LIVE RINGER
* Coming April 2010 *
When Allie Grainger inherits her aunt’s small beach house, she moves
back to town wanting only time to mourn her aunt’s death and to get her
head back on straight after a nasty divorce.  But within twenty-four
hours, she stumbles on the body of a woman floating in the water at the
Cape Canaveral jetty.  Before long, the sheriff’s department links the
murder with a string of others down the coast of Florida, and some
unnerving similarities begin to emerge.  All of the victims were about
the same age, they were blonde, they were divorced, and they all looked
a lot like Allie.  

Four men enter Allie’s life.  Joe Odum is a childhood friend, all grown
up and turned Sheriff’s deputy.  Cord Arbutten, the county Sheriff, is
number two, and he makes it plain that he doesn’t want Allie back in
town.  The third is the editor of the local paper, who Allie begins to
believe was her aunt’s lover.  The last is a stranger who shows up in
town the day the body is found.  Allie is drawn to him until she learns
that he was suspected of killing his wife a few years back.

Allie is pretty sure one of them is the killer, and she begins to suspect she
might be his next victim.  Summoning up courage that surprises even
her, she begins trying to discover the truth; but when the bullets start
flying, Allie gets the shock of her life.
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Initial Reviews for LIVE RINGER
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Lynda Fitzgerald has written another page-turning, intriguing mystery that had me hooked from the prologue to the very last page.  
LIVE Ringer is a richly told story that weaves romance, a ghost, and a murderer into its cast of characters that you can’t help but
love, fear, and doubt all in the same moment.  I hated to put it down.  It's the kind of thriller that makes your palms sweat, your
mouth dry, and makes you just a little bit afraid to read it when you’re home alone.  LIVE Ringer is the best and most intriguing
thriller I’ve read in a long time.

Vicky DeCoster
Author of Husbands, Hot Flashes, and All That Hullabaloo! and The Wacky World of Womanhood: Essays on
Girlhood, Dating, Motherhood, and the Loss of Matching Underwear
www.wackywomanhood.com
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Fast-paced and eerie, LIVE Ringer kept me guessing.  Fitzgerald tells a fine yarn, indeed, and peoples her story with characters who
are both endearing and exasperating – rather like life itself.

Fran Stewart, author of the Biscuit McKee mysteries and A Slaying Song Tonight
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Lynda Fitzgerald’s LIVE Ringer is one of those books that cannot be put down once you’ve started on it.  I picked the book up in
late afternoon after a long day at work, planning to read for an hour to relax.  At midnight I was still up, turning the last pages of
the book and holding my breath.

I found Lynda Fitzgerald’s LIVE Ringer an altogether great read, which I would wholeheartedly recommend to anybody who
enjoys a good book.  A delightful mix of romance, thriller and mystery will keep most readers riveted for hours.  So get a cold drink
that will make you think of Florida and enjoy your journey.

Olivera Baumgartner-Jackson, Reader Views
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LIVE Ringer is a fascinating, nail-biting read. Allie is a wonderful character—and so is her dead aunt.  Lynda Fitzgerald has told a
spell-binding story, complete with good people with dark secrets, with compassion and great skill.

Alice Duncan, Author of  Hungry Spirits
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Multi-Media Publications, Inc.
ISBN:  978-1-59146-3276
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A Peek Inside...  LIVE RINGER
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    Allie breezed through the glass doors with a smile for the bellman.  The elevators were off a small lobby to the right.  There was an
    adjacent restaurant.  Dishes clattered, accompanied by snatches of muted conversation.  Laughter.  She wanted to laugh.  She
    wanted to have something to laugh about.

    The food probably smelled delicious, but right now it made her sick.  Or maybe it wasn't the food smells.  

    She almost jumped out of her skin when the elevator door slid open.  She half expected Marc to step off, even though it was the
    middle of a workday.  Odds were that he was out doing whatever it was he did.

    The elevator’s climb to the fourth floor was too quick.  The hallway where it deposited her, plain vanilla, pretty much like every
    other hallway in every hotel she’d ever been in.  Gray walls with some kind of textured wallpaper.  Utilitarian carpet with enough
    pattern to hide stains.  She saw a housekeeping cart at the end of the hall.  No one in sight.  Her heart beat like a kettle drum,
    echoing in her ears.

