Detective Hayden Konig is living the dream. He's rich, he loves his work, and his girlfriend is prettier than a Holiday Gift Basket full of smoked oysters. Still, Hayden's not a man to rest on his laurels. His mission is clear—he will be a writer. Not just a writer, but a hard-boiled, noir detective wordsmith worthy of Raymond Chandler's typewriter. He has to. He owns it.
As the choirmaster and organist at St. Barnabas Episcopal Church, he's become accustomed to passing out his musical murder mysteries to the choir. They're always happy to give advice. It doesn't always help.
Ginger’s face was close and getting closer – our nose hairs entwined and danced together in the smoke, anorexic ballerinas in a pas de deux of aphrodesia, as our lips reached across the gap, camel-like, and plucked at the thorny twigs of our desire.
"Man," whispered Ginger in a husky whisper, her eyelids dropping to half-mast, "you can really write."
"Baby," I replied. "You ain't heard nothin’ yet."
Autumn in St. Germaine, North Carolina, is an enchanting time of year. But throw in two murders, an election, a Christian nudist camp, and St. Barnabas' answer to the local Baptist church's annual Singing Christmas Tree — the first-ever performance of The Living Gobbler — and things are bound to become complicated.