For my review of Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet, click here.
Once again, I asked the talented Darynda a few questions regarding her Charley Davidson books. Thanks again for answering these, Darynda!
Q. Where do you get your ideas for the humor that is uniquely Charley's?
A. Oh, gosh, all over! I pay very close attention to humor. It’s very subjective, obviously, but I love finding out what is funny and why. It’s all about doing the unexpected and with Charley’s ADD, we get the unexpected a lot. :)
Q. How many Charley Davidson books do you have planned?
A. My editor wants it to be ongoing, so there’s just no telling. I would love it to continue for quite a while longer. I adore writing about Charley and her antics, but when that day does come, I have a backup plan. I actually have the last book in the series planned out and a spinoff started. But hopefully that won’t happen for a very long time.
Q. If you could spend the evening with Reyes, what do you think you would talk to him about? What would he say or do?
A. I think I would be a tad tongue-tied. But if I could ever regain my composure, I supposed I’d talk to him about what it was like to be created and raised in Hell. What was his childhood like and was it worse or better than the one he experienced as a human.
He would probably ignore me. I can’t imagine talking about either of his childhoods would be pleasant for him, so it’s not like I’d be able to blame him.
And now for an exclusive sneak peek at Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet:
With renewed energy, I pulled back onto Academy— after hitting a drive- through for a mocha latte— and had just started for home when my phone rang.
“Yes?” I said, illegally talking on the phone while driving within the city limits. Scoping for cops, I waited for Uncle Bob to stop talking to whomever he was talking to and get back to me.
My uncle Bob, or Ubie as I most often referred to him, was a detective for APD, and I helped him on cases from time to time. He knew I could see the departed and used that to his advantage. Not that I could blame him.
“Get that to her, then call the ME ay- sap.”
“Okay,” I said, “but I’m not sure what calling the medical examiner ay- sap is going to accomplish. I’m pretty sure his name is George.”
“Oh, hey, Charley.”
“Hey, Uncle Bob. What’s up?”
“Are you driving?”
“No.”
“Have you heard anything?”
Our conversations often went like this. Uncle Bob with his random questions. Me with my trying to come up with answers just as random. Not that I had to try very hard. “I heard that Tiff any Gorham, a girl I knew in grade school, still stuff s her bra. But that’s just a rumor.”
“About the case,” he said through clenched teeth. I could tell his teeth were clenched because his words were suddenly forced. That meant he was frustrated. Too bad I had no idea what he was talking about.
“I wasn’t aware that we had a case.”
“Oh, didn’t Cookie call you?”
“She called me a doody- head once.”
“About the case.” His teeth were totally clenched again.
“We have a case?”
But I’d lost him. He was talking to another officer. Or a detective. Or a hooker, depending on his location and accessibility to cash. Though I doubted he would tell a hooker to check the status of the DOA’s autopsy report. Unless he was way kinkier than I’d ever given him credit for. I found his calling me only to talk to other people very challenging.
“I’ll call you right back,” he said. No idea to whom.
The call disconnected as I sat at a light, wondering what guacamole would look like if avocados were orange.
I finally shifted my attention to the dead kid in my backseat. He had shoulder- length blond hair and bright blue eyes and looked somewhere between fifteen and seventeen.
“You come here often?” I asked him, but my phone rang before he could say anything. That was okay. He had a vacant stare, so I doubted he would have answered me anyway.
“Sorry about that,” Uncle Bob said. “Do you want to discuss the case?”
“We have a case?” I said again, perking up.
“How are you?” He asked me that every time he called now.
“Peachy. Am I the case? If so, I can solve this puppy in about three seconds. I’m heading down San Mateo toward Central in a cherry red Jeep Wrangler with a questionable exhaust system.”
“Charley.”
“Hurry, before I get away!”
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