    Marc’s room number was 411, close to the end of the hallway.  It wasn’t too late to back out.

    As she neared the room, she heard the elevator doors open.  She felt lightheaded and held on to the wall for support.  Not that the
    young couple who got off noticed anything but each other.  The guy playfully hooked an arm around the girl’s neck, pulling her
    closer as they walked toward their room.  He slipped a key into the card reader.  Honeymooners?  An afternoon tryst?  Either way,
    she envied them.

    Once they were inside, she took a deep breath and knocked on the door to Marc’s room.  Her heart was a jack hammer in her ears.  
    She wasn’t sure she could hear if he responded.  

    Nothing.

    She knocked again, louder this time.  Waited.  Silence.

    She almost turned and walked away, but instead chided herself for cowardice. There might be something in that room that would
    tell her the truth, one way or the other.  Still, he could be in there taking a nap.  He could be inside, listening.  Waiting for her.  He
    could be holding a knotted silk scarf.

    Stop it!

    She pulled the card key out of her pocket and slipped it in the card reader.  She was so sure he’d changed the locks that it took her a
    minute to realize that the light on the reader flashed green.  She had expected sirens or something.  By the time she reached for the
    door handle, it changed back to red.

    She inserted the key again and turned the handle, pushing the door open an inch.  No shout.  No gunshot.  She pushed it the rest
    of the way open.

    Empty.  Bathroom door open.  No Marc.

    Quickly, Allie stepped inside and closed the door.  It was done.  If he found her now, there was no way she could talk her way out
    of it.

    The room was tidy.  Orderly.  Functional.  Probably pretty, but she wasn’t there to appraise the decor.  She felt an overwhelming
    sense of urgency now.  He could come back at any moment.  

    There was a suitcase right inside the closet door and clothes she recognized hanging above it.  His jacket, the shirt he’d worn the day
    they went to Cocoa.  Nothing but an iron on the shelf above.  She pulled out the suitcase and snapped open the locks.  It sounded
    as loud as cannon fire to her ears.  The suitcase was empty.  She closed it and put it back like she’d found it.

    Across the room was an armoire with drawers in the bottom.  She crossed to it and opened the top.  A television.  She opened the
    first drawer.  No list of victims.  No bloody knives.  Only underwear and socks.  She closed the drawer and opened the next.  Shirts.  
    Shorts.  Frustration overrode her fear as she closed it and checked the bottom drawer.  More shorts.  A couple of sweatshirts.  She
    pushed the drawer closed.  She knew she should get out.  If he showed up now, he could have her arrested.  Wouldn’t that be
    ironic?

    The room had two queen-sized beds with a nightstand between them.  She opened the nightstand drawer.  A package of cheese
    crackers.  Two novels.  She’d read them both.  She could tell him that one wasn’t worth his time.  She felt a giggle bubble up, an
    indication that she was nearing hysteria.  She gave herself a mental slap.

    The beds were flush to the floor, so there couldn’t be anything under them.  

    Okay.  That was it.  There was nothing here.  Time to go.

    As she headed back toward the door, she caught a glint of silver out of the corner of her eye.  It was a case in the back corner of the
    closet.  She missed it before because it was wedged behind the ironing board.  She reached in and pulled it out.  This was it.  She
    knew it with a terrifying certainty.  Hurrying, she carried it over to the bed.  Each latch had a combination lock.  Definitely not
    toiletries.  She tried the catches.  Locked.

    She almost cried out in frustration.  Okay.  What did she know about him?  He’d told her his birthday that day in Cocoa.  April
    fourteenth.  She tried it on the left side lock.  The metal catch popped open.  Heartened, she tried it on the right side.  Nothing.  
    She chewed her lip as she tried to remember.  Then it came to her.  He was two years older than her.  

    She dialed in 1-9-7-3.  The lock popped open.  Her hands were shaking so badly, she almost couldn’t open the case.  When she did,
    she wished she hadn’t.  It was all there.  Newspaper clippings from the Miami paper.  A clipped article from the Fort Lauderdale
    paper.  Vero Beach.  Cape Canaveral.  Under them were stacks of currency, all twenties from the looks of it.  Under that was a gun.  
    As she reached in and pulled it out, she heard a click as the lock on the hotel room door released.  There was nowhere to hide.

    The door swung inward.
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