Spotlight & Giveaway: Room for Suspicion by Carol Light

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Carol Light to HJ!

Hi Carol and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, Room for Suspicion!

To start off, can you please tell us a little bit about this book?:

Room for Suspicion is the first book in my Cluttered Crime Mysteries series, my first book for Tule Publishing, and my debut novel. My protagonist, Crystal (Crys) Ward is a professional organizer working hard to make her fledgling business, Organizing Chicago, a success. Her latest client, Farrah Compton, a university professor, hired Crys to organize her home office. A successful outcome with Farrah could land Crys many new referrals and finally put her business in the black. When Crys arrives for her second session, she meets Farrah’s brother, who promises he just wants a quick word with his sister. To the surprise of both of them, Farrah doesn’t answer the door. Fortunately, her brother knows the code. Inside they find a dead man in the living room and Farrah unresponsive beside him.

When the lead detective in the murder investigation arrives at the scene, Crys has another shock. It’s Mitch Burdine, her husband Rick’s former partner and the man she blames for the near-fatal shooting that left Rick paralyzed. Mitch seems ready to chalk up the victim’s death to domestic violence, but Crys isn’t so sure Farrah is to blame. With her client silent in a catatonic state and no one else to prove her innocence, Crys begins to do some investigating of her own.

Crys also has to convince Rick, who doesn’t seem to trust her judgement about Farrah or her ability to stay safe. Already paranoid about his wife going into strangers’ homes, Rick argues with Crys over her determination to prove that Farrah wasn’t responsible for the murder. Mitch, too, wants her to stay out of police business but needs her cooperation. If she’s going to clear Farrah and reassure Rick, Crys must overcome her reluctance to work with Mitch and agree to a truce. As she sorts through Farrah’s friends and associates, Crys uncovers a killer intent on stopping her and also learns an important lesson about forgiveness in the process.
 

Please share your favorite lines or quote(s) from this book:

I’m a former Midwesterner, and I love the Irving Park neighborhood of Chicago Crys and Rick live in. It’s October, the leaves are falling, the air is brisk… Here’s a description of Crys taking a walk:

She turned the corner, feeling better with each step. The autumn air was crisp with the smell of nature’s seasonal decay. Her shoes scuffed fallen leaves as she waved to Mr. Canady, a retired plumber who was out raking his yard. His house was one of the few similar in style to hers, although it had a newer roof and paint.
Like many Chicago neighborhoods, this one was a hodgepodge of architectural styles, with 1960s split-levels rubbing lawns with craftsman cottages, and 1930s bungalows mingling with newly built Victorians arriving late to the party. Older, small houses were being replaced by larger two-story homes. She had no desire to sell their house and buy a more modern one. She couldn’t imagine not having Connie next door, Maggie close by, or the other neighbors who shared her small-town, Midwestern values and looked out for each other.

What inspired this book?

I love stories about ordinary people caught up in extraordinary circumstances that bring out their best qualities. That’s why I like amateur sleuths, although I’m also a fan of police procedural mysteries. I wanted my main character to be a woman trying to make it through life while also reaching for her dreams. Crys’s positive attitude and strong values carry her through the challenges that come her way, not that she doesn’t sometimes wish she could curl up in bed with a good book as all of us do!
I’m an organizing junky (hmm—maybe junky isn’t the best word there). I’ve always loved reading books and articles about systems for managing storage and time. My protagonist’s work as a professional organizer gives her a reason to go into strangers’ homes and sort through their personal belongings. If she happens to uncover secrets or expose a crime, so much the better!

How did you ‘get to know’ your main characters? Did they ever surprise you?

My three main characters are Crys, Rick, and Mitch. Crys describes their relationship as a three-legged stool: each of them supports the other, and Crys and Mitch act as Rick’s legs, since he’s paralyzed and can’t stand on his own. Of course, Crys has to learn to forgive Mitch if that stool is going to continue to stand.

