BRAND NEW FICTION! "8 Minutes to Sunday" The Mystery of Dalton West Book 2, Episode 1, links to book one.

I’d been trying for over nine months to remember my name. Ever since two Kansas cops had found me sleeping in an old Chevy truck on the side of the road. Remember anything, really, from more than nine months ago. But today, it was my real name I missed the most.

“Dalton West!” a voice called.

It was about the 900th call for help I’d answered that day. I was really starting to hate that name.

If you haven't read the first Dalton West mystery, find the links here.

It wasn’t my name. But it was, sort of. I’d read it on the chrome dealer’s emblem on the back of the truck the cops had found me in. ‘West Dalton Chevrolet’ so, when they asked for a name I told them.

“Dalton West!” the voice called again.

I’d stopped in River Grove overnight 9 months before. I was looking for clues to a teddy bear in a picture of a kid I was pretty sure was me. Hoping it would answer the question of who I was. It hadn’t yet.

In the meantime: I’d met a girl, Leeanne; fell in love; busted about fifty female gladiators out of a prison called The Farm; and inadvertently fed the mayor, the sheriff, a deputy, and an FBI agent to some gators. This was worse.

There were about 200 moms spread out across the tow square lawn. They had extension cords, extension ladders, and about 200 sets of fake nails they were afraid to break moving either one. Decorating for Christmas in River Grove was a very big deal. This had been the mayor’s job, before the gators.

I found the mom who’d called my name. Cheryl Whitaker. She was at the top of a ladder, stapling lights to the face of the Methodist church. Why she needed my help, I didn’t know.

It was probably the star on my chest. It read ‘sheriff’ and it was beginning to itch. But, when the sheriff, the mayor, the sheriff’s deputy and an FBI agent are all killed in the explosion of a gator tank, then eaten, you volunteer.

Especially if you were responsible for the mess. Even if the town was better off without them.

“Yeah, Cheryl, what do you need?” I asked.

“Could you be a sweetie and hold my legs? I’m too high,” she said.

I sighed. Cheryl was newly divorced and she had been rubbing up against every man in town who didn’t have a ring for months. Some who did.

“Joan,” I said. “Could you help Cheryl?”

Joan was the high school girl’s field hockey coach. She was over six feet tall, and I was pretty sure she’d enjoy holding Cheryl’s shapely thighs in place as much as anyone.

“Sure,” she said.

I felt bad. I knew what was coming next.

“That looks, Great, Cheryl,” Joan said. She wasn’t looking at the lights.

Cheryl glared at me and scratched her nose with her middle finger. I smiled. Being nice.

I needed out of this town. I’d even dreamed I’d forgotten everything again, had to start at ground zero. I told Leeanne. She was not amused.

“Well, that’s the last of it,” Fred Baker said.

Fred was delivering the town’s Christmas ornaments. He stored them in the attic of his shop, “Bedman’s Hardware” in the off season. The crooked FBI agent that had been sliced in half by shards from the gator tank, had been Fred’s husband. He’d taken it surprisingly well.

“Mayor Baker,” Cheryl said.

I wasn’t the only one with a new title.

“Yes?” Fred said.

“How are they looking?” she asked.

“Oh, lovely, lovely,” Fred said.

He sighed. Cheryl was convinced that Fred just hadn’t met the right woman yet, and he’d fall madly in love with her, forsaking his “lifestyle” if she could just get him alone with a nice Chardonnay and a slice of her famous cheesecake. Joan had a better chance.

My phone rang.