Who Would You Tell?

This blog entry has nothing to do with art or art theft or even books, but it's something on my heart, and it does involve using words. I'd really like to hear your answers.

Challenge Question: If you could tell anyone in the world about the love of God and the salvation offered through Jesus Christ, and you were guaranteed five minutes of their undivided attention, who would you tell and why?

Bonus Challenge: Give us a sample of the words that are in your heart for them.

Mine would be Osama bin Laden. A change of heart in him would rock militant Islam to its core.

I want to tell him that I understand he believes his cause is from God, but that the true test of what comes from God is in its fruit. If grace and mercy are extended, if love, joy, and peace flow, if holy living springs from love toward God, and if hearts are transformed without force or manipulation, then God is in it.

I'd also like to assure him that forgiveness for absolutely anything is a free gift to the repentant heart because Someone has already paid the price for the sins of the whole world. However, without putting faith in that One--Jesus Christ--there is no salvation. Anyone is eligible, but everyone must choose.

So now that I've shared, who is on your heart? And it doesn't have to be anyone famous or important (by the world's standard), just whoever first popped to mind when you read my initial question.

Who Won WHO? and Whodunnit?

Thanks oodles to Roseanna White, our games-mistress, for featuring Reluctant Runaway in the debut volume of the WHO? game. I had lots of fun playing and hope others did, too.

Volume One of the WHO? game reached its conclusion last Friday with a clear winner. Congratulations to Becca from California! She named all five keywords from the various blogs and correctly "caught" the thief who stole the book. Becca will receive a signed copy of Reluctant Runaway, latest release in the To Catch a Thief series.

Here's the culprit's confession:

It was. . . Tiffany by Trish Perry

Okay, just hear me out here. Contrary to how things appear, I am not perfect. I make mistakes, just like an average person does. I said I wanted to develop a little culture, and I meant it. I want to be able to discuss . . . stuff. That’s why I came to the museum, and now I can talk about how messed up modern art looks. And thanks to the time we’ve been stuck in the Native American exhibit with Grandfather there, I know more about the Pince-nez Indians than I ever planned to. Nez Perce, I mean, thank you, Gracie so very much for correcting me.

Sigh. How Jessica got Miss Gracie Conspiracy-Theory and me confused from behind, I’ll never know. Sure, we both have auburn hair, but I am clearly the more relaxed of the two of us—I think I would have known Gracie was connected to the military even if she hadn’t mentioned it. Anyway, I’m wearing black, and Gracie’s in white, and she didn’t leave Grandfather’s side long enough to pull off any theft.

Ew. Theft. Sounds awful.

Look, it’s just that the book looked special. It looked like something maybe I could read and be impressive with. And if it’s a book I could get at the library or a book store, it probably wouldn’t be on display in a museum, is what I figured. That’s the only kind of book I could be certain Ren and Kara wouldn’t have read. I just wanted to know something they didn’t. I would have brought it back when I was done; why would I want to keep a book I’ve already read?

It wasn’t hard finding a man willing to hold the book for me so I could run back and tell Quinn I was leaving. I mean, look at me! Me, man, willing? Those three words just fit together in so many sentences. And I would have been fine if Jessica had minded her own business, instead of turning down my generous offer of help with her appearance; I’d be willing to bet that girl’s had a case of the munchies from time to time, if you catch my drift. If I hadn’t pulled out one of my cards to give her in the first place, I wouldn’t have dropped one at the scene of the dirty deed for Gracie to find and turn over to Max.

And that Max! Ears like an Australian Bandicoot, for Pete’s sake. So my stiletto’s click a little on these marble floors. I was practically on tiptoe when I rushed over to ask that guy to hold the book for me. What is it with these people, studying my every move? My every sound?

But that Marina was the last straw. She found one of my hairs near the empty display case? What is she, a bloodhound? Why, oh why did I bother to run a comb through my luxurious locks before dashing off to hand the book to that guy? It’s not like I needed to bother. But I’ve seen enough CSI shows to know that last piece of evidence is going to nail me.

So, listen, Quinn. Be a sweetie. Bring up the steel walls, let us out, and I can have that stupid book back in place in no time. But let’s make it snappy. I can still make my manicure appointment, and I don’t want that guy out there getting any ideas about taking the book out of the museum. Not that he’s likely to leave without me, but let’s not take any chances. Then you and I can get together later and have a little laugh about this whole silly episode. What time do you get off work, anyway?

* * * * * * * *

Volume Two of the WHO? game is coming right up. So keep your eyes peeled for suspicious characters!

WHO? is Here!

A crime has been committed, and it’s up to you to figure out WHOdunit! Play the game of WHO? for a chance to win a free book!

Here’s what you do: read through each of the scenes below, which were written by one of six popular authors. Collect the KEYWORDS from each scene. Once you have the keys and have figured out whodunit, send an email to review@christianreviewofbooks.com with the subject line WHO?

Entries will be received until 3 p.m. EST on Friday, June 1.

WHO? Volume 1

Quinn by Roseanna White
See it at http://www.christianreviewofbooks.com/

Of all the displays in this New Mexico museum, it was the room containing Native American artifacts that always made the hairs on the back of Quinn’s neck stand up. He hated leading his tour groups in here. His fingers inevitably got itchy and hovered over the two-way radio on his belt.

He stepped into the room after the last of his six guests. They were chatting among themselves, most of them focused on the one other man in the group, an old guy who had introduced himself as Grandfather. Quinn kept several feet away from them, staying near the exit. So when the sound of metal screeching over metal sung out from right behind him, he jumped and spun.

The metal security gate came crashing down, its criss-crossing slats sliding between him and the rest of the museum. Quinn’s eyes moved from the obstacle to the unobtrusive camera and security console secured near the ceiling in the corner. Its red light was flashing angrily, signaling the sounding of a silent alarm. Apparently, a silent alarm from this room.

"Hey!" It was the woman with the wild black hair who was all but punching him in the shoulder to get his attention. When she motioned toward the lowered gate, her crimson talons almost nicked him. "What's the big idea?"

"Just stay calm, ma'am." Even as he spoke, Quinn was palming his radio off of his belt and pressing the call button. His eyes, however, were moving over the other occupants of the room, trying to identify what had triggered the alarm. Everything looked to be in place. The Native American pottery was all under its glass casings, the tools in their proper displays. And the faces of his tour group were all identical masks of confusion. "Mack, it's Quinn. What's up? We just got locked into the Indian display."

The static from his radio screeched out briefly before his friend's voice interrupted it, the high-pitch squeal making talon-woman wince. "There's been a breach in security."

Obviously, the whole group heard that. The overweight, auburn haired girl who was standing off by herself shifted from one foot to another and darted a glance at the one man in the group. He had introduced himself as Grandfather and had just been sharing with them all that he was one-quarter Nez Perce so had been eager to get to this room. Now the old guy was looking with wide eyes at Quinn as if he was responsible for this unforseen turn.

He pushed the button again. "In here?"

"Negative. The room you just came from. A book's gone. Cameras were blocked, but it's gotta be someone from your group, they're the only ones who've been through."

The woman still standing at his side put her hands on her hips and rolled back her shoulders. "All right. Which one of you idiots ruined my day?"

"Ma'am–"

"I'm a cop, buddy, I can handle this."

Quinn sighed and rolled his eyes as the woman marched over to the overweight girl and all but poked a finger in her chest.

"You. What's your name?"

The girl cast another look at the old man, who stood with his hands in his pockets, looking on mournfully. "Jessica. But I didn't do anything, I swear. Why would I want something from some stupid museum, anyway? I was talking to Grandfather the whole time."

That, of course, just made Madam Cop turn her pointed finger on the old man. "Well you've seemed mighty interested in everything here."

