The Barnes & Noble Review
Bubbles Yablonsky and sexy photojournalist Steve Stiletto are back in this wickedly funny follow-up to Bubbles in Trouble. This time out, their plans for a passionate get-together are foiled by a hot new case: the murder of a prominent local businessman who had recently petitioned for a permit to build a gambling casino in the town of Slagville, Pennsylvania. For many in the town, where unemployment was nearing 20 percent, a casino would mean "hotels, restaurants, an amusement park, and jobs, job, jobs." However, the proposed site for the casino happens to be a patch of land known as the Dead Zone -- an area lying between the town's active coal mine and the neighboring town of Limbo -- which sits atop an underground mine fire that's been burning for the past 40 years. Naturally, some in town are worried that the casino would be "full of grandmas at the slot machines collapse into a giant sinkhole faster than the Titanic sank into the North Atlantic."
So, for Bubbles and her motley crew of amateur sleuths, the motive may be obvious, but getting her shot at breaking a front-page news story for the Lehigh News-Times before the competition beats her to it is no easy task. Not only is the prime suspect married to her favorite cousin, but also, as Bubbles's luck would have it, the next victims on the culprit's list could very well be her and Stiletto!
With sharp, witty dialogue and colorfully engaging characters, Strohmeyer's Agatha Awardwinning mystery series continues to delight. Janet Evanovich has her Stephanie Plum; Susan Strohmeyer is making a claim to an equally endearing sleuth in Bubbles.
Agatha winner Strohmeyer provides lots of madcap fun in her third book (after 2002's Bubbles in Trouble) to feature budding reporter/detective/hairdresser Bubbles Yablonsky. Lured into an unused Pennsylvania coal mine, Bubbles and her "Mel Gibson dead ringer" photographer boyfriend, Steve Stiletto, narrowly escape harm in a cave-in right after they stumble on car-sales magnate Bud Price with "a six-inch bloody hole blown into the middle of his chest." They also find the abandoned car of Bubbles's cousin-in-law, Carl "Stinky" Koolball, the cartographer for McMullen Coal, the company that owns the mine. And now Stinky's missing. The plot thickens like a vat of kapusta as more and more ingredients are added-perhaps too many. On top of her crime-solving, Bubbles must deal with her rebellious teenage daughter, her biker-chick mother's vendetta over some stolen Polish recipes, and a clean-cut stud named Zeke who keeps following her. Some lines are laugh-out-loud funny. Asked if she knows who John Gotti was, Bubbles is "almost positive [he] ran a pizza parlor in Allentown." The dumb-blonde schtick works well with the whole loony business, and Strohmeyer's sharp eye for styles and regional details (Tastykakes, scrapple) adds to the realism and the charm. Agent, Heather Schroder at ICM. (June 30) Forecast: Dressed in blonde wig and stiletto heels like her heroine, Strohmeyer draws increasing crowds on her author tours. Her publisher is betting that Bubbles will be the next Stephanie Plum, her obvious prototype, but Strohmeyer's writing needs to be more disciplined, less scattershot before Janet Evanovich fans come over in big numbers. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Bubbles Yablonsky (Bubbles Unbound, Bubbles in Trouble), hairdresser and wannabe big-story reporter, bumbles her way through another engaging puzzle involving murder. Bubbles and her almost-lover Steve, an AP photographer, happen upon a body in a disused Pennsylvania coal mine. They barely escape with their lives when the mine explodes, but Steve breaks the story while Bubbles hunts for an angle. She finally writes an expos about the local coal company stealing coal from someone else's property. Bubbles consequently attracts "bodyguard" assistance from her wacko mother, her mother's blowgun-toting sidekick, and Steve's buff ex-con friend. Yes, there are dumb, blond hairdresser jokes but bustling action, and well-meaning confusion, too. For most collections. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Those perennial rivals, love and ambition, clash anew as a hairdresser and would-be reporter struggles to earn a full-time berth on the Lehigh News-Times. Waiting between the red satin sheets of the Passion Peak Resort for gorgeous Associated Press photographer Steve Stiletto to satisfy the desires of her heart, among other organs, Bubbles Yablonsky (Bubbles in Trouble, 2002, etc.) gets a fax; her editor wants her to cover a breaking story at McMullen Coal’s Number Nine mine. Hightailing it to Slagville, she finds her cousin Carl "Stinky" Koolball’s Lexus parked outside Number Nine and a very dead car-dealer named Bud Price parked inside, along with a live but slightly dented Stiletto. The sweethearts narrowly escape a cave-in intended to send both their names to the obit desk, then rush off in opposite directions (after all, they work for rival news agencies). Stiletto roars off with ex-model Esmeralda Greene, AP’s rising star. Bubbles trots down to Main Street where her cousin Roxanne--the now-AWOL Stinky’s wife--runs a salon out of her living room. Joined by her leather-clad mother LuLu and mom’s survivalist sidekick Genevieve, Bubbles ventures into Limbo, where conspiracy theorist Pete Zudakis lives atop a still-burning underground coal fire; where Price had hoped to build a casino; and where she finds a secret darker than coal, scarier than her mother’s latest hairdo, and sure to require a skin-of-her-hot-pants rescue. Better-than-usual mystery beneath the manic-as-usual Strohmeyer mayhem. Agent: Heather Schroder/ICM
Read an Excerpt
Looking back, I guess my first mistake was to assume that a rookie reporter could pursue both a hot story and a hot sex life. I mean, what was I thinking? One glance at a crusty old city editor and the truth is obvious: the only time sex coexists with journalism is in a newspaper's police log. And even then, it's usually followed by the word "crime."
