Exclusive: Chapter 1 - Murder Most Mystic
The Dolly Sunflower Mysteries
Dear Readers,
Thank you all so much. My phone regularly pings with your messages, as you speedily turn the pages of Murder Most Mystic trying to guess whodunnit! What brings me joy, brings you joy. I couldn’t ask for more than that. Many of you are relaxing with the book in the sunshine with a good cuppa. Keep sending those pictures through - they make my dream real ☺️
This is my debut novel and part of a series. I plan to write more. Hearing how you’re experiencing the characters as they come to life on the page is encouraging. Many of you tell me that you can imagine yourself living in the prestigious town of Poeshwick. Some of you actually do, but you know this town by another name…😉
Annoyingly, I’ve found one tiny typo. Even though it was proofread by five amazing people, this is the life of an indie author. If you find a mistake, please don’t hesitate to reach out. I can amend my manuscript in a heartbeat. Thank you!
For those of you that are yet to meet our psychic protagonist, Dolly….where have you been?! Today, I hope to entice you with the first chapter. Sadly, I couldn’t get Matthew McConaughey (alright-alright-alright!), or Harry Styles to read to you! So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.
I hope you enjoy today’s excerpt from Murder Most Mystic. Please feel free to share it with anybody who is a fan of Murder She Wrote, dogs, tarot cards, or has a fascination with the spirit realms. Or perhaps you know a burnt out school counsellor who is in need of a pick me up, or a strong woman who has lived through the pain and crazy drama of divorcing a nasty Narcissist. Forward this to them, as I’m sure it will help.
Thanks again for all your support.
Love
PS. If you enjoyed this post, please click on the heart at the bottom or the top of this email. It helps others discover The Intuitive Writer and makes me happy!
Excerpt From Murder Most Mystic (The Dolly Sunflower Mysteries, Book 1)
By Lisa Parkes © This material is protected by copyright.
- Chapter 1 -
My phone had been vibrating off the hook since Bear and I left the woods. While I waited for the black iron gates to open, I mulled over the fact that while I was done with drama, it seemed to follow me everywhere.
The fresh morning air brought with it a cloudless sky as if it was creating space for me to just be, and I exhaled as the gates whirred shut behind me. Only a few days into my long overdue sabbatical, the stress of work was slowly melting away.
Just like my caseload of Poeshwick’s highly anxious, over-parented offspring, I was burnt out, wrung out, and wanting to peace out from life. During the school holidays, my young clients were whisked away to their second homes and here I was at Honey Pot Cottage, one of the many homes of Beatrice and Jerry Piquerton.
Whilst I could have been excited about my newfound and long-awaited freedom, I wasn’t.
I wasn’t sure why I wasn’t channelling my inner Julie Andrews, arms outstretched to enthusiastically embrace a bright future as I spun and sang, “The hills are alive with the sound of music.” Quite possibly because if I went on The X-Factor, it would be a ‘no’ from Simon. The hills would be alive with the sound of strangled cats! More likely, though, I wouldn’t have changed out of my flannel pyjamas long enough to make up my face and wear a pretty dress.
Since childhood, all I ever daydreamed about was writing books in an idyllic country retreat. Now, I was weirded out at the thought of focusing on my life instead of other people’s. Even though work had frazzled my nerves, the notion of not supporting others through the emotional ups and downs of life felt alien, maybe a bit empty.
I did wonder if it was simply a case of getting used to it, but no. I was terrified. I felt like one of those magician’s assistants, minus the glitzy leotard. Blindfolded and bound in chains, I was on the brink of being lowered into a dark, empty box and stabbed by an arsenal of long, pointy swords.
My fears were simply that: an illusion. The mind is a veritable trickster, conjuring up all manner of lies to keep me in my comfort zone. My comfort zone was helping, problem-solving, and being that super-efficient responsible person in a crisis that everybody could turn to. You could count on me.
If I wasn’t she, then who was I?