Grandfather just smiled and raised his empty palms up in a peaceful gesture. "Calm down, Marina. I was right beside you, wasn't I? Wouldn't you have noticed if I had pocketed a . . ." His brows knit, making the wrinkles of his eyes fan out. He looked over at Quinn again. "What was taken, son? Did he say a book?"

Quinn just nodded and glanced at the other three women in the room. Gracie, a schoolteacher scoping the place out for a possible field trip–or so she said–was standing with mouth agape and long auburn hair still pulled over one shoulder. She had mentioned how chilly the air conditioner was, and her white sundress didn't do much to keep her warm. Beside her was Tiffany, whose posture had shifted over the past minute from sultry to uncertain. He'd been flirting with them both off and on for the whole tour. Only Tiffany had flirted back.

But it was the third woman he settled his gaze on. With her flyaway red hair, Maxine Webb looked like a total airhead. But he knew better. She was the one he pointed at. "Is this all part of one of your acts?"

Tiffany raised a perfectly shaped brow and pivoted a little on one stiletto. Quinn had noticed from the outset that her shoes were about as practical for a walking tour as her black dress with the plunging V neck that dipped low enough to make him smile. She looked at Max as if noticing her for the first time. "Huh?"

"Ms. Webb's with our security company." Quinn clipped his silent radio back onto his belt. "They like to stage robberies–to test their systems."

Max shook her head. There was worry in her eyes. "If this were one of ours," she said in her Texas drawl, "I'd be behind a computer tracking Desi, not locked in here with you."

Gracie rubbed a hand over one goose-bumped arm. "Or maybe that's what you want us to think. I saw an empty display case in that other room—that must have been where the book had belonged. I was the last one that went by it–which means it could have been any of you. Or all of you, working together." She paused and shifted from one strappy heel to another, tilting her head and obviously evaluating her own words. Then she wrinkled up her nose. "Okay, probably not. Still."

Marina let out a near-growl. "Well, let's do a search. Obviously neither of our beauty queens have it hidden in their little dresses, and I can vouch for Grandfather." She narrowed her gaze on Jessica again. "What have you got under that baggy sweater?"

Tiffany snorted and tossed an auburn lock out of her face. "Nothing a few weeks in the gym with me couldn't fix. Seriously, Jessica, let me give you my card. I could do wonders for you."

Jessica just sent Tiffany a dirty look. Quinn stepped into the middle of their loose circle before Officer Marina could ask any more questions or Gracie could come up with a more intricate conspiracy theory, raising a hand to get everyone's attention. "Okay, look. One of you took it–and there's nowhere to go. Maybe you stashed it somewhere in the hall or had an accomplice, I don't know. But you're not getting away with it. There are enough of us here that someone had to have seen something. So let's just figure this thing out, okay?"

He paused and looked from one suspect to another until they were all staring back at him. "One of you is a thief. The only question is, who?"


***

Marina by Cyndy Salzmann (From Crime & Clutter)
Read it on her blogs at http://blog.cyndysalzmann.com/ and http://canblog.typepad.com/canbookmarketing/

Amateurs! Marina shook her head and stalked over to the tour director in this ART museum. He was spending more time ogling the chick in the black dress than trying to figure out who swiped the book. If she let him handle the interrogation, they’d be locked in this tepee room all night.

Marina slapped Quinn on the shoulder. “Why don’t ya let me handle this, Bubba?”

“Bubba? Did you just call me Bubba?”

Marina grinned and pulled a notebook from her leather shoulder bag. “Just a figure of speech.”
Jessica giggled and Quinn shot her a dirty look.

Marina put her arm around Quinn’s shoulder and lowered her voice. “Listen, we all want to get outta here. And to be perfectly honest, you makin’ time with the suspects isn’t getting us any closer to that goal.”

Before Quinn could respond, Tiffany stepped forward. “Suspect! How dare you refer to me as—”

“Back off, Barbie doll,” Marina growled. “Or would you rather head down to the station to talk about how that strand of auburn hair ended up near the empty display case?”

***

Max by Jill Elizabeth Nelson (From Reluctant Burglar & Reluctant Runaway)
Read excerpts at http://www.jillelizabethnelson.com/tcatbooks.shtml

Whoa! Maxine Webb jumped and whirled at the crash of a metal gate slamming shut behind the museum tour group. Her gaze darted from the mesh grill, to the furiously flashing red light on the security camera, to the lady’s man tour guide, Quinn, who’d quit making cow eyes at every shapely young thing in the group and was now jabbering into his walkie-talkie.

At least she could see the security system she and her boss had designed was doing its job. The alarm would be raising a ruckus in the control room, but not here. Nothing but excited conversations going on around her. Too bad she couldn’t overhear what the guide was saying to his contact outside this Indian artifact display room where they were now captive. Max stepped closer to Quinn and caught a few words about a missing book.

A book? She turned and squinted toward the barred gate into the room they’d just passed through. Is that what had been in the empty case? She’d thought it was funny the lid was open on an empty case. But not so much that she’d said anything when Casanova Quinn hustled them onward. Museums changed displays all the time.

Marina, a black-haired woman with fire-red fingernails, told the tour guide where to get off, announced she was a cop, and then made a bee-line for the most vulnerable person in the room, an overweight redhead who’d mumbled an introduction as Jessica at the beginning of the tour. Good thing Chief Grandfather flanked the frightened girl, or one dyed-in-the-wool Texan might be tempted to ride to the rescue. But that tough old Nez Perce Indian could handle Lady Cop. Yikes! She was beginning to think like her boss and best friend, Desiree Jacobs, and nickname everyone by appearance or occupation.

The tall, pretty school teacher drifted toward her. Gracie, wasn’t it? The gal had gorgeous auburn hair. Max’d trade her a head full of poofy red curls any day, but the poor thing had goose-bumps on top of goose-bumps chasing themselves up her bare arms. Max ran a hand up her own cardigan-clad arm. She always brought a sweater to a museum, even in the summer time. Experience as a museum security electronics EXPERT had taught her the need.

She smiled at Gracie. “This is so not my cuppa Joe! Bein’ a suspect in a museum theft? Now if Desi were here, she’d be eatin’ this up and figure out whodunit in no time. Not me. I’m happy to add window dressin’ in the background, thank you very much.”

Gracie’s answering smile fluttered a little at the corners. “Maxine, I’m . . . I’m really sorry for my earlier accusations. I’m a little skittish with the confinement and want this over as soon as possible.”

“Don’t we all.” Max ran a hand across her hair. Pesky stuff just wouldn’t settle down. “You seem pretty bothered by the gates. Something got you spooked?”

The teacher sucked in an audible breath, and her gaze darted away. “I’m beyond cold and a tad claustrophobic, that’s all. Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

Gracie flashed an off-white business card. “On my way here, I picked this up near the empty display case in the other room. I’d planned to return it to Tiffany, assuming it was hers, but I wanted to ask you about it first. Didn’t you mention needing to get back in shape to keep up with your friend Desi?”

Max plucked the card out of Gracie’s fingers and studied it. “American Gym? Not on your life. I have two little ones that keep me hoppin’.”

“But didn’t you say—”

“Mrs. Lang? Can I ask you a few questions?” Quinn’s sharp tone brought both their heads around.

Uh-oh! Max pressed her lips together. Third degree comin’ for the lovely schoolmarm, while he eats her up with his eyes. Somebody fit this guy with a pair of blinders like an old plow horse.

Max stepped forward. “Whoever snatched the book was wearin’ high heels. I heard that tell-tale clickety-clack right before I noticed the case was empty.”

Tiffany, the statuesque physical trainer and second biggest flirt in the group, stared down at her stiletto-heeled shoes and went as red as Marina’s fingernails.
Quinn glared at Max.

A bit too fluffy and old enough to be your big sister, am I? She grinned at him.

His gaze fell away—straight toward the spike heels of Gracie Lang’s trendy sandals.

