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MURDER AT THE BAD GIRL'S BAR & GRILL by N. M. Kelby
On Sale: June 3rd
Hardcover
304 pages
ISBN-10: 0307382079
ISBN-13: 9780307382078
Take a slasher-movie actress, a Scottish circus clown, an FBI school dropout, a blind heiress, a junk-food-loving millionaire developer and a Buddha-quoting bluesman, add a couple of murders in a normally sedate retirement community in south Florida, and you get an irresistible tale that's part Carl Hiaasen and part Gabriel García Márquez. It all goes down as easy as a Key lime pie martini, the signature drink of the Bad Girl's Bar & Grill.
N. M. Kelby spent twenty years as a television and print journalist before she began writing novels. She is the author of WHALE SEASON and lives in Sarasota, Florida, near the beach, with her husband, dogs, cats, and a kettle of vultures circling overhead. Visit her at
www.nmkelby.com.
Deserved or not, Florida has a wacky reputation. Blame the heat, blame the wildlife, blame Walt Disney. But for whatever reason, eccentrics of all stripes find a home in the Sunshine State. One of the most amusing tents in the freak show belongs to the horde of comic writers riffing on Florida today. Is there a better word than “horde” to describe a group of comic writers? From this book, I learned that the word for a group of vultures is a kettle; maybe a group of comic writers should be a “cackle.” Speaking of vultures, you know you’re in sure comic hands when the first chapter describes a corpse in a sweltering dumpster, discovered by the vultures perched on the rim, and it’s funny.
N. M. Kelby knows and loves her oddballs, all of whom drift in, out, around and through the Bad Girl’s Bar & Grill, a former Polynesian tiki hut, now known for its nightly viewings of “Wheel of Fortune,” its Barry Manilow impersonator, and its house drink --- the key lime pie martini --- served in a martini glass with crushed Graham crackers around the edge. (Google to find recipes…they’re out there!) Located in Laguna Bay, Florida, the BGBG has a light-hearted philosophy geared toward flirting, fun, spiritual generosity, and getting your own damn coffee. Really, even with the corpse rotting in the dumpster, wouldn’t you like to go right now?
The BGBG is owned by Danni Keene, former horror movie queen. It’s her job to coolly blast the vultures with a fire extinguisher when they get to be too much. She has seen a lot --- enough so that she is not the least bit surprised when Solas MacKay, Scottish circus clown, blows into town with his troupe, looking for his long-lost brother. (Hint: check the dumpster.) But Danni has problems, not the least of which is the Laguna Key Development Corporation, whose members have their hearts set on a clean, orderly, expensive Laguna Key. When they’re not dressing up as the cast of “The Andy Griffith Show,” they hatch plans to destroy the BGBG as it attracts the very sort of riffraff gated communities were designed to keep out. Wouldn’t a nice golf course be better?
Mr. Whit, local businessman and all-around rich guy, has been in cahoots with the LKDC so he can buy the property. But he’s been driven a little mad by the tragedy that befell his daughter Sophie, blinded in a scuba-diving accident and abandoned by her husband. Mr. Whit’s habit of tasering people just might get him in trouble someday, as well as his quest to find the right wine to pair with deep-fried candy bars.
Who can sort all this out? Brian Wilson, an FBI dropout currently working as a caretaker for Mr. Whit and a guardian for Sophie, does his best. Smothering his irritating habit of whistling Beach Boys songs --- apparently there are times when “Surfer Girl” is appropriate and times when it is not --- he puts his old investigative skills to work and solves the case in time for the circus parade.
Along the way, the book touches on slave cemeteries, the plight of the homeless, and elderly twin Swedish circus performers whose only English word is “ta-dah!” Kelby also throws in a couple of love stories for good measure. Wit, charm, a murder or two --- everything you need is here. Dig your toes in the sand and have a good time. It’s the Bad Girl way.
--- Reviewed by Colleen Quinn (CQuinn9368@yahoo.com)
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Chapter One
It was the hissing that caught his attention. Like a tire going flat, like a snake giving warning --- but loud. Almost deafening. The security guard was making one last pass before dawn when he heard it. Then saw it.
At first, Wilson thought it was just bats. Laguna Key is home to hundreds of them, maybe even thousands. It's not one of the features mentioned in any of the retirement community's brochures, but every night clouds of bats come screaming out of the mangrove forest, fly low along the beach, bank over the tennis courts, cast shadows on the moon, and slip into dreams.
But this was different. Louder. Angry. It made him uneasy. He followed the noise, the hum of it, back behind the bar, back to the Dumpster --- then stopped. The air reeked of salt and death.
And there were wings.
Wildly flapping wings. They covered the Dumpster. Made it seem alive, as if it were some sort of a new creature. Iridescent in the blue-white glow of vapor lights. Menacing.
Vultures.
Their hissing seemed to vibrate through his body.
At this point, Wilson thought he screamed. He wanted to. He might have. He believed he did, but the vultures did not move. Hungry, they were trying to push their way inside the Dumpster, hissing at each other, unaware that Wilson was standing there. Or uncaring.
Wilson had a horrible urge to laugh. Sweat slipped along his spine.
A single bald red head turned toward him. The wrinkled neck, the sharp curve of its beak, the cool eye. The frenzy stopped.
Not good, Wilson thought.
The vultures all turned, their crinkled bloodstained heads bobbing in unison.
Wilson's heart beat hard. A single bird broke away, flew slowly around him. Sniffed. The bird was so close Wilson could smell blood on its breath.
It swooped in even closer. Hissed. When the tips of its wings lightly brushed his forehead, Wilson flinched and the other birds began, again, their hissing. Spat at him. Bits of undigested flesh covered his shirt, turned the cool morning air acid.
Really not good.
And so Wilson did the only thing that a man in his position could do. He sang "Surfer Girl."
"Do you love me... "
Apparently, the vultures did not. They fled.
Wilson took a deep breath. He was unsure. Uneasy. A little cold. The smell of blood, the rot, was overwhelming.
Carrion, he thought. The polite, less graphic name for roadkill. Then he leaned into the Dumpster.
He was, unfortunately, very wrong.
Excerpted from Murder at the Bad Girl's Bar and Grill. Copyright © 2008 by N. M Kelby. Excerpted by permission of Crown, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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