My dream last night was like a scene from As the Bullets Drop. But then, a key ingredient to flip flops, beach reads, and tiki noir is a bit of mystery – there’s a hint of that even in my romance. No wonder my alter ego, besides the beach girl, is the girl detective.

One of the working titles for Real Women Wear Red was As the Flip Flop Flops – lol! Because in the chick lit heyday, there were subgenres such as chick lit mystery and  chick lit suspense. Laura Levine is a good example of chick lit mystery and Laura Caldwell for chick lit suspense, although her latest work is the Izzy McNeil mystery series, and I am eagerly awaiting the arrival of Izzy 4.

My mystery side keeps pushing to the forefront in my dreams and my writing, and I may have to pay more attention to that side of me. So check out my foray into mystery in my short story As the Bullets Drop.


Debra Hunt is meeting her father for the first time at a remote mountainside cabin. Where her cell phone doesn’t work. And a dead body shows up on her father’s doorstep. And it looks an awful lot like her mother. A police investigation is soon underway and it seems that everybody’s a suspect.


I counted the bullets as they dropped onto the floor and bounced onto the bed: 1-2-3-4-5. Where was the sixth bullet? Had it already been fired or was it still in the gun? Would his bumbling cause him to fire the gun by mistake? If it was a mistake. For in that moment I began to fear that my mother had been right all along–this man was not to be trusted.

This is the story of how I, Debra Hunt, found myself in a remote cabin in the California Sierras without a car and a cell phone that couldn’t get a signal while bullets were falling all around me.

I was meeting my father, Mr. Bill French, for the first time at my ripe old age of thirty. And what my mother had told me about him was enough to scare the crap out of me—especially with bullets falling all around me. I had started to believe his side of the story, but I was second-guessing myself and wondering, for a moment, if my mother was right—I was naïve and too trusting.

Just when I was asking myself, “What the hell do I do now?” his wife, Charlotte, called from the kitchen, “The potion is ready,” or was that, “The pomegranate soup is ready?” Either way, it sounded strange to me, and I had to come up with an escape plan, in case I needed one.

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