Work had saved me, and without it, I was thrown into an identity crisis. Stress and other people’s problems had been the perfect distraction from living my life.
I had journaled the questions that ran through the treadmill of my mind every night before bed.
What would my life be like if I resigned?
Do I still have more school counsellor years left in me?
Would the children feel let down and abandoned?”
Without work, I would be stress free, and the children would be fine. They would be more than fine, and so would I. The truth was that without work, my life had the chance to flourish.
Why would that be scary?
“What do they all want, little one?” I complained as I bent down to unclip Bear’s lead. Technically, I was his dog sitter, but the truth was that we took care of one another.
Bear was fourteen in dog years, which in human years translated to little old man. Somewhere between a cute, courageous chihuahua and a scruffy Yorkshire terrier, he still had spirit and was a true friend. His anxious nature meant he barked at anything unfamiliar. I could relate, and our unique friendship had been a comfort to me over the years. Bear wasn’t a stranger to my endless twittering, and even though he was unable to reply, I knew that he understood every single word. He would cock his head, raise one pointy ear, and gaze intently at me.
“I wish every school had a therapy dog!” I patted his soft head. “Those kids need to be heard.” My attention was drawn back to my phone, which was permanently on silent.
Three missed calls.
“Aren’t I the popular one today?” Harriette Hart’s name flashed on the home screen. “What does she want?” I wrinkled my brow as my mind shot straight to her son, Milo, who had been to see me some years back. He was a smart kid—well, he must be a teenager now. He was kind and unassuming, which was a miracle given that his father was a household television celebrity.
Poeshwick was a wealthy suburb, full of kids like that. It was an intriguing mix of old and new money. You could easily spot the difference. Old money whispered whereas new money was more in your face. It screamed, “I’ve made it! Look at me!”
Dr Dorothy Sunflower, Twin Oaks Academy Psychologist, Child Whisperer and Ultimate Ray of Sunshine, will take your children’s worries away.
That’s what my website said.
Or something like that.
Except there wasn’t anything wrong with these children. They didn’t need help. They needed time and attention.
It was a paradoxical tragedy that they seemingly had everything and yet nothing. Materialistically wealthy and emotionally bereft, they felt guilty and ashamed for having problems. Less entitled than their image-obsessed parents, they would humbly ask: “I know I’m lucky but why do I feel so anxious? What’s wrong with me?”
Impatient for his breakfast, Bear scratched at the heavy oak door of Honey Pot Cottage.
“Alight, alright!” I reassured him as I wiped the mud from my trainers and fumbled in my coat pocket for the keys. Bear nudged the door open with his nose. I kicked off my trainers and instantly felt my feet melt into the cream, heated tiles. I wasn’t used to such luxuries. My one-bedroom flat on the other side of town greeted me with a threadbare carpet and large pile of bills. I was lucky to live close enough to Poeshwick cricket green, which doubled up as my garden. I spent summer Sundays there, with an ice cream and a good book in the sunshine.
I hung my coat on the bannister and sat at the foot of the staircase to unlock my phone. My home screen was full of texts and notifications. I could see today’s weather, an update from the bank about exceeding my overdraft limit, and a list of texts. My sister had sent two. Why did the word ‘Mum’ make everything urgent and expect an instant reply?
Mum invited you for a roast on Sun. RSVP x
Delete. I loved my sister, but my family’s constant need for drama meant I kept them at arm’s length. Even my mum’s delicious roast beef wouldn’t tempt me back. It was usually served with a side order of passive-aggressive sighs and the silent treatment for dessert.
Moving swiftly on, I felt calmer as I saw the next one was from Luna, my wise friend and proud owner of Moonstones. When she wasn’t teaching yoga to the ‘Poeshwick Privileged’ in their designer active wear, she was selling crystals, tarot cards, candles, and salt lamps in her quaint little gift shop.
Do you want the rose quartz or the tourmaline pendant?
