I'll Share My Good News with You!

Yesterday evening, I accepted and signed a contract with Turquoise Morning Press for the publication of my first solo women's fiction/suspense, Coming to Climax. I am beyond excited, And so, in celebration,I have posted the beginning of a short story and hope you'll help me finish it by eight tomorrow morning, EST. Every person who submits a segment will have his or her name placed into a drawing for a copy of my newest fantasy release,It's Magic and the segment selected as the best one will receive a copy of my new book, Coming to Climax when it is released plus a $10 Barnes & Noble gift card now.

See more about Turquoise Morning Press at www.TurquoiseMorningPress.com, and check out my fantasy release at www.CrescentMoonPress.com/Books/ItsMagic.html.

Here's the short story beginning:

RING OF FIRE

He signed the note, penned on the finest stationery, and carefully placed it in the center of the desk blotter. Turning, he surveyed the room and its contents, committing them to eternal memory. Inhaling, he smiled at the smell of lemon furniture polish and the burning cinnamon scented candle. It was perfect. He walked down the hall, and, two rooms down, strode through the door. Opening the waiting can of gasoline, he splashed it in the room. Striking a match, he threw it on the trail of fuel. It flared and spread closer. He wasn’t prepared for the smell of burning flesh.


“Find anything?” I stood outside the charred remains of the town house. “Hell of a blaze. If the firemen hadn’t gotten here as fast as they did, there might not have been any part of the house left.”
“Okay, Detective Roper, you have your work cut out for you this time.” Greg Tritt pointed to the windows on the second floor. “The vic was upstairs in the TV room, Zeke.” He shook his head. “Nothing there to identify. Not even dental remains. We did find this.” He handed me the note. “Dr. Curtis Frank’s suicide note. The edges are burned, but it’s legible.”
“A bit too perfect, don’t you think?”


Now it's up to each of you to add some...

Interview with an Alpha Bitch

Today's interview is with Friday, poodle and owner of Lou Allin, Mystery Writer:

Friday’s Bio:

I was born in June of 01, which makes me a brilliant, quick-thinking, and creative Gemini going on nine. My parents were champions of course. My birth name was Chile Pepper, which is perfect for my apricot reddish hair, but I was named Friday, as in “His Girl.” My new parents, Lou and Jan, and my brother Nikon the German shepherd picked me up and took me camping that night. They put a leash on me for the first time, and I shrieked blue murder, earning nasty looks from passersby who thought a puppy was being killed. In the night Nicky got out of the tent and stepped on the remote control for the truck. The horn started beeping and woke up the campground at two in the morning. Was that an auspicious arrival or what?


Are you Lou Allin’s boss?

I am everyone’s boss. Let’s get that straight. Sociologists have a word for me, and it’s Alpha Bitch. I knew my destiny the minute I saw the light outside my mommy’s tummy. My bro Nicky never touched a hair on me from minute one. Having a GSD as your muscle is a great idea. When Nicky spoke up with his 120 pounds, dogs listened. Now that he’s at Rainbow Bridge, I have these dippy border collies, Shogun and Zia. Zia competes in agility competitions. Big deal. Who can’t do that? Shogun’s pretty good for scaring off bears when we walk in the clear cuts on Vancouver Island. I sleep with Lou with my own pillow. If I want to get up in the night and shake, I do. If she wakes ME from a sound sleep where I’m chasing prey, I might just growl. There are rumours about me biting when being groomed. Lies, all lies. Once she took a pair of sharp scissors to tidy up my privates and ended up sticking me. I laid fangs on her finger right to the bone. Tell me that you wouldn’t do the same. Ouch. I can still feel that nick.

Has your Mom immortalized you in any of her books? Did she show your real character or did she exaggerate it for the book’s purpose? Are you happy with her portrayal of you?

