Kadence MacBride, a self-described "forty-something African-American with junk in my trunk and a chest that women go under the knife for," is the best reason to read this jaunty, jolly, sexy mystery. Arriving at the beach apartment on an unnamed Caribbean island where her longtime friend and occasional lover Terrence lives, Kadence finds that Terrence's affections have been hijacked by an island bimbo named Sheila, who tells her that she and Terrence are to be married. Kadence works off the pain by going on a tour of some ancient caves where escaped slaves are said to have hidden a valuable stolen sea chest, then parties at one of the island's nightclubs-where she sees Sheila acting hot to trot with some other men. Recovering from her hard night's fun, Kadence makes plans to go home to New York, but the island is hit with political riots, and then Terrence announces that he's been charged with strangling Sheila. Good, dirty fun-and Kadence is a definite keeper.
* Refers to the 2008 version of Death of an Island Tart entered in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards.
From the Inside Flap
Best friends since college, Kadence and Terrence have supported each other through failed marriages and dead-end relationships. Despite their strong mutual attraction, they've been unwilling to risk their friendship for a chance at love, until now. They'd be well on their way to happily ever after if they could just stop stumbling over dead bodies.
Death of an Idiot Boss Excerpt
There are some days I'd love to bottle up and save: the day I graduated summa cum laude, the days I married and divorced my ex, and if everything worked out, today.
My orange juice was perfect: fresh squeezed with a twist of lime. A basket of warm sweet-potato muffins from Momma Pearl's scented the air with home-made goodness. A bouquet of yellow roses lay on the seat beside me. Despite asking him not to, my boyfriend Terrence had thought of everything down to the new red silk power suit I sported.
"Ante victoriam ne canan triumphum: don't sing triumphs before the victory," I'd said.
Terrence didn't share my fondness for Latin. "Victory is yours," he'd countered, and so he'd sent all this stuff plus a limo to ferry me to work.
"All set, Ms. MacBride?" the driver asked.
"Carry on, Jeeves." His name tag said Jerome. That's no name for a limo driver. Course, some folks might say Kadence MacBride was no name for a thirty-something African-American woman.
Stretch limos didn't grace my neighborhood that often, especially not on a Friday morning. More than a few curtains rustled as we passed. There'd be more than curtains rustling if I showed up to work in this thing.
Death of an Island Tart Excerpt
There comes a time in every woman's life when she has to go get her man. My time was now. That's what put me on a jet, somewhere over the Caribbean, in this hootchie-momma outfit I'd let my friend Charlene talk me into. Everything I normally let hang out was trussed up like a turkey, and the things I always kept covered were out there swinging in the breeze.
Clothes may make the man, but they change the woman. I'm a thirty-something African-American with junk in my trunk and a chest that women go under the knife for; I always dress to downplay that. I want folks judging me for my mind, not my body.
In this stuff, every time I stood, my chest ended up in some man's face. And when I walked, my butt swished like a Whirlpool on agitate.