I smiled. She remembered! Luna was beautiful inside and out because she was kind. She was fun and easy company. A kindred soul. The one true friend who you’d hope to find in a lifetime. Even though we were soul mates, we had opposing tastes. Luna loved kale and chickpeas, whereas I preferred beans on toast with grated cheese.
Luckily, we shared a love of chocolate and tea. We called ourselves the ‘Tarot Twins’. Our legendary Friday Tea & Tarot Card meetups at The Green Room were all about predicting world crises and contemplating the latest conspiracy theories over a good cuppa. People would peek from behind designer sunglasses or stare shamelessly as we shuffled and dealt the cards. We would snigger like children in between mouthfuls of raw brownies at their puzzled fascination and reluctance to ask, “What on earth are you doing?”
Still scanning, I saw a message from Mrs Piquerton. Beatrice, or Bea as she was affectionately known, was devoted to her husband Jerry and followed him all over the world with his work. Their three children had flown the nest, but their fur baby, Bear, remained.
We can’t get back on Sunday as planned. Jerry has a work emergency. Will you...
Before I could finish reading, my eyes scanned to the next one from Jocasta Bovington-Brown, the headmistress of Twin Oaks Academy. I knew it was too good to be true and was only a matter of time before her unreasonable demands plagued my inbox again. I couldn’t think about that now. I was eager to start writing my novel.
This is bad timing. You’ll have to come in, Dr. S. We need you!
Blimey she must be in trouble if she’s asking me for help!
Bear pawed my trouser leg. “Sorry!” I wasn’t sticking to your routine, distracted by all the drama. “I know, you want your chicken, but first you need a wash. Show me those muddy paws!”
Bear’s ears pricked up at the mention of food.
I put the phone down and picked him up, drawing him close to my chest. He looked like a beetle on his back with his muddy paws in the air as I carried him to the laundry room. I turned on the tap, remembering that Bea had told me to make sure the water was warm.
“Your mum thinks of everything!” I gently washed the mud from Bear’s paws and watched the murky water curl around the plughole. Bea had lovingly transformed Honey Pot from a well-lived-in 1930s cottage into a sublime writer’s retreat. From the straw-crafted owl that surveyed the landscaped garden on top of the newly thatched roof, to the ordinance survey map wallpaper behind the kitchen dresser, Bea was detail-oriented.
I rubbed down Bear’s tan coat with an old towel. “Aftershave?” I spritzed him with aloe vera.
When she wasn’t on her travels or running the Poeshwick Women’s Circle, Bea spent her free time patiently and carefully crafting intricately patterned quilts, silk-lined purses, and stuffed toys. Her creative flair came through in her personal style, too. She had an eye for fashion and a knack for styling out cerise pink without a trace of Barbie.
I loved Honey Pot. It felt like going home to see your parents except they weren’t in, which was a real treat because you could kick back and relax without fifty thousand questions or three-way conversations where you were mediating between them.
“Ask your father if he wants a cup of tea.”
No, you ask him!
“Ask your mother what time dinner will be.”
No, you ask her!
I hoped that during my sabbatical, I’d sleep off my overgiving hangover and write that novel. A great romance. I still believed in love, but I wasn’t quite ready to trade in my single girl status for a ‘Two Become One’ Spice-Girls-situation.
Not just yet!
Back on the warm tiles, Bear loitered at my feet as I opened the large, American style fridge-freezer. The smell of cold cooked chicken turned my stomach, but Bear’s nose twitched, and he fixed his eyes on me. “Hurry up! Can’t you do that any faster?” they urged.
After inhaling his chicken and biscuit feast, Bear retired to the drawing room to nap on his furry throw. I made myself a cup of tea and thought about getting my phone.
No. I was determined not to let anything get in the way of my writing. I resisted the gnawing curiosity urging me to find out what was going on.
No. I wasn’t going to be distracted by an inconsequential flurry of drama from people who thought they needed me.
