Title: A SEASON FOR KILLING BLONDES
Genre: Adult/Murder Mystery
Word Count: 70,000
My Main Character is most uncomfortable with:
Born and raised in northern Ontario, Gilda Greco has a great appreciation for winter and feels most uncomfortable during the dog days of summer. As the humidex rises, Gilda seeks air-conditioned comfort and dreams of the first snowfall.
Dear Amy and Michelle:
A few hours before the grand opening of her career counseling office, brunette lottery winner Gilda Greco discovers the dead body of golden girl Carrie Ann Godfrey, neatly arranged in a dumpster outside her office. Gilda’s life is put on hold as Detective Carlo Fantin, her former high school crush, conducts the investigation.
When three more dead blondes are found in Gilda’s wake, people start pointing fingers in her direction. Gilda gets involved in the investigation and discovers a gaggle of suspects, among them a yoga instructor in need of anger management classes, a lecherous photographer, and mean-to-the-core Anna May Godfrey, who is related to all the victims.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
First 250 words:
If not for the dead blonde in the dumpster, the three thousand Euros worth of pastries might have been worth it. When I agreed to import the pastries, I had no idea I would be subsidizing the failing Italian economy and helping Silvio Berlusconi stay in power for a few weeks longer. Left to my own devices, I would have gone down the street to Regency Bakery, picked up some pastries and just walked them over. But my mother and Aunt Amelia were adamant. The open house for my new career counseling office needed a proper launch, one that could only be achieved with pastries from a Sicilian bakery.
To be fair, both of them were horrified when they saw that final four-figure amount on the invoice and swore me to secrecy. While conspicuous consumption is greatly valued in the Italian community, being taken for a ride is not, and we would never hear the end of it from Uncle Paolo who is still complaining about the ten cents he has to pay for a shopping bag at No Frills.
I watched my mother lovingly rearrange the amaretto cookies, stuffed figs, biscotti and other delicacies that had arrived yesterday. She and Aunt Amelia had brought in their best silver trays and carts and spent hours—according to Uncle Paolo—creating a colorful Italian corner.
“Everything is perfect. Maybe too perfect.” My mother made the sign of the cross and mumbled a Hail Mary.