***

Gracie by Amy Wallace (From Ransomed Dreams)
Read it at her blog http://peek-a-booicu.blogspot.com/

With a shudder, Gracie surveyed the small museum room filled with colorful Native American pottery. Other than the frigid air and imposing metal gates which enclosed the small group of seven, she would have loved this fascinating tour. Her students, James and Susannah especially, would have been enthralled by the docent-led exploration of pottery, tools and ancient art.

As it was now, she didn’t plan on ever returning. Too many unpleasant memories. She watched the now very obtrusive security cameras whirr to catch all movement, every person but Quinn a study in controlled fear. Had the video captured the theft?

While Marina, the outspoken and opinionated lieutenant, raked poor Jessica over with veiled accusations, Gracie crossed the room to stand by Maxine.

Quinn continued his discussion with Tiffany, no flirting smiles but pure male interest still smoldered in his eyes. His stiffened posture and quick glance at her movement signaled she was next and blared his displeasure with her choice of companions.

“Maxine, I’m… I’m really sorry for my earlier accusation. I’m a little skittish with the confinement and want this over with as soon as possible.”

“Don’t we all.” Maxine smoothed her fly-away red hair and narrowed her eyes. “You seem pretty bothered by the gates, something got you spooked?”

Deep breath. No need spilling the upside down story of her recent problems to a complete stranger. Time with her FBI AGENT beau and his partner had taught her the value of limited words. And cold showers. But she didn’t need those thoughts making everything worse. Getting ahead of God’s timing with Steven had ranked high on her “to be avoided” list.
Now she was minutes away from possibly being accused of theft and adding museums to her black list.

“I’m beyond cold and a tad claustrophobic, that’s all. Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

Gracie pulled out a small, mostly white business card. “On my way in here, I picked this up near the empty display case in the other room. I’d planned to return it to Tiffany, assuming it was hers, but I wanted to ask you about it first. Didn’t you mention needing to get back in shape to keep up with your friend Desi?”

Maxine snatched the card. “American Gym? Not on your life. I have two little ones that keep me hopping.”

“But didn’t you say—”

“Mrs. Lang? Can I ask you a few questions?” Quinn’s lazy once-over had her wishing again for Steven’s company on this excursion. Then he could defend her to Quinn while she concentrated on decoding the mystery at hand.

Maybe if she could piece together the clues for Quinn, he wouldn’t bother her long or question her too much. With her recent assistance in solving her family’s cold case murder, this problem should be easily overcome.

After all, she’d survived much worse than this.

***

Tiffany by Trish Perry (From The Guy I’m Not Dating & Too Good To Be True)
Visit her website at http://www.trishperrybooks.com/

Now, really. Why would I steal a book? I mean, I won’t claim I’ve never stolen anything—I’ll be honest with you about that. And I’m truly sorry for what I’ve stolen in the past. I’ve stolen clients from other trainers at the gym. I’ve stolen other girls’ boyfriends without hardly trying. I even tried . . . well, I’m not proud about any of these things, but the worst black blotch next to my name in the Big Book of Pluses and Minuses is probably that I tried to steal a husband once. A long time ago. People, see? I’ve stolen people.

But a book? Puh-leeeeze. Do I have time for book reading? When I’m too old to mingle with the singles, I’ll consider reading books. For now? Maybe People magazine once in awhile. So if someone steals your copy of People, you go on ahead and come looking for me. Ha! Again, I’m willing to admit I steal people. People, get it?

I’ve got to say, though, this museum is like Fort Knox in the SECURITY department. How did they manage to lose a book? I wandered away ever so slightly from that schoolteacher chick—Gracie—and that cute guide, Quinn, and you’d think I was Obie-Wan Kenobi—
No, wait, that’s wrong. Osama Bin Laden. You’d think I was Osama Bin Laden, the way the guards all hopped-to and shuttled me back to the group.

See, what happened was I thought I was going to be able to just wander around on my own when I came to the museum. But they make you go in groups here. So I get put with a bunch of women and this old guy, who turns out to be really kind of sweet. He was part Indian—not the Bollywood kind, but the other. Like Cher. He reminded me of my granddaddy when he smiled. I really miss my granddaddy—he died when I was just a kid, and absolutely no one will ever take his place. So, this Indian guy—oh, that’s right, it’s Native American, sorry. He seemed to know a lot about all of the things we were looking at, almost as much as Quinn, our guide. I decided to tag along and listen to what he said, but I don’t think he knew how closely I was listening to him. Not that he said anything mean about me; he just didn’t seem to notice me much.

I was also sticking pretty closely to Quinn, because, of course, he knew a bunch of stuff, working for the museum and all. To be honest, I stuck close to him because he was good looking, too. And flirty. No ring on the finger, plenty of confidence, securely employed—definitely worth a mild pursuit. But then I noticed he was flirting with that schoolteacher, too. Gracie. Guess he was into how we both looked. She has long hair pretty close to my color. She’s in pretty good shape, too. But I think she said she had a boyfriend, and she ignored him, as far as I could tell.

Still, I needed to play less than available after seeing that kind of behavior—Quinn’s flirting with both of us. So I wandered. Nothing sinister, just an effort at nonchalance. So he wouldn’t think he was some kind of gift. I just wanted to drop out of his line of vision briefly and see if he missed me. I thought it was working, and he did seem troubled that I wasn’t with the group for every minute he was in charge of us.

I can’t say whether or not I even noticed that book they’re talking about. I was looking at other things and was able to, you know, absorb culture on my own, the way I had hoped to. I didn’t go far, just out of Quinn’s sight for a while, and I can even tell you what I saw. Some of the paintings were modern, which I thought was just plain awful. No people in them. Or even dogs or cats. And I caught a glimpse of some sculptures. Also modern. What’s up with that, anyway? One thing I learned is that I like art to look like real life. I wonder if that’s okay, culture-wise.

The only reason I’m even here in the museum is because I figured I needed to get a little more sophisticated. I certainly wasn’t exposed to museums and such down home in South Carolina. Mama and Daddy just aren’t that kind of people. But I hear my co-worker, Kara, and her best friend, Ren (another schoolteacher, like that Gracie girl, sheesh), when they get talking sometimes. It’s a little intimidating when they talk about stuff I don’t get. Just once, I’d like to surprise someone by knowing something about art or whatever.

Thing is, I seem to attract men as easily as that Maxine lady seems to attract static electricity with her hair. But I’m a little weak in the relationship-longevity department. And I’m not particularly gifted with making friends with women, either. I’m wondering if I need to broaden my horizons. You know, smarts-wise.

I thought I came off well in Quinn’s eyes, despite my having to gracefully shrug off a few catty remarks that Marina woman threw my way. I swear, the woman could make a sarcastic remark without even opening her mouth. Just by looking at you and using her eyebrows. She was one tough broad, I think.

I just hope they get us out of here soon. Sometimes I’m kind of claustrophobic, and I’m nervous about everyone sucking up all the air, especially that big girl, Jessica. Man, I wish she’d come to the gym and let me whip her into shape. She wouldn’t look half bad. I offered her my card, but I think she’s in denial. At least I tried.

So, come on, museum people, and get us out of here. My shoes are killing me. And I have a manicure in a couple of hours; my nails are looking wicked ugly.

***

Jessica by Nikki Arana (from As I Have Loved You)
Visit her website at http://www.nikkiarana.com/

Jessica folded her arms across her chest and blinked back tears. First she’d been signaled out by that loud mouthed Marina and then insulted by the red-headed Barbie, Tiffany.

Jessica tossed her head. She wasn’t surprised Miss Tiffany had a cross dangling above her cleavage. Typical Christian, always judging people. And that remark, “I could do wonders for you.” Jessica adjusted the shoulder strap on her purse and ran her hand over the front latch, making sure it was securely closed. I’ve got something that could do wonders for you, Missy.