Lou started writing about me when I was barely four pounds and four months old. She called me “The Hunchback of Notre Dame with a Rastafarian haircut.” When I had my Anna Karenina cape on and got onto my hind feet to make a run, I look like him, all chesty with shapely legs. I posed on the cover of Dogs in Canada in this outfit, one of many custom made clothes in my closet. I even have a purple parka with my initials and pockets for handwarmers. Lou called the book Bush Poodles are Murder. That’s because “are murder” has to be in the title. Lots of people have thought that there is a breed called bush poodles and asked her where to buy one. Humans are so dumb. Natch, I was the hero of the book. We got stuck out in the middle of nowhere in a blizzard, and it was -25 below. I’m not gonna tell you how we made it out, but I was an inspiration. The bad woman had even taken the coat from my fictional owner, Belle Palmer. But I got my hunting talents working and found a shrew. Still can’t understand why Belle didn’t want it. But the grouse she roasted tasted pretty good . The cover shows blood on my face and in the snow, but I don’t want to give any more away. In the book they called me Strudel ‘cause I was “good enough to eat.” See how silly people get about poodles?


Have you read any of Lou Allin’s books? Are they really as good as she (he) thinks they are?

I’m only in one book, so I can’t be a fair judge of this because why would I read the others? She puts all her animals in her books. Freya, her first German shepherd, has five books of her own. That’s the record. Nikon has one. A Little Learning is a Murderous Thing. It’s an academic mystery, starring him as a pup. Sounds boring to me. Now, me as a pup is another matter. Shogun has one (And on the Surface Die), and another coming up (She Felt No Pain) in Lou’s new series set here on Vancouver Island. Aren’t those titles stupid? What the heck are they supposed to mean, anyway, from some poems in the 19th century? I keep asking, “Why can’t I be in this one, too? I have zillions of fans,” but she says that her publisher wants her to keep the characters separate. Every night I whisper into her ear: Return of the Bush Poodle, Return of the.... You get the idea. Hope she does. People bought my book because they thought George Bush was in it. Humans, go figure!

What does your mom (dad) do besides writing? Is she a hermit or does she actually set her foot outdoors?

My mom has to be dragged outside. Lou used to teach in a college in Northern Ontario,but she retired. Now she has big responsibilities because she is a VP in the Crime Writers of Canada. She’s in charge of British Columbia and Yukon. Sometime I want to go up to Whitehorse YK to see if there are any other bush poodles. Also she takes care of membership, like finding people all over the world who want to join. She also organizes events like the Arthur Ellis Shortlist Release Event at the end of April. Arthur Ellis is the name of Canada’s last hangman. He’s an award given in six categories in crime writing. Arthur is made of wood like a puppet, and when you pull the strings, he dances like he was on the gallows. Is that weird? And people think Canadians are so polite.

Is your mom crazy about book promotion? What does she do to promote her books? Does she ask your advice at times?

I taught Lou everything she knows. I went with her when she signed my book at the big Chapters bookstore in Sudbury back home. I wound around her with my leash so many times that she kept getting tangled up. This was a ploy on my part to take her mind off her own nerves. When little kids came up, I backed off big time. You never know what they are going to do. They stick out a hand and then they pounce. Not that I’ve ever bitten anybody but Lou. That wouldn’t be good for business. She always asks people if they like to read mysteries. Half the time they don’t. If she asked them if they liked dogs, she would get a better response. Maybe someday she will learn this.


It’s been great talking to you! If you’d like my autograph or a lock of my hair, don’t be shy about asking.

Scars Left on a Small Town

Reliving a brutal crime that left scars on town
By LYNNE TUOHY

Associated Press, October 25, 2010

MONT VERNON, N.H. -
"We're about to do the most evil thing this town has ever seen."

Murder defendant Steven Spader is said to have uttered those words as he and three other teens allegedly drove to a house in this town of 2,000 that they had targeted to burglarize and kill its occupants for the thrill of it.

Spader's trial was to start today, and jurors were put on notice during selection that they would see graphic photos of the victims and might hear from survivor Jaimie Cates, now 12. They were prepared for attorneys on the other side not to even put on their own witnesses.

Many potential jurors were disqualified after saying they were sure Spader was guilty, or were terrified by the crime and the prospect of viewing the evidence. Some said they would be skeptical if Spader's attorneys did not provide evidence of their own.

In Mont Vernon, the trial is reawakening the crime that longtime resident and state Rep. Linda Foster said "ripped at the heart and soul of a sweet little New England town."