“You need to stop mending other families’ broken hearts and tend to your own, Dolly,” my supervisor had pleaded during our latest session. “Please take some time off and do what you so lovingly tell everybody else to do.”
I, of all people, should know how families were complex systems. She was right. Although when it came to your own family, it was an entirely different matter. Five years of not speaking to my parents had created a gap wider than the Grand Canyon. In some cases, absence did not make the heart grow fonder and therein lay my dilemma. A weeping wound that infected my intimate relationships with doubt, mistrust, and fear. How would I ever be able to love again when love was mixed with so much unresolved pain and confusion?
For ten years, I had listened to the hurts of the pupils of Twin Oaks Academy, who talked to me about divorce, bullying, dead pets, school pressure, sibling rivalry, angry meltdowns, resentful mums, OCD, and high anxiety.
Who knew that one small town had so much unexpressed suffering?
Poeshwick was like a soap opera with star players who wrote their own scripts. Never-ending drama was like that. It was founded on secrecy, denial, and heartbreak. It created distraction, unrest, and anxiety, so the children were all playing their parts perfectly.
“Listen to your heart!” I encouraged my young clients. When I sat still long enough to listen to mine, it was battered and broken. Apparently, that’s what made me a good counsellor.
I had never wanted to be a counsellor. It wasn’t a burning desire, but the job found me. It was a common life path for eldest daughters who lacked mothering. Overly responsible and protective caretakers of the family, they’d fall prey to society’s ‘good girl’ conditioning—be nice, don’t make a fuss and think of others before yourself.
I had wanted to be a writer.
My phone was now flashing at the bottom of the stairs. I abandoned my tea. So much for writing and resting. I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. I knew I’d have to deal with them at some point. So, I gave in to my curiosity and clicked on the first message from Harriette Hart, which took the wind out of my whingey-whiny sails.
I can’t believe he’s dead!
My free hand flew to my mouth in shock, and I skim-read the notification from The Poeshwick Post:
Hugo Hart, philanthropist and beloved TV Host was found dead at his home in the exclusive Poeshwick Hills, which he shared with his 25-year-old girlfriend, Chloe Dressix. The police are not treating his death as suspicious. He is survived by a 16-year-old son, Milo from his ex-wife, Harriette Hart, who has asked for their privacy to be respected at this time.
Beloved? The PR spin made me feel queasy. I had more contempt than compassion for this man, who I knew wasn’t at all like the charming, generous, larger-than-life personality his adoring public saw. This rather contrived and predictable Hugo Hart created a perfect narrative in which he was the shining star of his Saturday night prime time show ‘Wishes Come True’.
I knew a different man entirely. I knew the cowardly bully behind the mask. The one who betrayed his wife and terrorised his son. I knew the vain, insecure, and fame hungry man who, behind closed doors, cared about nothing other than himself.
There must be quite a few people in Poeshwick who would be secretly delighted to see the back of him. Bear’s sweet face gazed up at me whilst offering a listening ear as he came to join me at the bottom of the stairs. My mind began to race as I digested the news.
“Poor boy!” I sighed my eyes moistening with tears as the air returned to my lungs. I pictured Milo Hart as the wide-eyed, ten-year-old sitting in my office. Forbidden to speak all that was true in his family, he would stammer and stutter. His dark brown eyes would furtively glance around the room, unable to make eye contact in case he disturbed the painful sadness he carried deep inside.
A furry paw nudged me out of my flurry of thoughts. “Sorry! I’m not paying you any attention.” I smoothed down Bear’s soft fur which had dried wild and fluffy. “I can’t get my head around it.” Bear licked my hand as if to encourage me to follow my intuition.
“I don’t know why but I feel there’s more to this story than meets the eye. They would never print the truth about him anyway. Maybe it’s time to do a little investigating of our own.”
Excerpt From Murder Most Mystic (The Dolly Sunflower Mysteries, Book 1)
By Lisa Parkes © This material is protected by copyright