She never should have come on the tour. And she never would have if her fiancé’s mother, Leigh, hadn’t made her feel stupid for not even knowing there was a museum in town. She stifled a grin. Thanks to Leigh she had a brand new place to meet her contact in the future.

“Who cares about this stuff, anyway?” Jessica shifted from one foot to the other and motioned at the cases full of artifacts. “It’s all hundreds of years old, and I can’t imagine any of it was useful even when it was new.”

The man who called himself simply Grandfather smiled. “You’d be surprised how valuable those tools were to the people who used them, young lady. My grandfather benefited from similar items in his tribe and managed to survive in the Wallowa Mountains.”

She felt heat creep up her neck. “I’m so sorry. You’re. . . an Indian? I guess when you said that about your ancestors, I didn’t realize. . . I thought. . .”

He chuckled and actually reached over to pat her shoulder, like she was an old friend or something. “Don’t worry, my dear, I’m not offended, nor do I have any designs on your hair.”

It took a minute for his implication to sink in. “Oh my gosh! Like I thought you were going to scalp me or something?” She turned and walked away.

Jessica glanced around the room for a place to sit down; her legs were killing her. Even though the tour had hardly started, walking on the hard floors had sent shooting pains up her calves.
Not seeing anything to sit on, she backed up against the wall behind her and slid to the floor. Clutching her purse in her lap, she eyed the other people in the room.

Her eyes settled again on Grandfather. He’d gone out of his way to walk with her when she’d fallen behind as they’d moved between rooms. She’d wondered if he was an undercover cop. Nobody was nice without a reason. She’d been RELUCTANT to talk to him. No point in encouraging anyone’s interest.

Her gaze shifted from Tiffany to Gracie, both of whom had their backs to her. The image, suddenly familiar, triggered a memory. As the docent had been speaking about the displays in the room they’d just left, Jessica had been scanning the area, looking for a place to sit. And she’d caught a glimpse of a woman talking to a man in the hall and handing him something. She closed her eyes a moment, then looked back at Tiffany and Gracie. She pulled her lower lip between her front teeth and bit down. She wasn’t positive, but she was pretty sure it had been one of them. Whatever. She wasn’t going to get involved.

Jessica’s heart started to pound as Quinn moved toward her. Tightening her grip on her purse she lifted her chin and stared him straight in the eye. She could feel her palms starting to sweat.
It wasn’t the book, it was the baggie of loose leaves and the cigarette wrappers in the bottom of her purse that she was worried about.

***

Grandfather by Miralee Ferrell (From The Other Daughter)
See it on her blog at http://www.miraleesdesk.blogspot.com/

Grandfather looked around the room, trying not to smile at the antics of the younger generation. Seemed like flirting and arguing was more popular than the Native American display they’d stopped to view.

“Who cares about this stuff, anyway?” The plump red-head beside him shifted from one foot to the other and pointed at the artifacts in the glass case. “It’s all hundreds of years old and I can’t imagine any of it was useful even when it was new.” She brushed her hair out of her eyes.

He searched his memory, groping for her name. Ah, yes…Jessica. “You’d be surprised how valuable those tools were to the people who used them, young lady. My grandfather benefited from similar items in his tribe and managed to survive in the Wallowa Mountains.” He tempered his words with a smile.

A slow blush crept above the neck of Jessica’s baggy sweater and stained her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. You’re…an Indian?” She whispered. “I guess when you said that about your ancestors, I didn’t realize…I thought…”

He chortled and patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, my dear, I’m not offended, nor do I have any designs on your hair.”

A frown creased her face. “Oh my gosh! Like I thought you were going to scalp me or something,” she glared and walked away.

Grandfather shook his head and grinned. Young people now-a-days didn’t seem to have a sense of humor, or an appreciation of things from the past. Too bad his FAMILY couldn’t have come…his grandson David and wife Susanne’s two youngsters would’ve loved this museum. Oops…three youngsters. He’d almost forgotten their newest addition, Brianna, who’d recently arrived on the family’s doorstep, claiming to be David’s Other Daughter. The kids would get a kick out of seeing some of the tools and pottery that his own great-grandfather had used.

Though maybe it was for the best they weren’t here, given this latest development.

Grandfather watched as Quinn went from person to person, talking to them about what they’d seen. Grandfather didn’t know what he could really add, so he just went on studying the artifacts around him and bided his time.

“Ah-hem.” A deep vibrato voice at Grandfather’s elbow swung him around.

“Yes, Mr. Quinn?” Grandfather glanced at the man whose eyes kept darting from one woman to the other, but always seemed to return to Tiffany of the low neckline.

“Where were you when the book disappeared?”

“Yeah, you seemed awfully interested in all the displays in the book room,” Marina the cop chimed in.

Grandfather waved his hand in the air and smiled. “Calm down, folks. If there’s one thing my great-grandfather Raven passed down to his children and grandchildren, it was honesty and truthfulness. I’ve been chatting with Gracie and Jessica…and Marina, I spent some time with you earlier, too.”

Gracie stepped forward, swishing her long, auburn hair around her bare shoulders. “My boy-friend and my dad both have experience in the intelligence field, and I’ve learned a lot from them. I think it’s a conspiracy, that’s what. Maybe someone at the museum has it in for some of us.” She crossed her arms and glared at Quinn, then swiveled her glance back to Grandfather.
“What did you see, Grandfather? If I may call you that?”

“Certainly,” Grandfather replied. “Let’s see…while we were in the antiquities book room I remember you chatting with me about some of the older volumes and I shared a story with you that’s been passed down through the generations among my people.”

Gracie nodded, her face beaming. “That was so interesting! He was telling me about his great-grandfather, Little Raven when he was just a boy…why you’d never believe…”

“Pu-leese!” Rasped Marina, stomping her foot and silencing Gracie. “Go on Grandfather, then what?”

“I noticed everyone leaving the book room headed for the Native American display, and I hurried to catch up. Jessica’s foot seemed to be bothering her, so I walked the rest of the way with her and we were together almost till the alarm sounded. I’m afraid I can’t add much more.” He shrugged and pulled off his cap, running his fingers through his iron gray hair.

“Right,” drawled Max. “Then the lovely gate came crashing down, and here we all stand, trapped, tired and wanting to go home. Whoever has the book, how ’bout fessin’ up, ya hear?” She ran a hand over her fly-away hair, but only succeeded in sending it spiraling into more absurd directions.

He turned to the group. “I agree. I’m sure whoever took it simply forgot they were carrying it. If you’re embarrassed and are having a hard time letting us know, we’ll understand.”

“Humph,” snorted Marina. “You might, Grandfather, but I won’t. Theft is theft and someone’s going to pay.”

Old School meets New School meets Homeschool

Rene Gutteridge has a great new laugh-a-minute mystery out. Grab this winner as quick as you can!

ABOUT THE BOOK:

Just shy of retirement and a well-earned pension, Las Vegas Police Department Sergeant Ron Yeager's definition of "active duty" involves shifting his bad leg into a more comfortable position. But when he's requested from his mind-numbing desk job to head an undercover auto theft task force, the former narcotics officer determines to prove he's still got the right stuff.

That is...until he meets his unlikely team of officers.

As Yeager soon finds out, not all the crazies are on the street. An undercover rookie, the audaciously honest Mackenzie "Mack" Hazard sends Yeager's blood pressure skyrocketing by wearing her faith like an ever-present badge. Then there's Jesse Lunden, a maverick undercover officer who refuses to learn anything from an old guy with a cane. Can this tangle of egos and eccentrics be trained into a lean, mean, crime-fighting machine...even while they are being drawn into something much bigger and more dangerous than anyone imagined?

In her trademark style, Rene Gutteridge blends zany, original characters, sincere faith, and surprising plot twists into one hilariously addictive read.

