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About the author:
Her books have been published by Simon & Schuster’s Pocket Books, German publisher Heyne Verlag, Turkish publisher Dogan Egmont, indie publisher Cornucopia Creations, and are available in print, eBook, and audio formats.
What inspired you to write your book?
My first thought was, “Oh, that’s the worst pickup line in history, but I could use that in a novel.” So for the next decade I asked every broker I met, “What are the funniest, saddest, and scariest things that ever happened to you in this business?” By the time my many notebooks were full, I had material for several wonderful novels. Red Hot Property is the first in a trilogy of Red Hot Novels.
Here is a short sample from the book:
Twenty-nine-year-old Molly O’Malley decided to become a real estate agent because the Cuban psychic, Havana Santiago, told her she should.
“Chew need money for chore leetle girl. No man goin’ to help chew.” The pink wad of bubble gum in Havana’s mouth snapped and crackled and—after she paused long enough to blow an impossibly big bubble—popped.
“No man,” echoed the scary looking myna bird that was perched on Havana’s shoulder.
Molly glanced around the room. They were in the parlor of an old Victorian home in the Capital Hill area of Denver, but it lacked the classic antique ambiance one would expect. The décor was more sixties retro: a turquoise vinyl couch, plastic end tables, lava lamps, an electric Coca Cola sign that blinked erratically, a jukebox playing early Beatles tunes. Flickering candles and an odd assortment of voodoo dolls surrounded the large statue of the Virgin Mary that stood in one corner. Although they were sitting at a card table, Havana wasn’t reading cards; it was a disgusting pile of bird bones and black feathers that had the woman mesmerized. “I see chew stop bein’ a server of booze and chew start sellin’ houses: big, leetle, old, chung. Many houses.”
This revelation startled Molly because she hadn’t told the psychic that she was a cocktail waitress. Nor, she suddenly realized, had she told her about having a daughter or that she was raising Angelina alone. Perhaps there really was something to this psychic thing. She had only come because she won a gift certificate in a neighborhood raffle.
“I see big money, big house, free food, fine car, new friends, sexy men. A whole new chew in a whole new town.”
“New chew,” the myna bird confirmed. It was also staring at the gruesome remains on the table, and Molly wondered if the talking myna represented some future pile of soothsaying material. Molly wondered if that was why the bird seemed so nervous.
Molly should have probably been nervous too, what with the voodoo dolls and dead bird parts, but it was hard to be scared of a psychic who was wearing a sloppy pink sweat suit and furry pink bunny slippers, whose hair was all rolled up in fat pink curlers and who kept blowing big pink bubbles.
However, Havana’s final prediction was hard to dismiss.
“I see danger. Big pink-eyed white mountain cat spattered in familiar blood. Death stalks chew. Danger.” Havana paused for a moment, then threw up her hands. “But, what the hell. Danger keeps life from boredom. Boredom blows.” She emphasized her point by issuing another bubble that grew and grew and finally popped, plastering her face with pink slime.
“Mnmph,” Havana said through the mess.
“Danger,” the myna bird said helpfully