Susan King Ecklund, who was planting bulbs in front of the fire station last week with other volunteers, said: "I don't think you ever get over it, but I think the trial just means everything will get stirred up again. It just rocks everybody."

The intruders cut power to the contemporary ranch-style home before dawn Oct. 4, 2009. Once inside, they used an iPod taken from Jaimie Cates' room to illuminate their path to the master bedroom, where Jaimie and her mother, Kimberly Cates, 42, slept. Jaimie's father, David, was away on a business trip.

Prosecutors say that Spader, then 17, and Christopher Gribble, then 19, hacked mother and daughter with a machete and a knife, killing Kimberly and severely wounding Jaimie. The girl survived by feigning death as her assailants continued to slash and kick her, she told police.

Jaimie, who had achieved a black belt in karate four months earlier, called police from a cell phone and was still conscious when Milford Sgt. Kevin Furlong arrived at the house.

"They killed my mommy," she told him, according to a state police affidavit.

Two other teens in the house at the time, William Marks and Quinn Glover, have reached plea agreements and are expected to testify against Spader. Prosecutors say they witnessed but did not take part in the attacks. Gribble is to go on trial in February.

It was Marks who wrote a friend from prison about Spader's alleged "most evil thing" statement en route to the house, and a prosecutor quoted the letter during Marks' plea hearing.

David and Jaimie Cates still live at the house, but the facade differs from the way it looked a year ago. The front yard is anchored by the low-cut stumps of old growth pines that Cates had leveled. A woman who answered the door at the home last week said no one wanted to speak with a reporter.

Jurors were scheduled to tour the Cates property today. They will not be taken inside the home.

Spader faces life in prison without possibility of parole if convicted of murder. Midway through jury selection, Spader buzz-cut his shaggy black hair, bringing his appearance back to the skinhead look he had when arrested days after the crime.

Spader often smiles and interacts with his attorenys. During a hearing on a defense motion to limit the number of photographs depicting injuries to the victims, Spader stared intently at the pictures, often cocking his head to get a better angle, as defense attorney Andrew Winters shuffled through them.

Defense attorney Jonathan Cohen would not comment on the defense strategy except to say, "He's presumed innocent. They have to prove he's guilty, and we intend to put them to their burden."

Mont Vernon residents are bracing for the trial and gruesome details that are expected come to light.

"The trial is on everybody's mind," said Diane Fredericks, whose property backs up to the Cates'. "It's so heinous. We lock our doors now. We never used to."

Fredericks, who occasionally chats with David Cates when he walks his dog, said it was remarkable the family still lived there.

"He's a strong person," Fredericks said. "I have a lot of respect for him and for everything Jaimie went through."

Local schools expect that counselors might be busy dealing with students' reactions to the graphic details about the attack on their young classmate, said Foster, the state representative.

"In a small town like this, there are just no words to describe how disturbing this is," Foster said.

"It changed the fabric. It made you realize that life is very precarious."


Read more: http://www.philly.com/dailynews/national/105644733.html#ixzz14Xp2ORbd
Watch sports videos you won't find anywhere else

Video trailer for new short story

My short story, co-written with Linda Campbell as Terry Campbell, was just released in Dreamspell Mystery, Volume 1 on Halloween evening. I've posted the trailer here with a buy link, should you want to read it and some more mysteries--worth the $2.99 IMHO.



"Man in the Moon,"
Dreamspell Mystery Volume 1 (ebook anthology)
http://www.lldreamspell.com/DreamspellMysteryVol1.htm
http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-dreamspellmysteryvolume1-477918-152.html

Interview with Sunny Frazier

Sunny Frazier is an author of astrology mysteries. Her newest work WHERE ANGELS FEAR is available from Oak Tree Press. What is the name of your latest book? And how did you come up with the title?

WHERE ANGELS FEAR completes the phrase “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,” from Alexander Pope's “An Essay on Criticism.” My first book is titled FOOLS RUSH IN. People think it comes from the Elvis Presley song. Alexander Pope is not as famous.

What is WHERE ANGELS FEAR about?

My shy astrologer Christy Bristol is asked to find a missing person using her skills with the horoscope. It leads her to the Veterans hospital, three homicides and a sex club. Christy also has a office job with the sheriff's department and her investigation steps on some major toes.

