Mrs. Jones by B.A. Morton
Publisher: Taylor Street Publishing
Date of Publication: April 7, 2012
ISBN: 978-1468116885
ASIN: B006OEVRBM
Number of pages:256
Word Count: 88.000
Cover Artist: Bradley Wind
Book Description:
A British girl with a secret.
A New York cop with a past.
And a mob that wants revenge
In the slickest, sexiest novel to come out
in a long time, ruggedly tough and honest cop Detective Tommy Connell picks up
an English girl, Mrs Jones, who claims to be the witness to a murder, and falls
in love with her. Well, Mrs Jones, whoever she is, must be very attractive
because an awful lot of people seem to want to get their hands on her if they
can get her away from Connell's determined hands, including some organized
crime boys along with the Feds.
Detective Connell definitely has his work
cut out for him if he wants to end up with the body of Mrs Jones, dead or
alive, that's for sure. All-in-all it's probably safe to say he hasn't a clue
what is going on. It is probably equally safe to guess that Mrs Jones does. Not
that 'safe' is quite the right word to use here.
Interview:
1) Where did you get the idea for the novel?
2) Your title. Who came up with it? Did you ever change your title?
3) Which came first, the title or the novel?
I’ll answer the first three questions together. I
was listening to Michael Buble’ singing Mrs Jones and I got to thinking about
these two people with other lives and commitments, who meet, despite knowing
they shouldn’t and fall in love in spite of everything. Being a crime writer, of
course I had to add all kinds of secrets and complications to the mix and being
a fan of the movies I quickened the pace and had my two main characters running
for their lives. The Buble’ kindly provided my soundtrack as I wrote the book
and the title Mrs Jones just seemed right.
4) Since becoming a writer, what’s the most exciting thing to ever
happen to you?
Mrs Jones came second in the Yeovil Literary Prize,
a UK literary competition, in 2011. It was the first competition I’d entered,
so to be successful was a great surprise and honour. From that I was invited to
attend the annual Brympton Festival as guest speaker and met some of my own
favourite authors such as Alison Weir and Sophie Hannah.
5) What book are you currently reading or what was the last book you
read?
I’m currently reading a quirky little book that I
picked up for my kindle, entitled The Midget’s House by Anita Bartholomew. It’s
a spooky kind of romance, a little different and I’m enjoying it.
6) What was your first book that you ever wrote (very first one you
wrote, not published)?
The very first book I wrote as an adult was a dark
thriller. This was in the days of floppy discs and I’d all but forgotten about
it, until quite recently when I discovered the dusty disc in the bottom of a
drawer. I had to buy a gadget to enable me to download it to my netbook. I have
to say the writing was atrocious, but the story had merit. I’ve just
resurrected it and I’m enjoying bringing a decidedly bad leading man, back to
life.
7) At a book signing, do you just sign your name or do you write a note?
How do you come up with stuff to say?
It really depends on what they want. Some people
just want my name and the date, others like it personalised. I don’t mind
either way. I actually like the face to face contact with readers. I’m a bit of
a chatterbox and like to hear about what else they might be reading and why
they chose my book. I chat about the story, anything really to put people at
ease.
BA Morton
Excerpt Chapter One
She answered the door on the sixth knock.
He knew that because he had counted.
Six knocks, thirty seconds between
knocks, three minutes.
He’d raised his hand to give her the
seventh, seeing as how seven was his lucky number and three and half minutes
was as long as he was prepared to wait, but she’d beaten him to it. All the
same, six knocks.
These weren’t palatial penthouse
apartments, they were studios. What
had taken her so long? Delays in
answering the door in this neighborhood were usually accompanied by the sounds
of a hurriedly flushed toilet. On this occasion there was silence.
When the door finally opened, she left
the chain on, which he supposed was sensible, but didn’t make his job any
easier or quicker.
He had a hot date waiting. He checked his
watch. If she was still waiting. Taking out his badge, he flashed it through
the crack in the door.
“Ma’am, New York Police Department,
Detective Connell.” He made an
effort to speak slowly and clearly,
wondering if they were old folks and whether that could explain the delay in
answering.
“You called in a report about a hit and
run. I’d like to speak with you, ask you a few questions.”
He pulled his badge away just in time to
avoid his hand being jammed as the door slammed closed. Rolling his eyes, he
checked his watch again. She definitely wouldn’t be waiting now. She’d be on
her way home and deleting his number from her phone. That was twice he’d stood
her up; she wouldn’t be letting him make it three. And that was a shame - she
was a looker, and no dummy either. No matter,
probably for the best in the long run.
He was about to give her the seventh
knock, when he heard the chain being slid. Placing a hand on the weapon
holstered under his left arm, he watched as the door swung slowly inwards. All
he needed now was some geriatric cop-hater to come barrelling out with a
sawed-off Zimmer frame, so he stood off to one side of the door, just in case.
Connell had drawn the short straw on this
case. Everyone else on the squad had more important things to do on a Friday
night than chase up old ladies who may or may not have seen an accident. He had
more important things to do; he’d been on a promise, after all. But he was on
dicey ground and his arrest rate was looking bad. He’d been spending far too much
time on impossible cases and this looked like an
easy wrap. Find the old lady, confirm her
statement and sign off on the case. Maybe his date would wait. Maybe pigs would
fly.
“Honey, is your mom at home?” he asked
the young girl who peered anxiously at him from behind the door. She was
slender and pale, with a mop of unruly dark curls and wide dark eyes. Her feet,
resting one on the other, were bare, her toenails painted a vivid pink.
She wore washed-out jeans with holes at
the knees and a baggy grey Tshirt. Connell processed her slight frame in
seconds and disregarded her. It was a necessary knack - identify and eliminate
any risks - certainly in this neighborhood. “I’m looking for a … ” He pulled
out his notebook and checked the name he’d scrawled down back at the station “
… Mrs.Jones, Mrs. Elizabeth Jones.”
The girl nodded, opened the door wide and
he realized his knack for on-the-spot identification was slipping. She wasn’t a
young girl; she was a young woman who looked like she hadn’t been sleeping too
well and he knew exactly how that felt.
“I’m Mrs. Jones,” she said hesitantly in
a soft, British accent. “You’d better come in.”
Connell wasn’t often surprised. In his
line of work it was a necessary requirement to be unflappable and unshockable,
or at the very least to present that image to the public, but she was
definitely not what he’d been expecting. She was far too young for a start,
didn’t look old enough to be Mrs. Anybody and she didn’t sound like the voice
on the tape. The voice had been muffled, admittedly, but had sounded older and
certainly not British. Either she hadn’t made the call or the voice had been
deliberately disguised. He narrowed his eyes. The first of his inner alarm
bells had just gone off.
He followed her into the room. If she
wasn’t what he’d expected, then the room certainly was. It was typical of a
thousand more in the neighborhood. Close your eyes, stick a pin in a map and
you couldn’t fail to come up with a place like this. Short-term, low-rent
housing where absentee landlords turned a blind eye and made a killing.
Author Bio:
B.A. Morton is a British crime,
historical and romance writer.
Her first novel is 'Mrs Jones'. The next
in the series, 'Molly Brown', will be published during 2012.
She lives and writes on the Scottish
Border.
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