Spotlight on donalee Moulton

I’m happy to welcome author donalee Moulton to my blog. Today, Donalee shares her creative journey and recent release, Hung Out to Dry.

Here’s donalee!

Hi everyone. It’s wonderful to connect with you – and thank you Joanne for this opportunity.

Writing has always been part of my life. Over the years, it has become a central part of my life. Growing up I wanted to be a lawyer. I started university prepared to be a lawyer. Then I was introduced to academia and research. I wanted to teach at a university and publish papers in esteemed journals. Then I had a scholarship to get a PhD. I was thrilled. I turned it down. I had a chance to go to Harvard to research perceptions of time. I was thrilled. I turned it down. Clearly something else was at play. I finally realized what I wanted to do with my life was write.

My mother taught me to love language – and to respect it. She cared about words and getting the words right. She was my greatest influence.

When I was about eight or nine, a next-door neighbor tossed me a Nancy Drew book. She thought I might like it. I sat on the curb between our two houses and read the entire book cover to cover. I loved the puzzle, figuring out who dunnit, and being propelled into a world outside my own.

That same year someone gifted me Charlotte’s Web, and my life was forever changed. Not only could words transport you to new worlds, they could become a part of your heart, change you in ways you could not have imagined. I wanted to do that.

My first mystery book Hung Out to Die was published earlier this year. The main character is Riel Brava. Attractive. Razor-sharp. Ambitious. And something much more. Riel just wants to be left alone to do his job and one day run for president of the United States. He has a plan. Murder gets in his way. It isn’t easy being a psychopath.

My second book, Conflagration, will be released in January. It follows the real-life trial of an enslaved Black woman accused of setting much of the town of Montreal on fire in 1734. Two other books are in the works, part of a series featuring three women who meet doing a downward dog.

As I hope you’ll discover, not everything that happens in a yoga studio is Zen.

Blurb

Meet Riel Brava. Attractive. Razor-sharp. Ambitious. And something much more.

Riel, raised in Santa Barbara, California, has been transplanted to Nova Scotia where he is CEO of the Canadian Cannabis Corporation. It’s business as usual until Riel finds his world hanging by a thread. Actually, several threads. It doesn’t take the police long to determine all is not as it appears – and that includes Riel himself.

Pulled into a world not of his making, Riel resists the hunt to catch a killer. Resistance is futile. Detective Lin Raynes draws the reluctant CEO into the investigation, and the seeds of an unexpected and unusual friendship are sown. Raynes and Riel concoct a scheme to draw a confession out of the killer, but that plan is never put into place. Instead, Riel finds himself on the butt end of a rifle in the ribs and a long drive to the middle of Nowhere, Nova Scotia.

Excerpt

It’s 6:46 a.m. The plant will be in full swing in 44 minutes but right now it is in darkness except for the grow-op lights installed for the benefit of 24/7 plant profusion. My three-storey building is also wrapped in darkness, at least from this angle, which raises the question: How long has the damn security system been down?

I’m moving full steam ahead now up three flights of stairs to my office. Speed is not second nature to me. Given my state of being, caution is synonymous with survival. The faster you move, the more likely you are to misstep. Generally, that’s something I can’t risk.

I’m reaching for the hallway switch when I realize there is a light three doors down. That’s Norm Bedwell’s office. And that’s unusual. Our comptroller is typically among the last to arrive. Only a fresh honey crueller from Tim Horton’s has been known to change his

I’m running to Norm’s office now, tirade at the ready. The only thing that can prevent the outside security system from working – aside from someone hacking into our server – is if the door doesn’t latch closed behind the entering employee. A loud audible click let’s you know the system is armed and you can move forward. Employees have been trained to wait for the click. If they don’t, an alarm, albeit relatively soft as alarms go, will sound for two minutes. At this time of day, however, there is no one around to hear it.

It has to be Norm’s fault, which may mean the system has only been down for minutes if he just arrived. It’s a question I’m tossing at our comptroller even before I’ve stepped inside his office.

Norm doesn’t answer.

He can’t. He is swinging from a rope tossed over an open beam (the designer’s brilliant idea), a noose tight around his neck. He’s blue, but not as blue as I believe a dead man should look.

This poses a dilemma. I’d like a few moments to assess my options and identify the safest and most effective course of action. However, I am aware I don’t have the luxury of time. I’ve seen enough Law and Order episodes to know if you don’t call the cops immediately the time delay will be noticed, and you’re more likely to find yourself on the suspect list.

Dammit. I’m a suspect.

This realization hits at the same time I’m dialing 911. The perky young woman on the other end asks how she can help. “I’m in the administrative office of the Canadian Cannabis Corp., and my comptroller appears to have hanged himself. He is dangling from a noose and turning blue.”

“Sir, I have radioed for police; they are on their way,” she says, inhaling to continue her sentence.

I cut her off. “Look, I know I shouldn’t disturb anything, but Norm may be alive. I’m going to grab his legs so the noose doesn’t cut into his windpipe.”

Great, now she knows I understand how hanging kills someone. Doesn’t matter. I’m trying to reduce the pressure around Norms neck. His feet are tucked into the crease in my left arm, his testicles about on par with my bottom lip. I’m not a small man – 6’2” – and I work out regularly, so I can maintain this, albeit distasteful, posture for some time.

I hear sirens, and it hits me. The police won’t be able to gain access to the building without destroying a lot of expensive tech. I explain this to the 911 operator. She’s really not that interested in the cost of our tech.

“I’m going to get someone to open the gate for the police,” I tell her. “That mean’s I’ll have to hang up. I’m on the third floor of the admin building. It’s the only office on the floor with a light on. My name is Riel Brava. I’m CEO.”

I end the call, rapidly going through the list of 47 employees who work for the company. Only senior managers are likely to be in. Of those, Michael Graves, head of our legal department (well, actually, our entire legal department) is likely to be at his desk. He’s ambitious, comes out of private practice where 60-hour weeks are the norm, and has a young daughter who likes to get up at 5 a.m.

I dial his extension. Mike answers. “Mike, I don’t have time to explain, but police are on their way. Please meet them at the front gate and bring them to Norm Bedwell’s office. And hurry.”

I like to think I could hear his feet pounding one floor below, but the walls, even in the admin building, are very well insulated. Truth is, flowering cannabis stinks, and we’ve gone to great lengths to keep our facility and the nearby community odour free.

The next thing I remember is someone tapping me on the shoulder. “Sir, you can let go,” a uniformed officer says to me. I loosen my grip; Norm’s testicles inch closer to my lower lip.

“I’ve got him,” the officer says and pries Norm loose from my elbow socket. It sounds like he’s trying to be thoughtful or compassionate. I’m not sure why.

Of course. Norm is dead.

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