(SIDE NOTE: If that sentence made no sense to you or perhaps frightened you a bit, please see Wednesday’s post before abandoning this blog altogether or notifying any authorities. Thank you.)
Anyhow, my Book Three mad-cap adventures continued yesterday.
Yep, things got even more interesting than the climax wanting to join in on the foreplay.
After getting all my trucks, U-Hauls and sports cars back in a row and heading once again toward that western horizon called The End, the whole honking, romance she-bang (i.e. Book Three) was suddenly flagged down and pulled over by…
You know, the queen of all things mystery? Murder on the Orient Express, Death on the Nile, A Pocket Full of Rye, etc, etc.?
Don’t get me wrong, I love Agatha Christie. I’ve got a whole bookshelf of her stuff in my office. Brilliant storyteller. Nobody could ever match her work in the genre.
The grand woman really has no place on the Romantic Smut Highway.
I didn’t think so until yesterday when my main characters in their spiffy Jaguars offered the dead lady a ride.
Dame Christie accepted and has now joined my traveling entourage.
What she’s going to bring to Book Three, I haven’t the faintest idea. But I staunchly refuse to look in the trunk she’s lugging around. The last thing this crazy Romantic Smut caravan needs is another dead body… or a Miss Marple. (Lovely lady, I’m sure, but simply don’t have the budget for the dear.)