"Snitch is an engaging crime novel, balanced between sheer whimsy and genuine human drama."
....CHRIS WELL, author of Tribulation House

"A wonderful, fully developed ensemble cast makes Snitch an entertaining, engaging read. Rene's flair for a comedic, well-turned phrase shines here. Snitch is worth snatching."
...SUSAN MEISSNER, author of Widows and Orphans

Order your copy here: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400071585

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Rene Gutteridge is the author of several novels, including Ghost Writer (Bethany House Publishers) The Boo Series (WaterBrook Press) and the Storm Series, (Tyndale House Publishers. She released three novels in 2006: Storm Surge (Tyndale) My Life as a Doormat (WestBow Press, Women of Faith) Occupational Hazards Book #1: Scoop (WaterBrook Press).

She has also been published over thirty times as a playwright, best known for her Christian comedy sketches. She studied screenwriting under a Mass Communications degree, graduating Magna Cum Laude from Oklahoma City University, and earned the "Excellence in Mass Communication" award. She served as the full-time Director of Drama for First United Methodist Church for five years before leaving to stay home and write.

She enjoys instructing at writer's conferences and in college classrooms. She lives with her husband, Sean, a musician, and their children in Oklahoma City.

Ransomed Dreams by Amy Wallace

This book is gasp-a-minute, the first in the dynamic Defenders of Hope series of romantic suspense. I read it for endorsement well before it came out in print. Hey, my name is just inside the cover with my pithy comment. :-) So, PLEASE, run out and buy this book. (Besides, Amy writes for the same publisher I do, and Multnomah puts out great books!)

Drama. Tragedy. Thriller. Romance. Can these four actually go together? Amy Wallace's meaty first book of the Defenders of Hope Series, RANSOMED DREAMS, has successfully united these genres.

It is one of those books that after you read a little and put it down, the desire to see what will happen next is so strong that it will occupy your thoughts, compelling you to make the time to finish. But watch out! It is best consumed where no one will hear you cry because, if you have children, it will hit you like a stab in the gut and wrench you with a twist of the knife.

Although the subject at first depresses, the characters are so real and likable that you need to see what will become of them.

This book will NOT bore you.

BACK COVER COPY:

Chained To Yesterday

When tragedy struck and Gracie Lang lost everything, her faith crumbled, and nothing but the drive for justice propelled her forward. But after two years of dead-end searching, the truth Gracie seeks is the very thing her stalker will stop at nothing to hide.

Forgiveness Unlocks the Future

An FBI agent in the Crimes Against Children Unit, Steven Kessler spends his days rescuing other people’s children and nights caring for his son. He’s through with God, embittered by his ex-wife who abandoned them both, and definitely doesn’t expect what’s coming next.

The Past Is the Key

A plot to kidnap a British ambassador’s daughter dangerously intersects Steven and Gracie’s worlds–a collision that demands a decision. But are they willing to pay the high ransom required to redeem dreams and reignite hope?

ENDORSEMENTS:

Steeped in police intrigue and rich characters, Ransomed Dreams entertains, educates, and captivates. Amy Wallace is a fresh, vibrant voice in the Christian market
~Mark Mynheir, Homicide Detective and Author of The Void

Ransomed Dreams had me hooked from the start and didn't let go until the deeply satisfying ending.
~Kristin Billerbeck, Author of What a Girl Wants

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Amy Wallace is a member of the CFBA and an avid Blogger. A self-confessed chocoholic, this freelance writer is a graduate of the Gwinnett County Citizens Police Academy and serves as the liaison for the training division of the county police department. Amy is a contributing author of God Answers Moms' Prayers, God Allows U-Turns for Teens, Chicken Soup for the Soul Healthy Living Series: Diabetes, and A Cup of Comfort for Expectant Mothers. She lives in Georgia with her husband and three daughters.

Release to Increase!

My guest-blogger today is Tiffany Amber Miller, my lovely web site designer. Since you're on my author site, you know she's got a creative gift. I'm extra excited for her, because she recently got engaged to a wonderful man she met through a writers' group we all belong to. I hadn't thought of ACFW as a matchmaking society, but it truly is. Writers get matched with editors and agents through our group all the time.

Now let's hear a truth about sowing and reaping from Tiffany's heart. You can visit her at http://www.ambermiller.com or check out her web design service at http://www.eagle-designs.com.

* * * * * * *

Once in a while, I hear a sermon and get inspired from the message to see how it applies to my writing career. Too often, we get discouraged at the lack of interest in our writing -- especially as new writers. However, that disappointment or discouragement also faces experienced authors as well. Not a single one of us are outside the realm of rejection or returned manuscripts/proposals/queries with a "no thanks" attached to it.

Today's message, though, had an excellent point that I wanted to share with you.

God's kingdom is not one that is built upon lack of growth or results. His kingdom is one of increase. Verse upon verse upon verse in the Bible list God's promises for blessings to befall those of us who aren't "stingy" with what we have been given. If you want to see results, you have to plant the seeds. This not only applies to sticking to your guns and writing, but also to submitting. The more places you submit, the harder you seek out someone who might be interested in your work, the better your chances are that you'll find the open door you've been wanting.

We all have been given a special gift--the gift of words. As writers, we each have a certain measure of that gift, and God expects us to increase in both our skill and our product. He doesn't micromanage us; rather, he steps back and allows us room to grow, giving us every opportunity if we're paying close enough attention to see them.

Your crop will be a direct result of what you've planted. If you're stingy and only target one publisher, you might yield a very small crop or none at all. If you do your research and send out to every publisher or magazine or resource or web site that might accept what you write, your crop could be larger than you ever imagined. Even if it's articles or short stories or contributions to start. Eventually, the growth will expand. From a small seed always comes a result that's bigger than what it was at the beginning. But the seed has to grow and take root. To those whom God has given riches or success or even the promise of success, He has also given ability to rejoice in your labor. You work hard because gave you the ability to do it; not of your own merit.

God's covenant is to bless you and make you a great writer. When you're blessed, you bless others, either through your work or through sowing into another writer's life. But first, you have to get over your "poverty" mentality in regard to your writing. Release the talent and passion from within and go for that dream. If God can supply the ability, He can also give you what you need in order to increase. The spirit of poverty paralyzes you in fear of losing what you have. You sit back and hesitate before submitting your work to a place you might not have considered for fear of rejection, but God can't use you if you're not working. Don't allow yourself to slip into the pitfall of believing your career will provide you "barely enough." God is a God of abundance. If you sow in faith, you'll reap a great harvest.

Take it to heart and plant those seeds!

~Tiff (writing as Amber Miller)Promises, Promises (Heartsong Presents -- Jan. 2008)

Area Director, Zone 3, ACFW (Maryland, DelMarVa and Philadelphia)

Author & BLOG site www.ambermiller.com

Web Designer www.eagle-designs.com

A Bigger Life

Joel Carpenter did not plan for his life to turn out like this. He never meant to be a single dad, working at a hair salon in Eden Plain, Texas. But after making a careless choice four years ago, his marriage was permanently shattered.

Now at twenty-seven, he finds himself juggling custody of his preschool son with Kari, the ex-wife he still loves, and sharing Sunday dinners with a group of other single dads. Joel regrets the choices that brought him to this place, but it's not until the worst happens that he learns how much he still has to give. In the midst of deep tragedy, he learns that forgiveness is way more important than freedom. Hopefully it's not too late!

A BIGGER LIFE is a story of love in the midst of heartache, and friendship in the midst of real, everyday life.

In 1997, Annette Smith, the author of A Bigger Life, was working as a home health nurse. She traveled the back roads from house to house, caring for ill and injured, homebound people. Because of her unique position in the lives of relative strangers, she often found herself bearing solitary witness to intimate behind-the-scenes situations full of grace and meaning. The desire to honor both a particular patient and a poignant scene involving the woman and her husband prompted Annette to write a fictionalized story, The Anniversary.