I was surprised that Mitch, who isn’t from Texas, sometimes speaks with a drawl. Not sure where that came from! I was also surprised and pleased at how the relationship between Crys and Rick emerged as I wrote the story. It was a challenge trying to imagine Rick’s moods. He was an athletic guy before he was paralyzed, so it’s not unexpected that he has days when he’s depressed. As his wife, Crys has to deal with those days. She’s learned when she needs to back off and when she can pull him out of his dark mood with humor or love. He’s still sexy to her, even though she wishes he would be more trusting and less “cop” when it comes to her business. Despite their occasional clashes, their love continues to deepen through the challenges they face.

I use a questionnaire to get to know the characters in my stories. It’s helpful to have basic details captured for future appearances, such as height, physical characteristics, and speech—even what model car they drive! Other questions force me to think about their personalities, values, and character development. As I answer questions about the significant experiences in their lives, their strengths and weaknesses, and how other people describe them, I find backstories emerging. Most of these details never appear in the story, but thinking through the questions helps me “see” them and know how they’ll respond in different situations.

What was your favorite scene to write?

I loved writing the climactic scene, but I don’t want to spoil the ending! I also enjoy writing scenes with Maggie (real name Magenta) Townsend, Crys’s best friend. She’s very confident, stylish, and a successful woman running her own public relations business. In this scene, the two women are trying to learn Carla’s last name. They had met her at a glitzy POW (Professional Organization of Women) gala they had attended. Carla was the date of Farrah’s brother Randy at the event, and the police are looking for him. The only other information they learned about her that night was the name of the restaurant where Carla works, so Crys and Maggie decide to go there for lunch.

The Midwest Steakhouse had many culinary cousins across the country. When she thought of a steakhouse, Crys pictured this exact décor: a square, brick building with charcoaled beams framing the entrance and leaded windows. As she parked her van, she could already picture what the restaurant would look like inside. There would be red booth seats and captain’s chairs at wooden tables, as befitted an old-world, masculine eatery.
After reading reviews online of the restaurant’s service and cuisine, Maggie had consented to ride in the van, claiming that she didn’t want anyone to recognize her or her red car.
“You can always have a salad,” Crys said, watching Maggie reluctantly emerge, her nose wrinkled beneath her sunglasses. “They can’t mess that up, can they?”
“Brown lettuce with poorly cut raw, spotted veggies, anemic tomato slices, and stale croutons drowned in an oily dressing?”
“Point taken. I promise never to mention I brought you here.”
“Thank you. Fortunately, we’re not here for a five-star dining experience. When I called before we left to see if we needed reservations, the woman who answered identified herself as Carla.”
Crys smiled. Their trip hadn’t been wasted.
“Are you referring to the hostess?” she asked as she opened the outer door and held it for her friend.
Maggie lifted her chin. “I am. And I’m sure she’ll find us a great table and summon the waitstaff to serve us in style. I expect no less, even in a dump like this.”
The dimly lit interior of the restaurant had a few tables occupied by diners who either hadn’t read the reviews or didn’t care if their steaks were “tough as pack mules and not nearly as tasty.” Carla was at the bar talking to a young bartender with a man bun and tattooed forearms displayed beneath rolled-up white sleeves. She glanced at the door when they entered and did a double take.
Maggie removed her sunglasses and laid it on thick by exclaiming, “Look who it is, Crys—Carla from the POW dinner. I tell you, it’s a small world. My goodness mercy!”
“You’re right.” Crys smiled at their hostess and waved. “Hi, Carla!”
“Hi.” Carla left Man Bun and headed toward them. Today, Randy’s date was dressed in a white, button-down shirt and a black skirt that hit mid-thigh. Flakes from her caked eye makeup dotted the skin beneath her eyes. Crimson lipstick emphasized rather than enhanced her thin lips. “Two for lunch?”
No glad to see you again. So much for social graces. They followed her to a table in the middle of the dining room where she stopped.
“If you asked me where I’d like to sit,” Maggie spun her finger in the air, “I would choose… that table over there.”
Carla’s gaze followed Maggie’s finger now pointed like an arrow. “Would you like to sit by a window?” she asked.
“Perfect,” Maggie said with a smile.