I pulled from my background as both an astrologer and 17 years in law enforcement. The story is built around a real sex club we investigated, a candy-cane striped building that we thought was a fruit and vegetable stand. I contend that in Fresno, where I worked, we can't even do sex right.

What books have most influenced your life most?

The absurdity of CATCH-22 had a big influence on me, especially since I was in the military when I read it. There was a book years ago called THE CRAZY LADIES that gave me an irreverence in my writing. Right now, Chuck Palahniuk is a factor. Wish I had the courage to write as boldly as he does.

If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?
J.A. Jance. She has taken me under her wing on a number of occasions. Very early in my career she took me seriously. She even made two trips to Fresno upon my request to speak to Sisters in Crime. I have the utmost respect for her and proud to call her a friend and mentor.


What are your current projects?

I'm acquisitions editor for Oak Tree Press, so I'm building careers for other authors. I'm also working on my next Christy Bristol Astrology Mystery, A SNITCH IN TIME. I speak on marketing and short story writing and I've been asked to fly to Puerto Vallarta (all expenses paid!) for a conference. I'm also going to Canada next year for Bloody Words. In two weeks I have Mystery on the High Seas, a conference I was asked to plan. We are sailing down the Mexican Riviera for a week with three days of conference. There's a Hollywood agent on board for pitches.

Is there anything you find particularly challenging in your writing?

Since I retired, I feel I'm being drawn away from my law enforcement ties. It makes the books harder to write. On the other hand, I think Christy may find herself on a longer leash away from the office more and more. I plan to send her to Mexico and Puerto Rico. Let's see what kind of trouble she can get into!
I also set very tough challenges for myself with the astrology. Right now I'm trying to demonstrate astrology as a profiling tool. I'm not sure it's really possible. I also want to explore the universality of astrology by going to foreign countries. I've lived in Puerto Rico, so that's a start.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

“You can't promote what doesn't exist.” Get something out there. Publishing has never been easier with small presses, Kindle, e-books. Cyber-socialize and get name recognition before publication. Don't keep sitting on that finished manuscript. Take a risk. It's not the only book you'll write. Gotta start somewhere!

And, never use the word “it.” I hate to see that in novels. “It” is a nothing word. You can do better.

Here's Chapter One of WHERE ANGELS FEAR:

The slate sky and the last of the autumn leaves drifting to the gutters gave Christy Bristol a chill that had nothing to do with November. Being unfamiliar with the city of Kearny, she drove slowly through the section known as the Tower District looking for Harvard Avenue. All the streets she passed had Ivy League names, so she knew she was in the general vicinity.

"Why did I ever agree to make a house call?" she chided herself. All she needed was the date of birth to do a horoscope, and maybe the time if the customer knew it. In fact, meeting face-to-face only muddied the astrological waters. Without meaning to, she often picked up impressions which slanted her interpretations. No, voice contact was definitely safer.

Geneva Anders was a hard woman to refuse. "I need to meet you," she'd insisted. She offered to pay travel expenses from Coronita to Kearny, a distance of twenty-eight miles. She offered to pay the full fee, even if she decided against the horoscope.

The money was tempting--charting horoscopes on the side barely supplemented Christy's salary from her office job at the Central County Sheriff's Department. But she felt guilty doing astrology for cash. The people who needed her services the most were often the ones who could afford it the least.

The homes she passed were tidy, with neatly groomed gardens and wide verandas. Vassar, Princeton, Yale--and Harvard.

"I want to be sure you're the right one," Mrs. Anders insisted over the phone. "I can't waste my time on a fake." Not very diplomatic. Christy wasn't sure she wanted to be the "right one" but she confident enough as an astrologer to bristle at the suggestion she might be a fraud.

Coming out of the closet, astrologically speaking, had been difficult for Christy. Working in law enforcement and doing horoscopes on the side wasn't a good mix. But astrology simply acted as a conduit for something even stranger--an inherited psychic ability.

Other families passed down the fine china or good silver; in Christy's clan, maternal members handed down the DNA for ESP. And they'd been doing it for centuries.

