A Dead Red Series by R.P. Dahlke

Twice divorced NY model, Lalla Bains, now runs her dad’s Crop-Dusting business in Modesto, California where she’s hoping to dodge the inevitable fortieth birthday party. But when her trophy red ‘58 Cadillac is found tail-fins up in a nearby lake, the police ask why a widowed piano teacher, who couldn’t possibly see beyond the hood ornament, was found strapped in the driver’s seat... moreTwice divorced NY model, Lalla Bains, now runs her dad’s Crop-Dusting business in Modesto, California where she’s hoping to dodge the inevitable fortieth birthday party. But when her trophy red ‘58 Cadillac is found tail-fins up in a nearby lake, the police ask why a widowed piano teacher, who couldn’t possibly see beyond the hood ornament, was found strapped in the driver’s seat. Reeling from an interrogation with local homicide, Lalla is determined to extricate herself as a suspect in this strange murder case. Unfortunately, drug running pilots, a cross-dressing convict, a crazy Chihuahua, and the dead woman’s hunky nephew throw enough road blocks to keep Lalla neck deep in an investigation that links her family to a twenty-year old murder only she can solve. less

Following the sound of the blender into the kitchen, I jiggled the pharmacy bag under my dad’s nose. He turned off the blender. “That our meds?" I was having a hard time keeping a straight face. He was dressed in a dazzling green polyester slacks and a white shirt with a big collar. The seventies were all over the pages of Vanity Fair and Vogue, but somehow the retro look didn't quite translate to sixty-eight-year old men with thinning gray hair and jug-handle ears... moreFollowing the sound of the blender into the kitchen, I jiggled the pharmacy bag under my dad’s nose. He turned off the blender. “That our meds?" I was having a hard time keeping a straight face. He was dressed in a dazzling green polyester slacks and a white shirt with a big collar. The seventies were all over the pages of Vanity Fair and Vogue, but somehow the retro look didn't quite translate to sixty-eight-year old men with thinning gray hair and jug-handle ears. I cringed at the matching lime green suit jacket hanging on the back of the chair. I put the bag on the table, drawing out one small bag for him and another for his buddy, Spike. “Okay. Heart meds, Lasix, arthritis pills, and Spike’s crazy pills.” “He can hear you, you know.” I looked down at the small brown Chihuahua, his tail beating an uneven rhythm in time to some inner demon. When he lifted a lip and snarled, I said, “And not a minute too soon, I see. When do you think the vet will take him off the Prozac?" My dad uncapped the bottle and tipped out a pill. The dog's ears went up in trembling anticipation. “He’s much better, don’t you think?” I studied the floor trying to find something kind to say about our resident Cujo, then got an eyeful of my dad’s shoes. He followed my stare down to his feet. "White for summer, right? They're already patent leather so I don't have to polish ‘em. Lucky for me, huh?" I worked my lips around the laughter bubbling up, imagining my father in retro style leisure suit, escorting his latest squeeze to a potluck at church, or better yet –a funeral and its wake. I slid a glance at the blender looking for a reasonable topic of conversation, but since the frothy blue concoction might or might not have Viagra as its key ingredient, I blurted, “You need a haircut!” less

When a late in the season emergency forces Lalla Bains to accept a greenhorn ag pilot for her dad's cropdusting business, she sighs in relief. After all, he comes highly recommended, his physical is spotless, and with a name by Dewey Treat, what could possibly go wrong? Then her quirky relatives arrive from Texas and things go south in a hurry: Dewey Treat drops dead, his tearful widow claims he was murdered, clobbers Sherriff Caleb Stone with his own gun, and makes a run for it... moreWhen a late in the season emergency forces Lalla Bains to accept a greenhorn ag pilot for her dad's cropdusting business, she sighs in relief. After all, he comes highly recommended, his physical is spotless, and with a name by Dewey Treat, what could possibly go wrong? Then her quirky relatives arrive from Texas and things go south in a hurry: Dewey Treat drops dead, his tearful widow claims he was murdered, clobbers Sherriff Caleb Stone with his own gun, and makes a run for it. Lalla, convinced the widow is innocent, sets out to prove it—against the express wishes of fiancé Caleb Stone. Feds, local law, suspicious ag-pilots, nutso relatives, and her daddy's new sidekick, Bruce the goat, make life a living hell for Lalla. Will her nosey nature solve the crime and save the day? Or put them all in mortal danger? less