What was the most difficult scene to write?

The scene where Mitch approaches Crys about a truce was difficult because Crys wasn’t going to readily agree to his proposal. She’s been angry at him for five years about what happened the night Rick was shot and isn’t ready to forgive him. They were friendly before the shooting, but since then she’s only tolerated his calls about Rick and visits to their home because her husband still considers Mitch a friend. Everything he does and says rubs her the wrong way. And Mitch can be annoying. He’s sometimes not as funny as he thinks he is, for example. In this scene I wanted to show his vulnerability beneath the laidback image he likes to project. He’s actually an excellent detective and serious about his job, a side that Crys doesn’t usually have the opportunity to see. He needs her help to solve this murder, and he’s not too proud to beg.
To set the scene, Crys is working in her office in the basement of her home. She retreated there when Mitch came over to visit Rick.

Footsteps on the wooden stairs brought Crys back into the present.
“I’m guessing someone’s hungry,” she said as she carefully stacked the pages and photos in order. “I’m coming.”
“I can’t stay, but thanks for the in-vite,” Mitch said in his fake Texas drawl. She turned to find him standing behind her and looking over her shoulder.
“Making a scrapbook?”
“It’s a gift for a client.” She reached for the desk lamp to turn it off.
“A gift, huh? That must make the customers happy. Your business must be growing.”
She spun her chair around, but she couldn’t see sarcasm in his face. It didn’t help that his back was to the lightbulb dangling over the stairs and casting his face in shadow. He tilted his head, waiting for her response.
“It is. Little by little.”
“Word’s getting around?”
“Somewhat. I have a few new potential clients,” she added and then regretted it. It was none of his business.
“That’s good.” He looked around the cluttered basement, probably wondering how she could possibly sell her services as a professional organizer.
Enough. This was her space, and he had no right to judge her. Why had he come downstairs anyway?
She rose. “Look, if you have more questions for me, you might as well ask them. Otherwise, I’d better go see about dinner.”
He turned to her, his expression serious. “Yeah, I do have a question. Can you set aside your anger at me until I make an arrest in this case?”
“What?”
“Crys, I’m sorry that you walked in on a crime scene and became part of this case, but I have a job to do here. The thing is, you know these people—”
“Not really.”
“You know these people better than I do. Apparently, you talked to Weston O’Malley for a while. He said you told him to show us the doorbell video. That nice friend of Farrah’s, he called you and said he told you everything already.”
“Look, Mitch—”
He held up a hand. “Let me finish.” He drew a breath. “I know you didn’t know he was alive or would show up there at the hospital. I’m not mad about it. My point is, you’re part of this investigation, and I have to be able to talk to you without feeling like you’d rather stick me on a spit and slow roast me over a fire.”
She folded her arms. “I can’t forget what happened in that alley, Mitch. I live with it every day.”
Even in the dim light of the basement, she could see him flinch.
“Fair enough.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “Can we at least call a truce for now?”
She stared at him. Had he listened at all to what she’d just said?
“A truce?”
“With this case. It would help to set aside—you know, the past. I don’t mean forget it—oh, hell. I just need to be able to talk to you without upsetting you, or vice versa.”
She was sure the range of expressions crossing her face would probably encompass twenty emojis, ranging from shock to anger to what? Curiosity? No, he couldn’t be serious. He wanted her to set aside his inexcusable failure to provide backup to Rick in the alley that night? Impossible. And hadn’t they been operating under a truce of sorts ever since? She had tolerated him coming to their house and pretended to be friendly when they were around Rick. Wasn’t that enough?
“Okay, right,” he said, looking away from her. “Not yet, I guess.” The polite, neutral expression she was used to seeing settled on his face. “I may need to ask you some more questions as we learn more. Let me know if Rick—or you—need anything.”
He headed toward the stairs. “Mitch,” she called. He hesitated and then looked around at her.
“I can do a truce.” For Rick and only until this murder was solved.
“Cool,” he said like a teenager from a past era, giving her one of his slow, lazy grins.
“As long as you keep me informed about the investigation.”
His grin faded.