That first story appeared as a column in the Houston Chronicle newspaper and as an essay in Today’s Christian Woman magazine. Later it became a chapter in Annette’s first and best-selling book of short stories, The Whispers of Angels, that has sold more than 100,000 copies. Since then, Annette has penned four more books of stories, two volumes on parenting, and the Coming Home to Ruby Prairie trilogy.

Annette and her husband Randy, a high school teacher and coach, make their home on a wooded lot in Quitman, Texas. They are the parents of two young adult children, Russell and Rachel, both out on their own. Wally, a grateful, rescued mutt provides warmth and entertainment and keeps the Smith’s empty nest from feeling too lonely.

In addition to writing, Annette continues to serve part-time as a registered nurse. She finds the people she works with and the patients she cares for provide great inspiration for her fiction.

Major Mark-Up!

"Lemon Marilyn," a 1962 painting by famous American artist Andy Warhol may go for 60,000 times its purchase price at an auction this May. Quite the return on a modest investment!

Over four decades ago, a U.S. collector bought the painting for $250 at Warhol's first one-man exhibition at Eleanor Ward's Stable Gallery in New York. Next month, the private collector could well get $15 million for it in a New York auction sponsored by Christie's of London.

Obsessed with the tragic celebrity, Warhol painted thirteen portraits of Marilyn shortly after her suicide, each in a different predominant color. Eight of them were offered for sale at Warhol's debut exhibition. In 2006, "Orange Marilyn" went for $16.3 million, so the $15 prediction may be conservative.

Hmm. What budding artists do I know that will one day reach Warhol stature? I may want to snap up a work or two before I have to pay millions for the privilege of hanging one on the wall!

When Characters Become Friends

My guest blogger today is award-winning author DiAnn Mills. Lighting and Lace, the third book in her Texas Legacy series, recently released, and she shares with us the feelings that come to an author with saying goodbye to beloved characters. Readers, too, can experience a wrench of emotional separation when one of their favorite series comes to an end. Let's hear from DiAnn!

- - - - - -

A mixture of emotions swept over me last week when my third and final book in the Texas Legacy Series stepped into the marketplace. I’ve grown to love these characters – everything about them. I love their stubborn moments, their victories, their defeats, the way they love, and even the way they hate. They fight for what they believe in, and God is always right.

For the past two years, I’ve wakened to the sound of their voices ringing in my head and to their problems. I watched the women slip into their dresses and bonnets, and the men tug on their boots. Actually, the women sometimes wiggled into a pair of boots and pants too. I rode the gentle mares and the wild broncos and held my breath. I lifted my Winchester, tensed my body for the kickback and sent bullets flying into targets, some of which were human. I celebrated with them, and I cried with them. I cheered when they triumphed and wanted to shake them when they made poor decisions.

In short, my characters have become my friends, and it’s hard to let them go. Unfortunately, I experience this grieving period every time I finish a book or series. I feel abandoned and lost, since too often I’m thinking about them just after I say my prayers and before I drift off to sleep. Dare I say that I worry about my characters? Hope they are not quarreling with their spouses or their children? That life hasn’t given them another dose of bitter herbs?

This bizarre and sometimes eccentric habit of mine is not much different from the habits of many of my other writer friends. How else can a writer create a character unless he/she first understands their motivation? And while these characters are on a journey called life, I realize the many reasons why I enjoy them.

I also realize their problems and issues. The storms of life that beat against our doors today have been happening since time began.

I consider Leather and Lace. Casey O’Hare didn’t start out life wanting to be an outlaw. Quite the contrary, she had hopes and dreams like every little girl until life slapped her in the face, and she chose to survive in the only way she knew. Many women today have made poor choices when faced with the dredges of life. We all have. I wrote that book for those women.

Jenny in Lanterns and Lace desperately wanted someone to love her. Is that such a bad thing, since we were created with a deep desire to be loved? The problem is, where do we go for love? Jenny thought unconditional love was a myth until the great Lover showed her differently.

Bonnie abhorred the disease that ravaged her beloved husband and left her a widow in Lightning and Lace. But she is determined, and alcohol is not the answer. Substance abuse is not native to today’s world. Wherever there is pain and suffering, people will look for a way to manage their sorrow.

Oh my, I do hope my darlings will be fine. They will be back next fall in a Christmas Legacy book, and then that is truly the end.

So today, I’m creating new friends. Already I know they won’t behave in every instance, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. I’m on my way to a new adventure. And, by the way, this is a contemporary.

Introducing NICK!

This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
(of which I am a member) is introducing
RECLAIMING NICK
( Tyndale Fiction, 2007)
by
Susan May Warren

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Award winning author SUSAN MAY WARREN recently returned home to her native Minnesota after serving for eight years with her husband and four children as missionaries with SEND International in Far East Russia. She now writes full time from Minnesota's north woods. Visit her Web site at http://www.susanmaywarren.com/.

ABOUT THE BOOK:

RECLAIMING NICK is the first of The Noble Legacy series. Book Two, Taming Rafe, will be available January 2008.

A Modern Day Prodigal Comes Home...
NICK NOBLE HADN'T PLANNED ON BEING THE PRODIGAL SON.
But when his father dies and leaves half of Silver Buckle--the Noble family ranch--to Nick’s former best friend, he must return home to face his mistakes, and guarantee that the Silver Buckle stays in the Noble family.

Award-winning journalist Piper Sullivan believes Nick framed her brother for murder, and she’s determined to find justice. But following Nick to the Silver Buckle and posing as a ranch cook proves more challenging than she thinks. So does resisting his charming smile.

As Nick seeks to overturn his father’s will--and Piper digs for answers--family secrets surface that send Nick’s life into a tailspin. But there’s someone who’s out to take the Silver Buckle from the Noble family, and he’ll stop at nothing--even murder--to make it happen.

Endorsement:
“Susan May Warren once again delivers that perfect combination of heart-pumping suspense and heart-warming romance.”--Tracey Bateman, author of the Claire Everett series

If you would like to hear more about Nick, he has his own blog. And you can read a chapter.

I totally endorse Reclaiming Nick. The delectable combination of romance, suspense, family issues, and absolutely gorgeous setting rivets the reader to the story. Warren's story-telling abilities never fail to delight. I can hardly wait for the next installment of the Noble Legacy. The cover designers are going to have to pull off some "deep magic" to come up with a showstopper like that dimple on the Nick cover!

Email Susan at susan@susanmaywarren.com. She loves to hear from readers.

To grab your copy of Reclaiming Nick, click here: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/141431017X

From time to time on this blog, I will be posting further reviews of excellent faith-based fiction, so stay tuned!

Breaking News! - "Schoolroom" Found!!

I'm so jazzed, I can hardly stand it!

Over on my author web site (http://www.jillelizabethnelson.com/), I recently revamped my Stealth and Wealth contest. I think it's been up for only a little over a week. The contest features various stolen paintings with a matching game to their artist. Norman Rockwell's "Russian Schoolroom," one of the featured stolen paintings has JUST been found! You'll never guess who had the Rockwell that's been missing since 1973--the famous movie director, Steven Spielberg!!!

The Associated Press reports that Spielberg bought the painting in 1989 from a legitimate dealer. But last week one of his staff spotted the painting listed on the FBI's "most wanted" art page. The Hollywood director was notified, and he ordered the authorities to be called. An FBI agent and an art expert examined the painting and found it to be authentic.

The no-longer-missing Rockwell as valued at $700,000. Wow! That's a sizeable chunk of change, but the report says that Spielberg and his staff didn't flinch a second at reporting what they had. Big thumbs up for Mr. Spielberg.

