Books, Chocolate and Wine with Mari Manning

by | Apr 29, 2016 | cops, murder, Mystery, romance, suspense, tarot cards, Texas | 0 comments

How Tarot
Cards Ended Up in My Latest Romance
I attended one of those old
Catholic colleges located in a large Midwest city. For a restless suburban girl
whose most traumatic experience was watching her Siamese cat murder the chick
she’d just brought home from biology class, living in a down-at-its heels
neighborhood clinging to the edge of a major metropolis was an adventure.
I walked a lot, lapping up new
sites and situations like a kitten with a dish of milk. One day, I turned down
a narrow side street and discovered a little occult shop. I was a good Catholic
girl who did not subscribe to ghosts, Ebenezer Scrooge not withstanding. Still,
I hesitated to poke my head inside although eaten by curiosity. So I walked
past. A few days later I strolled by the shop again. I did not go in. The third
time I approached, a beautiful girl came out. Tall and slender, jean shirt,
paisley scarf tied in her long hair and college knapsack hanging from her
shoulder.
I went in.

Lots of books, lots and lots of
rocks, incense and tie-dye. Ordinary stuff, but I kept my arms at my sides and
touched nothing. At one point, I had the urge to make the sign-of-the-cross,
but restrained myself.

A girl with black hair and
make-up wearing a tie-dyed T shirt stood at the counter. “Can I help you?”
“Just looking.” That never sounded so stupid. I realized
I wasn’t afraid of the stuff in the shop, I was afraid of connecting with the
people in the shop. Magic was hocus-pocus. People who believe in it were less
predictable. I began to meander purposefully toward the door.
She held up a small red box.
“Tarot cards,” she said. “Lots of fun at a party.” She cracked a smile.
Literally.
“How much?” I was an
impoverished student.
“Four-ninety-five.”
Was it those mysterious rocks
or the patchouli-drench air or her pale eyes peering at me through a thick
circle of eye shadow? I don’t know. But I plunked down my beer money and bought
them.
She was right. They were fun.
But they were also revelatory. People open up when you guess at their lives.
When you face them one-on-one and say, “Let’s talk about you,” it is
universally agreeable.
Were the cards magic? Not in
the way you might imagine. But, if you can sense a melancholy air, you might
guess someone is sad or preoccupied. A man who is older than the other students
and limps might be a veteran. A girl with a Polish accent might have had a
rough journey. You hint at those possibilities, and they see a chance to
explain themselves or share what they cannot say elsewhere. The cards establish
an intimacy, and I’ve treasured all the stories I’ve heard while “reading”
tarots.
After college, as I began to
write, I found my muse returning to that box of cards and the lives it opened
up for me. I gave some of my characters the same gift. Dinah Pittman in my
recently released romantic suspense, Stranger at My Door reads tarot cards. I
have started a mystery series in which my sleuth, Lousann Linkous, is a tarot
card reader who lives in an old house and has a neon sign in her front window.
A character in my second romance, Angel Without Wings, is based on the veteran
I met at a party in college.
I’ve never been back to the
occult shop or entered another one. I never saw the beautiful girl again
although she must have gone to my college. I’ve passed other occult shops and
always thought, No need to stop. I got
what I wanted the first time.
The only thing standing between her and disaster
is a man she can’t trust…
As far as Dinah Pittman is
concerned, men can’t be trusted. Especially cops. Her own father was a cop and
a convicted felon who stole a small fortune before dying in prison. The best
part? No one knows where the money is…and someone is willing to kill off
everyone who knows anything about it.
And Dinah is next.
Rafe Morales left the Dallas
police force to settle down to a simpler life in the small Texas town of El
Royo. Instead, he finds himself protecting an infuriating, tough-as-nails,
oh-so-sexy victim—and driving himself crazy with a thoroughly unprofessional
desire.
But as the body count rises,
Rafe and Dinah must find a way to trust each other…before they both end up
dead.
Reviews for Stranger at My Door
“This
is the first book I’ve read by this author, but it won’t be the last. This is a
must read for romantic suspense fans.” 
Amazon Reviewer
“Can’t
wait for the next Texas Romance.”   …Amazon Reviewer
Excerpt from Stranger at My Door
The front door rebounded and
clipped Rafe’s shoulder. He kicked it closed with his boot before raking his
flashlight beam across the unlit entryway. The hall was clear. His heart
thumping against ribs, he burst into the living room. His light hit the figure
of a woman, and his feet froze. He tilted the beam up and framed Dinah
Pittman’s expressionless face.
 Most girls would have screamed or hid when he
kicked in the door. Not this one. She had balls, he’d give her that. 
Her forearm
lifted to shield her eyes from the light. “Who are you? What do you want?” She
sounded tired. “I already told Teke, I don’t know where the money is.” 
Rafe lowered
the flashlight and rolled his shoulder to loosen a tight muscle. There were
about two dozen abandoned bungalows in this part of town. When he saw a candle
flickering in the window, he’d expected a confrontation with teenagers or maybe
a squatter.
He stepped
into the candlelight. “Officer Morales, ma’am. Got something against
electricity?” As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. The pink
flyers. She’d needed money to turn on the lights.
Her mouth
tightened. “Get out.” Turning to a small table by the window, she gathered up
scattered cards, probably her tarot cards. Had she found customers already?
He studied her
as he summoned up an appropriate apology. She wore cut-offs and a white
T-shirt. His eyes swept down her slim legs to her bare feet and red toenails
before he could stop himself. Why were pain-in-the-ass women always hot?
“I didn’t mean
to upset you—”
“Don’t flatter
yourself.”
“That’s tough
to do with you around.”
Her hand
stilled for a moment, then returned to its task. “You could have knocked.”
“Sometimes we
get squatters in these abandoned houses. They’re more likely to be discouraged
by a show of force.”
“I could have
been a mass murderer. Aren’t you supposed to call for backup?” She glanced down
at his flashlight. “If I was a bad guy with a gun, you’d be dead, Officer
Morales.”
“Rafe.”
She’d read him
right. He’d tried to pull out his service revolver when he broke down the door,
but—predictably—his hand had turned to Jell-O. After two years, he still
couldn’t get past the night in Dallas when his beautiful, daring Sam’s luck ran
out, and he’d avenged her but failed to live up to his own lofty ideals. So he
relied on the element of surprise and big fists.
Gathering up
the cards, she set them in a neat stack. “As you can see, I am not a squatter.”
Her gaze flickered to his flashlight, then back up to his face. “There’s an
empty house about two blocks down if you’re determined to rescue one.”
The corner of
his mouth inched up. She’d be a handful…for the right man, which sure as hell
wasn’t him. Not anymore. “Thanks for the tip.”
About Mari Manning
Let’s start with the fun stuff.
I love small towns, mysteries, quiet men, laughter, old-fashioned spaghetti
dinners. I love boots and shopping and jokes and Hershey’s dark chocolate and
white wine. I love lots of things. But my first love is reading.
I love to read. Just about
anything, but it has to be well-written. I go through periods where I am into
historical novels or romance or mystery or history or biography. I never know
when my desires will suddenly change.
Now for the writer-ish,
official stuff: Mari Manning is the author of several contemporary romances and
three romantic suspense novels set in the Texas Hill Country. Stranger at My
Door is the first in her A Murder in Teas series. The second, Stranger in My
House will be published by Entangled later this year. The third book in the
series is Stranger in My Bed. Currently Mari is working on a series of cozy
mysteries.
She and her husband live in
Chicago.
You can contact Mari Manning at:
Website: www.marimanning.com
Blog: www.marimanning.com
Twitter: @mari_manning

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/marimanning.author

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