Would you say this book showcases your writing style or is it a departure for you?

I believe this book showcases my writing style, although I hope to continue to evolve as a writer. This series is a departure for me as it’s written from a third-person limited viewpoint. I might try multiple points of view in future books, but for now, readers only see events from Crys’s perspective. This point of view is tricky at times as I have to have her present in all key scenes and determine what information other characters need to tell her. Sometimes that results in adding a new scene or introducing a new character.

What do you want people to take away from reading this book?

I hope readers will love Crys Ward, her family, and her friends and want to continue reading about her adventures in solving crimes. I also hope they’ll be inspired by her courage in fighting for her convictions. She and her family have a lot of compassion and try to do their part to make the world a better place. There’s also a theme here about forgiveness. I feel so sad when I hear about family members who haven’t spoken to each other in years or even decades. Sometimes estrangement may be necessary (we may need to break away to save ourselves), but other times we may be reacting in anger or pain without having all the facts.

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have planned?

I’m currently working on book four of my Cluttered Crime Mysteries series, which involves a historic house with old secrets. The second book, Deadlier Than Fiction, will be released September 7, 2023, and the third book, Killer Close to Home, comes out January 2024—both from Tule Publishing. In Deadlier Than Fiction, Crys is decluttering a den. There’s a low bookcase filled with novels from the seventies and eighties collecting dust. Crys’s client gives her permission to donate the old bestsellers. Her good deed soon proves to be a disaster. The novels are more valuable than they look and hide a deadly secret. Caught up in a crime again, Crys learns the hard way that she should never judge books—or people—by their covers.

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Excerpt from Room for Suspicion:

