Month: June 2020

Hey, it’s Rey on the last day of the $0.99 promo drive for our second case, Coco’s Nuts.

Our Triple Threat Investigation Agency is hired by socialite-turned-trucker Buddy Feuer to prove she didn’t shoot her boss, infamous entrepreneur Jimmy Picolo, or her best friend, Eb Stretta.  A challenge because the cops and the evidence all point to her pulling the trigger.

As we begin searching for the real killer, we discover a number of people who might fit the bill.  There’s Annia, Picolo’s daughter, who owes mega bucks to folks in Vegas and on Oahu; receiving money from the sizeable inheritance would sure help her from having that pretty face rearranged.  Jimmy Junior might have decided he’d like to take on Daddy’s businesses for himself; he seems super tired of standing in the big guy’s shadows. Then we have Coco Peterson, a company driver, who’s been AWOL since the two murders—and rumors have it he’s a major nutbar.  Then there’s Picolo brother and Stretta’s, too.  And let’s not forget that hottie, Kent, a valuable Picolo employee.  Yup, a number of people certainly fit the killer bill.

Maybe you’d be interested in checking out who the culprit is?  I promise, it’s a twisty-turny f-u-n mystery trip.

https://www.amazon.ca/Cocos-Nuts-Tyler-Colins/dp/1078374368

See ya all soon!

Hey-ho, it’s Rey, back for the fourth day of the Coco’s Nuts promotion.  Silly Cousin Jilly–I didn’t drink that many Mai-Tais.  Anyway, Coco’s avail for $0.99 for yet one more day (not counting tomorrow ‘course).  Yay!

The Triple Threat Investigation Agency has to prove socialite-turned-trucker Buddy Feuer didn’t shoot her boss, infamous entrepreneur Jimmy Picolo or her best friend, Eb Stretta.  Who cares what the police believe or the evidence suggests?  We know Buddy’s been set up and as we start looking for the killer, we find a few people who could fit the bill.

As we attempt to solve this challenging case, we step into the world of gambling and debt collectors.  Annia, Picolo’s daughter, owes a lot of money in Vegas and on Oahu.  Did she kill her father to obtain a sizeable inheritance so she could pay off these bone-breaking bozos?  Jimmy Junior, Picolo’s son, might have wanted to take over his father’s multiple and prosperous businesses before the old guy passed naturally.  There’s kooky Coco Peterson, a Picolo nutbar, er, employee who’s been missing since the murders took place.

Here’s an excerpt:

“You’re positive he left sometime last Friday?” I asked Jem Stretta over the phone. Like Buddy, he lived in Lahaina, but in the Kelawea Mauka neighborhood near his late younger brother, Eb.

“No. Like I told the cops, Eb called me the previous Thursday evening telling me he had a mission on Oahu and he’d be leaving the following evening. Pay was better’n good, he said. He was pretty excited, even mentioned champagne and a trip to Kona on Big Island, which meant it had to pay excellently well. Then he hurried off to do stuff.” Jem’s exhalation sounded like the whistle of an old steam locomotive. “I phoned three times and texted twice between fix-it jobs because I wanted him to get some stuff, but he never answered. I checked with Andy, his coffee pal, and he hadn’t heard from the Ebster in a few days.”

According to Buddy, the fellow trucker had always been extremely responsible and dependable, so his not contacting his brother had been very peculiar.

Jem, short for Jeremiah, lived two streets over from Eb, in an identical single-family, two-bedroom dwelling. According to Buddy, both long narrow houses were trimmed in shades of raven black and tree-toad brown, and had identical four-by-six windows with gun-metal-gray blinds, the same fencing and similarly decorated lanais, with two avocado trees smack-dab center on miniscule lawns. They weren’t twins, although from Buddy’s descriptions, you might have thought so. Besides identical houses, both sported spiky bleached hair, shell surfer necklaces, and lots of polyester. The bothers also had things for greasy food and easy women. Eb was the baby in the family, five years Jem’s junior and fifteen years Hutch’s.

Hutch, short for Hutchkins (their mother’s maiden name), had been the eldest brother. He had died crossing a boulevard while visiting an ex-wife in Mississippi last year — hit, decked, and crushed by a two-ton turkey. The heavyset gobbler had been part of a small-town Thanksgiving Day parade, the thirty-fourth in its history, and possibly the last. A traumatic experience it had been — for the stupefied young driver beneath the large bird, the stunned crowd, and certainly Hutch, who prior to staggering across the path of the wattle-headed bird had indulged in a liquefied version of same (i.e. Wild Turkey).

“Will you check the garage again for Buddy’s gun?” As Buddy had told Ald, she’d left the Glock with Eb when she’d headed to Oahu.

“I said I would.” He belched. The Stretta brothers weren’t known for good manners, but they seemed to be decent souls from what Buddy had claimed. “But if the cops didn’t find her gun, I don’t see as I’ll have better luck. Where’s best to get you?”

I gave the numbers for the agency and my cell.

“Are they still thinking she did it?” His laughter reminded me of a badger: low-pitched, and rumbling.

“She’s at the top of the list. In both cases, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Additionally, her card was in your brother’s wallet, she happens to know both men, and she owns a 10-mm, the murderer’s weapon of choice.” I watched two honeycreepers soar past the lanai window like small colorful comets. “She’s also the right height and left-handed.”

His snort sounded like a puppy’s sneeze. “Maybe they should put me on the list, too. I knew them both, I’m left-handed, and my name and number were in Eb’s wallet.”