There are oodles of more details about the theft, sightings and disappearances since it was taken over three decades ago, and now the recovery. I find the information fascinating. If you do, too, you can go to this web address and read more: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/17430445/?GT1=9145

Hearing about stuff like this is pretty cool in itself, but to me it feels like a validation of the art theft aspects of my stories. FBI agents and civilian experts really do work together, and art really is recovered in the oddest ways.

Okay, I need to quit hyperventilating and go watch a tivoed episode of Criminal Minds.

Trade Active in Stolen Native American Art

A huge amount of heart is involved in the crafting of art, and that includes not just painting, or sculpting, or weaving, but writing, singing, or film-making. When the expressions of a person's soul are stolen, plagiarized, copied, or pirated, it hurts not just the artist, who loses livelihood and a chunk of themselves. Society pays a price in the loss of integrity, beauty, and money. In Reluctant Runaway, FBI Agent Tony Lucano's pirated property case illustrates the point.

In the case of Native American Art, there is an organization that assists law enforcement in tracking down stolen goods and hopefully catching some thieves. The Antique Tribal Art Dealers Association (ATADA) keeps a detailed data base of stolen U.S. Native American Art. The Cerno Acoma Seed Jar above was taken from an Arizona home in December 0f 2006, along with a variety of other pottery and native rugs. None of the items have been recovered to date.

For more details and pics: http://www.atada.org/theft.html#Eagar

Trade in these items thrives on collectors willing to purchase them, no questions asked. These under the table resales are the most difficult to track down.

Or the thieves wait until the trail cools and try to sell them to legitimate dealers a distance from the original theft. A rug stolen from a museum was recently recovered due to the fast action of a trader in Gallup, NM, who recognized the rug from the ATADA data base.

For more details and pics: http://www.atada.org/theft.html#Toadlena

Thieves more desperate for quick cash may offer the items at pawn shops, thinking that pawn dealers don't care where their merchandise comes from. Wrongo! There are definitely honest pawn brokers out there, as one thief discovered.

Here's a quote from the happy owner of recovered goods: "Last week, a young woman showed up at a pawn shop in Albuquerque offering three of our stolen textiles for sale. The pawn shop called a dealer who alerted us. She subsequently sold 17 Navajo rings that were stolen from Coulter Brooks Art & Antiques to another dealer. " Sorry, missy, bet you're cooling your heels behind bars now.

Oh, and here's another wrinkle on the illicit trade in Native American artifacts--chemically treat the works of contemporary Native American artists to make them appear old.

Here's what ATADA has to say: "It has come to our attention that some Mission baskets have appeared in the market. These are very high quality Mission baskets by contemporary basketmakers of good repute that have been treated by a third party to look old. These baskets have fooled some experienced basket dealer (including some ATADA members) and have been sold at auction and in the antique Indian and Tribal Art marketplace at very high prices. We alert collectors and dealers to be alert so as not to be taken by this scam. "

I'll bet the artisans are sick at heart at what was done to their work. Not only did someone deliberately alter their hard work and livelihood, but the con artists removed all mention of their names associated with the pieces and made big bucks doing it! I'm no weaver or potter, but I'm steamed anyway. What is your gut reaction?

After Nearly Thirty Years, Cezanne Goes Home

It’s amazing to me just how long stolen pieces of art can remain hidden. Good grief, people are still uncovering art lost or stolen during World War II. The particular piece I’m talking about today is a 29.3 million dollar still life by Paul Cezanne that was taken in 1978, along with six other paintings.

Evidently the owner of the painting, Michael Backwin, feels the same amazement. In a press release, he stated, “People seem to get away with all kinds of stuff when it comes to art robbery.”

What’s so convoluted about this recovery is that the guy arrested with the painting at Boston’s Logan Airport on Tuesday, February 13, isn’t the original thief. He’s the thief’s lawyer!

The burglar who took the paintings was killed over a gambling debt just a year after the heist. (Rather a character-revealing way to go, eh?) And his shyster lawyer’s been wiggling around trying to find a way to fence the goods ever since. His latest brainstorm was to broker a deal with the owner, Backwin, using a Panamanian corporation as a front. Well, Mr. Clever Barrrister, got the handcuffs instead.

Greed is greed, is greed, is greed!

There’s a bunch more to the tale, and the Art Loss Register played a key role in the recovery. If you’re into art (as you probably are if you’re reading this blog), you might want to check out the ALR site. They’ve got some pretty cool information over there. http://www.artloss.com/

Encouragement for Writers from a Non-Writer

The following is a message for writers from my husband, Doug. The picture is of him and Liz Curtis Higgs at the book signing, where he shared these thoughts with her.

In September, I was both honored and privileged to attend the American Christian Fiction Writers Conference in Dallas with my wife Jill. She wasn't sure I'd like hanging out with a bunch of wild and crazy writers, and she thought I might get bored when she had to be at sessions.

The conference was an eye-opener. The excitement! The terminology! The only "pitching" I knew about before was in baseball, softball or horseshoes. Through all the feverish tension, I was overwhelmed at the love and encouragement people had for each other. And I thoroughly enjoyed the praise and worship, followed by devotions.

One morning after devotions, I went back to our room and spent time with the Lord, reading in the Amplified Bible. He took me to Romans 10 where I read, "But how are people to call upon Him Whom they have not believed (in whom they have no faith, on whom they have no reliance)? And how are they to believe in Him of whom they have never heard?" Then I looked at Mark 16, where Jesus said, "Go into all the world and preach and PUBLISH openly the good news (gospel) to every creature (of the whole human race) . . . And they went out and preached everywhere, while the Lord kept working with them and confirming the message by the attesting signs and miracles that closely accompanied it."

I had never noticed the word "published" before in the Amplified version, and it jumped out at me, considering all the writers everywhere I went. At a keynote speaking session, the scriptures I had read were confirmed by testimonies shared by Liz Curtis Higgs.

People's lives are changed because of books. I believe God has called and commissioned Christian fiction writers to reach lost and hurting people who couldn't be reached any other way. If you're a writer and feeling tempted to give up. Don't! You will be surprised when you get to heaven at all the lives your stories have touched and how great your reward will be for obeying the call.

P.S. At the next conference, I suggest they have sessions for the spouses of the writers who don't understand and for the writers who don't understand their spouses not understanding. Make sense?

Wha-hoo! And Whew!

My first ever book promotion event went better than I expected. Since Reluctant Burglar is still a few weeks away from release, my afternoon at the Madison Library couldn’t be called a book signing, so I had to dub it a pre-release event. But the interest was phenomenal!

I gave away 200 bookmarks in the first hour and sent many promotional fliers home with people from all over the country. My prayer is that they will all keep their commitment to post the fliers at their local bookstores or libraries.

Our small, rural community hosted 1,000 extra people over the weekend of July 1 and 2 for an All School Reunion. Several hundred of them came to the library for an ice cream social, and I chatted up countless people with roots in Madison, MN. Most of them belonged in one of two camps—Could-Care-Less or Fascinated-That-There’s-A-Real-Writer-in-My-Hometown.

Of course, I had better response talking to the latter, but I understand the former. Not everyone
is a reader. I wish they were (they don’t know what they’re missing), but they’re not, and I’m comfortable with that.

In fact, I discovered that I might be more comfortable with disinterest than over-interest. Maybe it’s my conservative Minnesota upbringing, but excessive attention makes me squirm. I think it’s the fear of seeming prideful if I welcome the kudos. I’d make a terrible movie star! (Not that I have any acting ability anyway.)

Regional heritage issues aside, I had a blast, and I’m ready to do it again—this time with actual books to sign. Sharon Hinck, author of The Secret Life of Becky Miller, and I are scheduled for a signing at the library in Willmar, Minnesota, on September 8. Keep checking on my web site Appearances page to see where I’ll be popping up next.