As Crystal Ward turned into her client’s driveway, she noticed the signs were missing. Last week there had been two identical political ads proclaiming SCOTT DANFORTH FOR U.S. HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES planted in the grass. The double dose of smiling headshots of Danforth against backgrounds of the red, white, and blue of the American flag would have been hard to miss, even with her mind still focused on the argument she’d had with her husband this morning.
Who had removed the signs? The original one had been stolen, and her client, Farrah Compton, had doubled down, replacing it with two signs. Now the question was whether Farrah would respond with three or increase the signage exponentially to four.
The mental picture of Scott Danforth’s smiling face multiplying across the yard made Crys grin as she parked in the driveway. Sometimes having an eye for detail was a curse, but today she welcomed the distraction from what she could have said—should have said?—to Rick to convince him that her work as a professional organizer was important to her and potentially life-changing for their family. Not that anything she said would have done any good. Rick just wasn’t ready to listen. She wasn’t giving up, though.
She steered her thoughts to the task at hand: helping Farrah Compton reorganize her home office. Farrah’s suburban American Dream residence with its unfenced expanse of manicured green lawn (currently uncluttered with signs) represented everything Crys dreamed about in a house. Not that she didn’t appreciate her own Craftsman bungalow in a much less affluent Chicago suburb, but imagine having more green space than concrete and mature oak trees already changing into their fall colors. Even better, imagine not having to worry about money or the mowing and fertilizing, pruning and raking of this little slice of paradise. And then there was the spacious interior…
Enough house envy. The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, as her mother would say. Literally, in this case.
Crys unclipped her seat belt. By some miracle, she had arrived a few minutes early for their ten o’clock appointment. Traffic in Chicago, even in the northern suburbs, was as unpredictable as the autumn weather. Today the road gods had smiled and the weather had cooperated, although a cold front was expected to blow through around midday. That was why at the last minute before leaving the house, she had decided to add a linen blazer to her outfit. Locating and pressing it to look more professional for this meeting had cost her an extra fifteen minutes, but she was willing to take the risk to make a good impression. Farrah, a stylish professor at the University of Illinois-Chicago, favored suits, silk blouses, and scarves tied in an endless variety of styles. Crys glanced down, hoping the blazer hadn’t wrinkled too badly during the drive.
She shouldn’t have looked. In the sunlight, the black fabric appeared faded to a dark gray. The wrinkles, like the sign thief, had returned. It’s my linen look, she decided. She would wear the wrinkles and crinkles, natural to this fabric, with dignity and hold her head high. She could remove the jacket as soon as she was inside.
She grabbed her handbag and binder and stepped out. As she locked her van, a travel-worn black Jeep Cherokee pulled up next to her and shuddered to a stop.
The man in the black leather jacket who emerged gave her a wide smile and a “hiya.”
“Are you one of my sister’s students?” he asked, his focus shifting to the notebook she carried. “I’m Randy, Farrah’s brother.” His friendly smile broadened, and he stuck out a hand.
She took it and gave him a firm squeeze. Other than his coloring and the shape of his eyes, he didn’t resemble his sister. Instead, he looked like a hipster slipping into middle age, with a double chin under his unshaven jaw and a slight paunch lounging on top of his jeans. A scar by his left eye made his lid droop into a skeptical slant, but his smile challenged that impression.
“Crystal Ward. I’m helping Farrah organize her office.”
“Geez, really? She’s the neatest person I know. No offense. You wouldn’t want to see my place.”
He was trying hard to be charming, so Crys smiled. “I’m helping her to improve it.” She glanced at her watch and saw it was ten. “As a matter of fact, she’s expecting me now.”
He walked a step behind her toward the front door. “I just have to ask her something quick. She’s a busy lady these days. Guess that’s why she wants to clean things up.”
“Organize. It’s not the same as cleaning.”
“Got it. Straighten things up. Does that work?”
“Close enough.” She often had to educate people about her profession. Ten years ago, she’d had no clue that people actually earned money helping others arrange their spaces, using techniques she had learned by necessity as a wife and mother. Not that Rick appreciated that she had marketable skills.
She stepped onto the small concrete porch. Black electrician’s tape covered half of the doorbell, a model with a video camera above the ring button.
“Huh.” Randy stopped behind her, close enough to be breathing down her neck. He smelled like the inside of a fast-food hamburger joint, a mixture of grease and ground beef. “Look at that—someone’s taped over the camera. I hope she hasn’t been burgled.”
He knocked on the teal front door, a rare concession to color for Farrah, who preferred whites and shades of cream and beige. They glanced at each other and then away as they listened for footsteps. Randy tried the doorknob, but it was locked. Crys pulled out her phone and scrolled to Farrah’s number.
“You calling her?”
“Yes.”
“She’s gotta be here. Maybe she’s in the john.”
The phone began to ring in Crys’s ear. From inside, she heard the faint musical notes of a common ringtone. It sounded about five times and then switched to voicemail.
Crys hung up without leaving a message. Odd—Farrah hadn’t seemed like someone who would forget an appointment. Maybe Randy’s guess was correct: she was in another part of the house, away from her cell.
“I know the code,” Randy said, reaching around her to punch in four digits: 9-8-2-1. With a beep, the door unlocked. Crys stepped back as he pushed it open.
“Hey, Farrah,” he called as he led the way in. “You here, sis? It’s me.”
His announcement was greeted with a deep silence.
“Maybe she’s out back,” Randy suggested. “I’ll check.”
That worked for her. She would wait while he had his chat with Farrah, which he’d promised would be quick.
The wide entry faced the staircase to the second floor. Her client’s office was to her left, and Crys couldn’t resist the invitation of the open door to see what had changed since her last visit. The room was vacant—no Farrah and not much of anything else. They had cleared the built-in cabinets and bookcases on her last visit. The middle of the room held half a dozen boxes containing the items from the shelves. There was a vacant space where Farrah’s desk had been. She must have found a charity to take it. Soon the new one would arrive, and then—
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
She found Randy in the living room. The shock on his pale face alarmed her even more than his exclamation. She followed his gaze to the fireplace. A man lay on the floor in front of the white marble hearth. The blood coating the side of his face had formed a red pool on the white carpet.
Crys’s hand flew to her mouth. She turned her gaze away, and another splash of color on the carpet caught her eye. The teal-and-navy geometric pattern on a silky fabric looked like a scarf. She stepped closer, her heart rate accelerating.
Farrah lay sprawled on her side in front of the white sofa. Ignoring Randy, who was still calling for divine help, Crys rushed to her client.
“Farrah?” She noticed blood droplets in a spray pattern on her white shirt. Splatter, not an injury. One end of the scarf puddled like its own stain beside her neck. Her eyes were open but fixed in an unblinking stare. Her skin tone was pale, but a tiny twitch of her fingers indicated that she was alive.
“Farrah? It’s me, Crys. Are you hurt?”
There was no response. Crys hesitated to touch her, knowing that this was most likely a crime scene. She extended a shaky hand under Farrah’s nose and thought she felt a wisp of breath.
“Uhh—” Randy moaned behind her. She jerked around. As a mother she recognized that sound. Sure enough, he raised his hand over his mouth and began to gag.
“Not in here you don’t.” Crys seized his arm and spun him around. There was probably a half bath on the ground floor, but she didn’t know where it was. She hustled him into the kitchen and shoved him into one of the chairs at the island. “Put your head down and take some deep breaths.”
He obeyed her and gulped in air like a trout in the bottom of a rowboat.
“That’s it. Breathe in—breathe out.”
She opened cupboards and searched until she found a mixing bowl to place beside him in case deep breathing didn’t work. Keeping an eye on Randy, she pulled out her phone and dialed 911.
“I never thought she’d kill him,” Randy moaned, rolling his forehead on his folded arms. “Geez. What am I gonna do now?”
“Who?” she asked as the 911 operator answered the phone, but Randy only moaned.
Crys provided Farrah’s address and asked for ambulance and police. She hesitated when the operator asked again for the nature of the emergency. She pictured the man’s bloodied face. Head injuries could bleed profusely, as she knew from seeing her brothers’ and son’s sports injuries. What she’d seen in that one quick glance had been more than blood. She’d seen bone and gray matter. She had also seen a bloodied sculpture of a woman on the carpet near Farrah’s outstretched hand.
“There’s been a murder,” she said, bile rising in her throat. “A man’s been killed.”