Blessing or curse, the trait passed from grandmother to granddaughter, always skipping a generation. Grandma Dolly Good had been a formidable psychic in her time, but now her visions were blurred. Christy's sister, Celeste, had exceptional talent, but she hid it behind a habit of the Dominican order of nuns. She believed that visions and the ability to transmit her thoughts were gifts from God to do His work.

And Christy did horoscopes. The chart was a tool which opened her up to a universe of premonitions. The past, the future, swirled like a galaxy through her subconscious when a chart was strong. Astrology acted as a guide for this knowledge, good and evil, as it found its way to her. And it brought all sorts of people into the orbit of her life. Like Geneva Anders.

She turned on Harvard. The branches of the Chinese Elms on either side of the avenue grew toward each other high above the street, forming an arbor tunnel. It must be beautiful in the spring, she thought, like a lacy mantilla shading the lush avenue. But on this November afternoon, it looked like skeletal fingers intertwined over her head. A scattering of leaves clung to the limbs, fighting the inevitable.

Even on a street of dwellings that could vie for the cover of Better Homes and Gardens, the Anders' place stood out. It looked French, or what Christy expected she'd see in France if she ever made it to Europe. Blue tiles shingled the mansard roof, which angled sharply downward until it seemed within reach of the ground. Windows glittered with diamond patterns of multi-colored panes. French doors on the second floor backed a rounded balcony. Despite all its beauty, the house lacked warmth and charm.

She parked her car along the curb and walked up the flagstone pathway. She wrinkled her nose at the perfectly trimmed hedges. It looked too planned out, that's what was wrong. She'd take her apartment in Coronita over this place any day. The three-story, butter-yellow Victorian where she lived wasn't classy, but house had character. And characters. Her seventy-something landlady lived on the ground floor, and prissy Mr. Maciel resided in the attic. The roses were overgrown and the lilac went unfettered in spring. Even on the bleakest days, the house radiated warmth.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught the slight movement of the lace curtain as she approached.

Mrs. Anders took her time answering the knock, although Christy felt sure she'd been the one playing peek-a-boo at the window.

"You must be Ms. Bristol." The woman was small and in her mid-forties. Like her house, she was coolly turned out. Her blond hair folded into a French twist; not a wisp dared to escape. Her flawless makeup looked professionally done, and she appeared as comfortable in a silk pantsuit as Christy did at home in her comfy old robe. Until a few minutes ago, Christy felt appropriately dressed in good pants and a chenille sweater. Now she felt downright dowdy and ten pounds overweight next to Mrs. Anders' svelte frame.

In a living room that went beyond formal, Christy perched on the edge of a sofa that must have belonged to a Louie. The antique furniture had to be the real McCoy. Anders' money wouldn't settle for less.

"I don't normally go in for this sort of thing," began Mrs. Anders as she poured tea from a silver teapot into wafer-thin teacups. "But you come highly recommended."

Christy knew her reputation as an astrologer had grown in the ten years she'd lived in Coronita, where it was easy to be a big karmic fish in a small, liberal pond. Coronita, unlike the rest of Central County, was populated by artists and scholars and people who eagerly embraced New Age concepts.

In Coronita, Christy fit in almost too well.

She knew her reputation was by word-of-mouth, but exactly which cultured mouth recommended her to someone of Geneva Anders' ilk? She flipped through a mental Rolodex of client names, but none were monied folks. At least, not on the surface. Unlike Los Angeles in the south and San Francisco up north, wealthy people in the San Joaquin Valley were harder to spot than quail in season. Their dirt-caked boots might cost a thousand dollars, their plain ranch houses worth a half a mil. One family, the Newsome's, owned a spread so large they used the family helicopter to monitor fields of cotton, melon and alfalfa; they used a beat-up truck to shop at the Canned Food Warehouse.

The tea didn't taste like Lipton. It had a bitterness that made Christy want to reach for three more sugar cubes. Mrs. Anders drank hers straight. I bet even money she's a Virgo, thought Christy.

"Do you make your living from astrology?" Mrs. Anders asked, settling back into the damask of the armchair.

Feeling as if she were being interviewed, Christy said, "No, I work at the Sheriff's Department."