“Let me know if you find or hear anything.” I hung up and saw Rey standing by the kitchen counter, perturbation lining that pretty face. “Upset? Or constipated?”

Hopefully, I’ve peaked interest.

https://www.amazon.ca/Cocos-Nuts-Tyler-Colins/dp/1078374368

Back tomorrow, the last day of the promo.  Aloha Sunday!

It’s JJ on the third day of the Coco’s Nuts promotion, taking over for Rey, who attended a social-distancing-respected luau last night and ended up drinking too many Mai-Tais.  Somehow, she ended up under the bed—wedged between the 4” between the floor and box spring.  She’s got an icepack plunked on her head.

Coco’s available for $0.99, not free, but close; what glee (yes well, it was a long night and the brain is a tad tired).

Coco’s Nuts is our second Triple Threat Investigation Agency case.  Today, through June 15^th, it’s available for $0.99.  The three of us must prove socialite-turned-trucker Buddy Feuer did not shoot her boss, infamous entrepreneur Jimmy Picolo.  Nor did she kill her best friend, Eb Stretta.  Despite what the police believe, and the evidence suggests, we’re convinced that Buddy’s been set up.  As we seek clues and answers, we encounter a number of people who could conceivably killed both men.

Several persons hated Picolo, so finding the one who pulled the trigger is challenging.  As we try to find the culprit, we find ourselves in the dodgy world of gambling and debt collectors (who don’t mind breaking bones, if necessary).  Annia, Picolo’s daughter, owes a lot of money in Vegas and on Oahu, which may have inspired her to her to kill her father to obtain a sizeable inheritance.  Jimmy Junior, Picolo’s son, could have decided to take over his father’s multiple businesses before the old man passed of old age.  There’s also nutty Coco Peterson, a Picolo employee who’s been missing since the murders took place.  He’s a driver for Picolo and the odd little guy appears to play a principal piece in this challenging puzzle.

Here’s an excerpt:

“Of course Buddy Feuer didn’t do it. Who told you she did?” I demanded, already knowing who had tattled to Ricardo Mako Picolo. It could only have been one person: Kent “The Source” Winche.

“Winche,” the health-food freak confirmed, munching noisily, probably a mung-bean, pea-sprout muffin, his favorite according to an article I’d read earlier. “Actually, he said she was a person of interest . . . or did he say suspect? Whatever. He doesn’t believe she did it.”

I paced my kitchen like a tin duck target at a fair ground concession booth. Every time I passed the counter, I poked a trio of bananas perched in a white wicker basket.

It was hard to say why Jimmy Picolo’s slick (as in oil-spill, slippery-slimy) brother proved annoying. Maybe it was the self-satisfied, perpetually tanned face I’d viewed in photos. He sported a nose too perfect to have been born with. Evidently, he and his niece shared the same cosmetic surgeon. He was as handsome as his brother, but more a combination of Bobby Darren of T.J. Hooker fame and Ryo Ishibashi as Detective Toshihuru Kuroda in Suicide Club. Asian-cast root-beer brown eyes seemed to challenge; they, like the thin lips pulled into a smug smile, expressed a sense of superiority. As it had in interviews, the man’s mega ego blazed like a Times Square billboard.

“Thank heavens for the pretty boy’s support,” I responded wryly.

“He’s a big fan of Buddy’s.” Munch, munch. Crunch, crunch. Must be macadamias in that muffin, too. “Winche’ll give his eye teeth — letteralmente — to reinforce that she didn’t do it. He claims she could never kill anyone in a million years. She’s too cute.”

“Too cute?”

“He’s got a real thing for her. Anyway, with you helping, she shouldn’t worry herself none.” I could hear the simper. “I heard you girls did a solid job working the Howell case.”

“Really?” I was nonplussed.

“When I got your message, I had you checked out. I do that with everyone whose call I’m thinking of returning.”

When I didn’t respond, he chuckled and slurped. Was he also indulging in one of his famous wheatgrass-beetroot smoothies? “I got a proposition. You interested?”

“If it will clear our client’s name, of course,” I responded casually. Poke, poke. The bananas were beginning to look as if they’d encountered a frenzied chimp.

“Here’s what we’re going to do.”

We’re?

“We’re going to find the prick that killed my brother. The why would be a bonus, but the who is the important answer.”

I dropped onto counter stool and rested my chin on the granite counter. “What’s in it for you, Mr. Picolo?” Poke, poke. Oh-oh. The bananas lay on the polished hardwood floor like washed-up marine creatures. Button ambled over, pawed them, sniffed, and flopped onto the floor with a loud sigh.

“Like I said, knowing who killed my brother. The other guy who got rubbed out I could care less about . . . but his family would like to know, I’m sure. Anyway, I’ll add some incentives.”

“Incentives?” I asked, puzzled.

Ricardo’s laughter was reminiscent of microwaved popcorn: staccato, abrupt. Heh-heh. Heh-heh-heh. “Yeah, incentives. First one: twenty-five K.”

Nice incentive. “Second?”

“Coco Peterson’s tattoo and jewelry. It wouldn’t do for the cops to find them, would it?”

If I’ve encouraged some interest, please check out Coco’s Nuts out:

https://www.amazon.ca/Cocos-Nuts-Tyler-Colins/dp/1078374368

My cousin’s back tomorrow, sans icepack.

NOTE: $0.99 promotions are active only in the US and UK stores.