Randy had stopped moaning but still looked pale with a faint hint of green around his lips. Crys suspected her own color was a close match. She tried not to think of the dead man in the next room as she filled a glass of water with one hand while pressing the phone to her ear with the other. They should have left the house immediately and not disturbed the crime scene, but it was too late now. Randy’s hand shook as he drank the water. If his legs were that unsteady, he’d never make it outside.
The 911 operator had insisted on remaining on the line with her. Crys had already explained how she and Randy had discovered the victims and described the scene in the living room. Crys knew she could hang up, but the woman’s voice was as reassuring as a hug.
“Is there anyone else in the house with you?”
Crys drew in a sharp breath. She glanced over her shoulder and listened. There was a hum from the refrigerator, the sound of Randy’s ragged breathing, and the pounding of her heart, but she heard no other noises. They seemed to be alone with Farrah and the dead man.
“I don’t think so, but we haven’t checked it out.” She realized she’d lowered her voice. No point in broadcasting their presence if they did have company.
“You just stay where you are, Crystal,” the operator advised. “The police are almost there. They’ll make sure no one else is around.”
After that, she had no desire to leave the kitchen. Randy had been accurate in describing his sister as neat. The room was spotlessly clean with no signs of disturbance or recent occupancy. Farrah didn’t leave dishes in the sink or even a washed cup in a drainer. For that matter, she didn’t leave a dish drainer in the sink or on the countertop. Even the tea towel looked as if it were displayed more for show than use. Crys touched it. White pressed linen with tan lines in a modern, large checkered pattern. There wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen. Had Farrah starched it? She glanced down at her black jacket again and shook her head. Linen look. Not that it mattered now.
Still holding the phone to her ear, she slid into the chair at the island next to Randy. The operator told her the police were three minutes away. Randy’s breathing was quieter, although he moaned again that he didn’t know what he was going to do.
He didn’t seem concerned about his sister. She wanted to check on Farrah, but from what she’d seen, there didn’t appear to be any need for first aid. As she’d told the operator, the patient wasn’t bleeding, her breathing was unobstructed, she didn’t appear to have any fractures, and she wasn’t in immediate danger. Unless the killer was still in the house.
Crys glanced over her shoulder again. It was a big house. Plenty of places to hide. She wanted to phone Rick, to hear his voice reassure her, but she would have to disconnect the 911 call to do that.
Come on—hurry!
“You should be hearing the sirens soon,” the operator assured her.
Crys rubbed her palm across the cool surface of the white quartzite countertop. She wasn’t a fan of all-white kitchens, but she became calmer as her gaze rested on the white cabinetry and walls. So many negative spaces, like the white expanses in this kitchen or the green lawn minus the campaign signs. Beautiful in their own right, they were restful places for the eyes. Maybe this feeling of clean tranquility was why Farrah liked white.
A knock at the front door startled her. Randy raised his head and glanced around.
“They should be there now,” the 911 operator said. Crys thanked the woman and hung up.
The four uniformed officers at the door told her to remain in the kitchen with Randy after she led them into the living room. From her seat at the end of the island, she watched as paramedics and firemen entered with a stretcher. The knot of their bodies blocked her view, but they seemed to be talking to Farrah. She thought she heard a moan, but she couldn’t be sure. Randy held his head in his hands with his elbows propped on the island. He had stopped muttering fears of his impending doom.
Everyone dealt with shock and grief differently.
Crys had to do something, so she refilled his glass. When she returned to her seat and peered into the living room, she noticed that two more officers—a man and a woman in plain clothes—had joined the gathering. The man glanced in her direction, and their eyes met. He said something to his partner, who turned to look at her.
The knot in Crys’s stomach tightened. Growing up with three brothers, she had learned a choice collection of words never to be uttered in their mother’s presence. All of them came to mind as she watched Mitch Burdine approach.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