"Really?" The woman's source hadn't filled her in completely. "Are you a deputy?"

"Office assistant. I work at the Coronita substation."

Mrs. Anders had trouble hiding her disappointment. "I see. My husband and I are avid supporters of Sheriff Nolan. We contribute to his campaigns."

"I've never actually met the man, but I see him on the news a lot. I hear he's a great guy."

That was the only name Geneva Anders dropped. She got down to business and grilled Christy on her knowledge of astrology. The woman apparently did some research to prep for their chat. She came off sounding like the Spanish Inquisition. Christy fielded questions about rising signs and planetary conjunctions with ease. She even considered bull-shitting to see if Mrs. Anders understood her material. Finally, tired of the game, Christy put down her cup of tea and edged forward on the couch. "Mrs. Anders, do you want your horoscope done?"

"No, but I would like you to cast my husband's chart." A note of cream-colored, monogrammed stationery rested delicately on the coffee table next to the silver tray. Geneva Anders guided it to Christy with a manicured nail. "Here's his birth date."

"Is there any particular area of his life he wants me to look at?"

"No." Mrs. Anders' face broke out in a mottled blush which clashed with the neutral tones of her outfit and hair.

She wants to know if he's having an affair. The thought shot true like an arrow to the bullseye. Christy knew she was on target.

Normally, she backed off from horoscope requests with ulterior motives. She saw herself in the same role as a lawyer, doctor or priest. Her clients asked for her services and she kept what she found strictly confidential. Even when she did gift horoscopes she sealed them before handing them over, often to the disappointment of the person paying for the gift. Her only exception to the rule were horoscopes done on children. Those she gave to the parents. Raising kids was hard enough; more power to them if astrology could help.

She would make an exception for this horoscope. Not because Mrs. Anders was rich--she'd still charge a standard fee of thirty dollars--and not because she was flattered to be noticed by a classy client. Christy knew she would cast Avery Anders' horoscope because the minute she touched the page of stationery, she felt an urgency emanating from the paper. Her sixth sense picked up something she couldn't afford to ignore. Christy felt the familiar prickle of danger.

"I'll contact you when it's ready." She got up to leave.

"There's a bonus if you get it done quickly."

"If I rush, I might miss something important. But I'll make it a priority over others I'm doing."

Later, in the car and heading out of the city, the ominous feeling continued. Whatever trouble Avery Anders was in, it was beyond his wife's expectations. Christy had no doubts that it would show up in his chart--she just wasn't sure the horoscope would do any good.

So You Think You Can Write

For Immediate Release HARLEQUIN SEARCHES FOR NEW WRITERS

So You Think You Can Write Event Allows Aspiring Writers To Spend A Week With More Than 50 Harlequin Editors TORONTO, October 27, 2010 – Harlequin Enterprises Limited (www.eHarlequin.com), a global leader in series romance and one of the world’s leading publishers of books for women, is hosting a five-day So You Think You Can Write event, from November 1 – 5, 2010, to discover aspiring new authors. So You Think You Can Write allows hopeful novelists to spend an entire working week with more than 50 Harlequin editors and USA TODAY bestselling authors through social-media tools such as blogs, podcasts, webinars, community chats, community discussions and Twitter. Harlequin editors believe that by engaging unpublished writers, explaining the tremendous appeal of the romance genre and offering professional insights into crafting the perfect story, they can help promising young novelists hone their skills and get started on the path to publication. It’s incumbent upon Harlequin to seek out fresh voices,” said Loriana Sacilotto, Executive Vice President, Global Editorial. “Talented writers can bring with them an exciting new perspective, contributing to the evolution of the genre. So You Think You Can Write is a wonderful opportunity for aspiring authors and Harlequin editors because you never know where you might find the next Nora Roberts, Susan Mallery, Heather Graham or Nalini Singh.” Together with writing tips and tools, So You Think You Can Write also offers aspiring authors virtual “face” time with 50 editors who may want to buy their books, community discussions with USA TODAY bestselling authors, live chat with editors in the Harlequin community, podcasts with editors and authors, webinars with editors, daily challenges to test writing skills and a special in-box for unpublished writers to submit their manuscripts directly to Harlequin editors. A complete schedule of So You Think You Can Write events follows….