Photo courtesy of Dale Hatfield, Madison Library Board Member

More Adventures in Albuquerque

"I knew I should have taken that left turn in Albuquerque!" - Bugs Bunny

"Wait! I did that around the middle of May! - Jill Nelson

As promised, this week we visit the FBI building in Albuquerque. But let's back up a little and start with the conversation I had with the cabby on the way over.

The morning of my Big Day in the Southwestern city with the outlandish name, the hotel van took me to the New Mexico Museum of Anthropology on the university campus. After I finished touring the museum, I called a cab and gave the driver the address. He shot me a puzzled stare, studied a city map, and leveled another stare. Finally, I fessed up and told him it was the FBI headquarters. The light came on in his face.

"Are you with the FBI?" His grin was eager.

Yeah, right. Moi? I should have told him I was a criminal profiler on the trail of a serial killer and step on it. But my innate honesty kicked in before I could think of something that entertaining.

"No," I said. "I'm too plump and laid back for that job."

At least he thought my answer rated a chuckle. And not shy one bit, he wanted to know why I was going to the FBI building. So I got to tell him about my books and give him my card. His reading tastes indicated a nonChristian, but someone interested in spiritual things. Good deal. Hope he reads my series and gains new light. The cabbie (and others who wondered what I was doing all alone in Albuquerque) was fascinated to hear I was writing a novel set in their city.

Back to the events at hand: We arrived at the FBI headquarters without incident--well, okay, he made a wrong turn once, but who's counting? Just goes to show the place isn't along the beaten path.

I'm a little nervous, of course. Here I am about to waltz into an office where they deal with national security issues as a way of life. For little old me from deep rural Minnesota, a speeding ticket is a big deal. Here, they want "a brief message or a detailed confession." I had no confession they cared to hear, so I was left with the brief message option.

We got to the building and immediately manifested ourselves as clueless civilians by driving up to the guardhouse. The nice uniformed gentleman with the burly muscles patiently directed us to park in the visitor lot. I was to leave my camera and cell phone in the cab, then step up to his window on foot. Once I proved myself a genuine Jane Citizen with proper photo ID that matched my matcheless mug, he'd let me in.

All well and good, but about now I'm wondering if they'll let me back out again. That soaring structure is one intimidating stone fortress, and they wouldn't let me take a picture, so you'll have to use your imagination.

Obviously, I did get out again, and they didn't even interrogate me. Nuts! But I got my share of assessing looks. First of all from the uniformed guard that stood up from his desk as soon as I walked through those darkened glass doors. He was the first thing I noticed, and then the full body metal detector similar to those at the airport.

The vestibule was completely walled in and very small. If I wanted to venture further inside, I would need to get past the guard and the metal detector. Cool! But rats! Since I'd taken care of my business with the agent on the phone the day before, I didn't have any excuse to press onward and upward. But one of these days, I'll get that opportunity. I'm awaiting the engraved invitation . . . any day now . . .

I left my card with a brief note of thanks to the media liason with the receptionist behind the bullet-proof glass. She, too, gave me an assessing look. I imagine I was a true oddity in their world. Ah, well, maybe I gave them something different to talk about. Maybe not, but I can dream.

Adventures in Albuquerque

"I knew I should've taken that left turn in Albuquerque!"- Bugs Bunny

"Wait, I did that around the middle of May!"- Jill Nelson

And a fun time was had by me, myself, and I on the research trail for Reluctant Runaway, the second in the To Catch a Thief Series. With Runaway set in Albuquerque, I realized when I signed up for the Colorado Christian Writers Conference near Estes Park, Colorado, that I was only a bunny-hop away from that New Mexico city with the outlandish name. So I decided to take the fateful left turn.

My most fascinating stop was at the FBI office building, a modern stone fortress towering behind a tall iron fence. And only one dinky entrance enclosed behind darkened glass. Gack! Do they let you out if by some miracle they let you in?

Before we discover the answer, I need to backtrack to my telephone conversation the day before with the media liaison at the Albuquerque office. I phoned the receptionist to let her know this author person was going to stop by tomorrow, and if there were someone whose normal duties would encompass speaking to such an anomaly, I’d be grateful. The nice woman actually sounded interested. Very encouraging. She put me on hold, checked with someone, then put me through to the media liaison. I got his voice mail, which was pretty interesting, too. He invited me to leave "a brief message or a detailed confession." Now, who says the FBI has no sense of humor?

But I will say they’re a bit cagey. About five minutes after I left my message WITHOUT my call back number, I got a call back. And the caller ID in my cell phone screen was all zeros. Yikes! So they get my number, but I don’t get theirs? How fair is that? I suspect the man was in his office all along, but he checked my message to see what I wanted before he bothered with me. The fact that he did bother with me made up a little for the totally cool sneakiness. He then gave me some info that saved my bacon on a plot twist for Runaway. Major for me, minor for him as he went back to his regular duties.

If I had to characterize my interaction with the personnel, I’d say cordial but reserved. They’re not big on warm fuzzies and guarded about details of their jobs. Understandable. They’re pitted against gentlefolk with guns and bombs and other quaint methods of destruction. I do NOT want their job; I just want to write about it.

Questions occur to me about author/fed relations. (Is there such a thing?) Novels, TV shows,
and movies about the FBI abound. We’re fascinated with them. Do agents ever watch the shows or read the books? Do they laugh their heads off at the inaccuracies? Or are they glad we don’t know all their business? Would they like to prosecute the more bubble-brained writers and even throw away the key on the insulting ones? Agents are people, too, but what do they think about authors? Do they think about us at all? If anyone has insight I’m all ears.

Next week, I’ll return to the saga of my visit to the FBI building, plus more Adventures in Albuquerque.

Sotheby's Sells Picasso for a Pile!

Hello, Dear Reader:

Welcome to my blog. Every week I'll post fresh thoughts on art, art theft, antiquities preservation, or the art of writing fiction. If you've arrived at this blog, you probably got here via my web site (www.jillelizabethnelson.com), where you can find out more about my To Catch a Thief romantic suspense series. If you arrived some other way, perhaps you're an art afficianado or concerned with antiquities preservation. Kudos to you!

This new as of May 4: Picasso's Dora Maar au chat sold for $95 million dollars at Sotheby's auction house in New York, the second-highest auction price ever. At the same auction, Monet's Pres Monte Carlo, an impressionist landscape, went for about $5.1 million, and Renoir's Fleurs et Fruits sold for $2.8 million. All three paintings went to anonymous buyers! I don't think the anonymity was due to shyness--more like good common sense. Why would the buyers want prospective thieves to know they now own multi-million dollar paintings? (For more information and a pic of the picture, go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dora_maar_au_chat.)

Art is big business--obviously!--and covetous hearts are drawn by mega-dollars. That's why law enforcement and security agents lead such challenging lives. As long as greed exists, they'll have jobs, which is something of a pitiful positive if you think about it.

Now just a dab about me:
This August I will have been married to the same man for twenty-five years--an accomplishment in this day and age. I have no pets, but have nearly finished raising four children. (Does one ever complete this project?) I'm an avid reader and enthusiastic writer. Other than reading and writing, my favorite pasttimes include camping with my family, taking walks with my husband, and interracting on-line with friends, fellow writers, and readers. I love seafood, Asian and Italian cuisines. When I'm not busy with other things, my favorite TV shows are Numbers, Criminal Minds, and CSI. (Guess I just have a whodunnit kind of mind.) Oh, and if I can find a Columbo rerun, forget anything else going on. Ah, just one more thing . . .

Stop back next week for more updates on art, writing, and moi. On Tuesday, May 16, I head for Albuquerque to do reasearch on the book I'm currently writing, Reluctant Runaway. I hope to glean some good thoughts to blog about. Then it's off to Estes State Park near Denver, Colorado, for a writers conference May 17 - 20.