It’s going to take more than carefully labeled boxes to sort through the clues of this homicide…

Professional organizer Crystal Ward knows she can make a success of her new business, Organizing Chicago. The extra income would allow her to renovate her own home, full of more cluttered spaces than she’d ever admit to her clients. But her life wasn’t always this disorganized. Five years ago her husband, Rick, a Chicago police detective, was shot while chasing a suspect. Now a paraplegic, he’s wary of her going into strangers’ homes…and for good reason.

When Crys discovers a dead man in a client’s living room, she refuses to accept that the murder is an open-and-shut case of domestic violence. If she can untangle this mess, she can prove her client’s innocence and ease Rick’s fears.

But the only witness to the murder is hospitalized in a catatonic state. And the lead detective is Rick’s former partner, the man Crys blames for his paralysis. Crys is on her own to save her client from jail and stop a murderer intent on tidying up loose ends.

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Meet the Author:

Carol Light is an avid reader and writer of mysteries. She loves creating amateur sleuths and complicating their normal lives with a crime that they must use their talents and wits to solve. She’s traveled worldwide and lived in Australia for eight years, teaching high school English and learning to speak “Strine.” Florida is now her home. If she’s not at the beach or writing, you can find her tackling quilting in much the same way that she figures out her mysteries—piece by piece, clue by clue.
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