Rocky Mount North Carolina On Edge As 9 Women Vanish

From The Huffington Post, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/08/14/rocky-mount-north-carolin_n_259419.html

ROCKY MOUNT, N.C. — They spent their nights jumping in and out of strange cars, trolling otherwise empty streets lined with decaying storefronts and boarded-up homes. Many sold sex to support drug habits or children left in the care of worried, hardworking grandmothers.

Even when they were picked up for drugs or prostitution, nights in jail looming, they called home to let their families know they were OK. Then, one by one, the calls stopped.

Since 2005, nine women who lived at the edges of the poor community in this small North Carolina city have disappeared. Six bodies were found along rural roads just a few miles outside town, most so decomposed that investigators could not tell how they died. At least one of the women was strangled, and all the deaths have been classified as homicides. Three women are still missing.

Police will not say whether they suspect a serial killer, but people in the community about 60 miles northeast of Raleigh do, and they're impatient with law enforcement efforts to investigate the slayings.

After the latest body – that of 31-year-old Jarneice Hargrove – was found in June behind a burnt-out house that was once a crack den, local law enforcement and state police formed a task force. In July, the FBI got involved.But friends and family say it didn't happen soon enough.

"We got someone out here that's snatching up females," said Stephanie Jones, a 28-year-old nursing student. "I mean, next person could be your grandmother, it could be me, it could be my mother, it could be my daughter."

Jones, who knew two of the victims, has founded a group that is raising money to publicize the slayings and search for those still missing. She says the cases are being swept under the rug because of the victims' lifestyles.

The lead investigator, Sheriff James Knight, said he cannot comment.

Rumors swirl about the identity of the killer, if there is just one. Some say he is an ex-military man or an ex-police officer because he leaves no evidence. Others believe he is exacting revenge on local women after contracting HIV from a prostitute.

Forensic psychologist Dr. Michael Teague said the killings are probably the work of one person.

"You're talking about a man who didn't finish high school, probably doesn't have a regular job, probably not married or in a stable relationship," he said.
Vivian Lord, chairwoman of the criminal justice department at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, said that if one killer is responsible, he is likely trying to cleanse the world of prostitutes or deliberately picking victims he knows won't be missed.

If it's the latter, he chose wrong when he killed Ernestine Battle. Her sister, Tynatta James, 64, remembers the February 2008 day the family reported Battle missing. It had been less than 48 hours since they last heard from the 50-year-old, but she always checked in, even from jail.

"We knew something wasn't right because she hadn't called," James said.
A month later, a man putting up a wire fence around his property down a rural stretch of road outside town found a badly decomposed body. The bodies of two other victims were found in the same area in 2007 and 2009.

In May, a DNA test identified the remains as Battle's. She was wearing only her underwear and police told James she was probably strangled, but they couldn't be sure because animals had dragged away a small throat bone that typically breaks when someone is killed that way.

"I'm still frustrated," James said. "I didn't really feel like they were doing all they could. I just feel like they recently started to get involved in the cases after the last lady."

For Alecia Johnson, the killings were a wake-up call. She knew most of the women: They all walked the streets of Rocky Mount together. She said she didn't wait for police to catch a killer. She stopped after the body of the first woman, 29-year-old Melody Wiggins, was found dumped in the woods in 2005.

"I used to walk these streets and jump in and out of cars. But then when that first girl Melody got killed I stopped that because I knew he would kill another," said Johnson, 41. "I hate for that to happen to her, but it probably saved my life. I have five babies."

Counting the names on one hand, she added, "There's probably five or six girls left around here that will jump in and out of cars. He really did kill the whole neighborhood."

Jones' group has raised enough money to post billboards with the faces of the missing and slain women. Now she is raising more to organize search teams for those whose bodies have not been found.

Juray Tucker, the mother of 37-year-old Yolanda Lancaster, missing since February, said she wants to help with fundraising but doesn't get much time now that she has to care for her daughter's children.

"Every day, every minute, every hour, I'm worried," she said. "It's constant on my mind and there ain't nothing I can do, ain't nothing I can do."