Andi’s step-mother, Ruby, is a real piece of work, but is she a murderer?
Andi Anna Jones, so-so travel agent/amateur sleuth, puts aside her resentment of her father’s widow and books a 60th birthday cruise to Cancun for Ruby and three friends. Never does Andi imagine the cruise will include the murder of a has-been lounge singer—or that Ruby might be the main suspect.
Flirting with more than danger after arriving in Mexico, Andi connects with charming local sheriff, Manual Gonzales. An embarrassing night involving the sheriff, too many margaritas, and a Mariachi band, can’t quell her determination to clear the name of her ex-stepmother.
While gathering clues and interviewing witnesses, however, she suspects dear old stepmom isn’t the only one in jeopardy.
Purchase Margaritas, Mayhem & Murder
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09QXR7WKX
Haven’t made up your mind? Read an EXCERPT and you’ll be hooked!
I bolted upright, greeted by the wet, clammy sleeve of my faded unicorn nightshirt, and ripped off my sleep mask, along with a few strands of hair. Oh, puh-leese. Who’s calling at this un-godly hour?
“Jeeze Louise!” I made a mental note: Don’t set water glass on nightstand beside phone. Speaking of which, where is the darn phone? I made one more grab. Success!
“Hul-lo?” Tucking it under my chin, I patted my sleeve with the corner of the Egyptian cotton sheet I practically stole at a going out of business sale. Never too proud to sleep between bargain luxury.
“I said, Hello!”
Silence.
“Hey, jerk, you called me.”
More silence.
“Okay, game over.” My instincts kicked into high gear, and I was poised to bang the phone against the headboard. “If you’re an obscene caller, better hold onto those eardrums—”
“Andi Anna, honey, is that you? Oh sugar, I’m so glad you answered!”
Andi Anna? Only two people on Earth use my middle name: my dearly departed dad, and…
“Ruby?”
I squinted at Dad’s old alarm clock with its illuminated hands. One of the few items I’d retrieved from the trash pile after his widow decided to dump everything that reminded her of “my dear, sweet Drew.” Now to figure out why she was calling at two-thirty in the morning.
Mary Cunningham, Author 