrid garbage. He would no doubt assume that I jumped the fence. Men can't imagine women doing things like jumping into watery ditches and scurrying through culverts. I used this narrow-mindedness to my advantage whenever possible.

Navigating the concrete piping to its end, my exit was blocked by a barbed wire fence. I climbed through the strands with some difficulty and found myself at eye-level with a yard full of farm machinery. I climbed out of the watery trench and paused by a John Deere tractor to survey the area. The grounds of the co-op were spacious, reminding me of a rodeo arena. The front fence stood about 50 yards across the grass in front of me. Heaving a sigh of relief, I patted the camera smugly and started for the far gate. Near the middle of the grounds, I heard a low growl that made me wish I had stayed inside the pipe.

Turning toward the sound slowly, he came into view. A pit bull of the large killer variety emerged from one of the sheds. The variety that tears the limbs from small children and pulverizes housecats. He dipped his square black head low, baring a set of exceptional fangs.

"Shhhhhhit," I whispered like a slowing steam engine, measuring the distance to the front gate. The phrase from here to eternity erupted in my mind. I turned back to him, placating meekly, "Nice doggie-"

He lunged at me and I broke into a run, making a beeline for the precious, distant gate. The dog caught the bottom of my jeans, and swung me to the ground like sack of Idaho potatoes. From the feel of it, he intended to tear the fabric away first, then slice and dice my bare leg. By the look of his canines, a steak knife had nothing on him. I kicked him hard in the head and swung the camera. It caught him in the eye and he yelped at the thirty-five millimeter infliction, freeing me long enough for me to struggle up and run again. The chase resumed and I stopped to swing at him again, missing as he ducked. Where is an M-16 when you need one?

He jumped and clamped his teeth onto my arm, the fangs piercing the layers of fabric. I growled back at him and knocked him in the head several more times with the camera. Eyes closed, his teeth made contact with the skin below the flannel and thermal shirts, blood appeared on his head, for which I was uncommonly grateful, but it didn't make him let go of my arm.
I kicked him frantically in the ribs, but his mouth rivaled a bear trap, except bear traps didn't jerk savagely at fabric. And they didn't chase you across a machinery yard like some miscreant from the center of the earth.

Desperate, I dragged him toward the fence. Looping the camera strap around my neck, I clamped my fingers on the chain-link, and placed the toe of my sneaker in one of the wire diamonds to pull myself up until the dog dangled in the air. I could feel the excruciating tear of my skin each time he shook my arm, still mauling me from his place in mid-air. Bile swelled in my gut and threatened to rise like green mercury into my esophagus. With one last swing of my free leg, I kicked him in the stomach, and the yelp this evoked opened his jaws enough so that I could wrench myself free as he fell to the ground.

He recovered from his fall without the slightest hesitation and vaulted toward me again, and I barely pulled myself up beyond his reach, scrambled over the fence, to land with a breathless thud on the grass.

Armchair Detective (novel excerpt)