My experience, unfortunately, was no exception.
The evening began with me between red satin sheets in the Passion Peak Resort -- one of those fancy and romantic Pocono Mountain lovers hotels that I'd dreamt of staying in since I was a little girl.
Hunky Associated Press photographer Steve Stiletto was late, per usual. As an international photojournalist more accustomed to dodging bullets than punching clocks, punctuality is optional in his world. Even when the option was making love to a thirty-something, living Polish-Lithuanian Barbie named Bubbles who hadn't had sex in five months, twenty days and four hours. And, yes, I was counting.
This time he had an acceptable excuse. The President was hitting the hustings for Pennsylvania Republicans, and Stiletto was to shoot him at every stop. As soon as Air Force One left for Washington, Stiletto vowed to develop his film, send it off to the AP office in New York and meet me at the Passion Peak for our first night of sexual intimacy.
In the meantime, I made sure everything was perfect. I had arranged and rearranged the cinnamon-scented candles around the champagne-glass style Jacuzzi and practiced seductively unrolling my stockings from their black lace garters until one got a run when it snagged on my acrylic nail. Finally, after lying on the circular bed and staring at my reflection in the overhead mirror for so long that I started seriously considering liposuction, I dialed the front desk.
"Has a Steve Stiletto left a message for me by any chance?"
"No Stiletto," said the clerk. "Salvo."
"Mr. Salvo?" Uh-oh. Mr. Salvo was my boss at the Lehigh News-Times. "And you didn't put him through to my room?"
"In case you're unawares, this is a honeymoon hotel. We got an automatic do-not-disturb policy. I told him to fax over the message and I'd get it to you ASAP."
"Bet he took that well."
"Let's just say I never knew ASAP referred to unmentionable body parts." There was the rustling of paper. "I got it right here. On company letterhead, no less."
A fax on News-Times stationery meant trouble and I was right. The one-page letter contained an urgent message, along with detailed directions to an abandoned coal mine called simply Number Nine in the nearby town of Slagville, where a Lehigh businessman had reportedly been found fatally shot in the chest earlier in the evening. It promised to be a media circus.
Because I was in the area, Mr. Salvo concluded, I could beat the pack of other Lehigh Valley reporters and get an exclusive for tomorrow's paper -- that is, if I hustled. A police press conference was tentatively scheduled for 11:30 p.m. -- one half hour before the final edition deadline.
The stamp on the fax said 9:15.
The time on the heart-shaped bedside clock said 11.
Mr. Salvo was going to have my bleached blond head on a plate.
I shoved my gartered gams into a pair of black spandex pants, wiggled into an apricot-colored turtleneck and scribbled a note for Stiletto that I intended to sound sexy, but which came off instead as a desperate plea for him to stay awake until I returned. I dropped it off with the front desk clerk and hopped in the Camaro.
The murder scene would be crawling with reporters by now, I thought, as I goosed it down Route 15. Like most Pennsylvania highways it was as smooth as a brick patio. Bumpity bump, bump, bump. I veered off an exit to a deserted, winding road. Occasionally, my headlights illuminated large coal breakers that loomed on the hillsides, towering and rusted.
It was October and dead leaves blew in whirls across my hood. I used my windshield wipers to swish them away, keeping an eye out for the turnoff to the Number Nine mine. My last hope was that I would make the press conference so at least I'd have some bit of information, anything, to call into the newsroom by midnight. If I completely failed, Mr. Salvo would suspect that I'd blown off the assignment for a roll in the hay with Stiletto and I'd never get another opportunity like this again.
Mr. Salvo rarely assigned me breaking news stories as it was. Those were reserved for the newsroom stars, the elite Columbia Journalism School graduates or the seasoned veteran reporters. As a full-time hairdresser with a GED and eight years of Two Guys Community College under my belt, what I usually got were the dregs -- strawberry festivals and county fairs.
For months I'd been begging Mr. Salvo to throw me a bone, to give me a chance at hard news. And here he had given in and what had I done? Dropped the ball. Why? Because of sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. It has cursed me all my life. Got me knocked up in high school and shotgun wedded to my now ex, Dan the Man. I should Superglue my legs together.
Who was I kidding? Not even Superglue could hold up against a Mel Gibson dead ringer like Stiletto. His long, slow kisses could melt steel. And, oh, the possibilities of what he looked like under those well-worn Levis of his, well!
I was so deep in my naked Stiletto fantasy that I nearly missed the turnoff to the mine's access road, which was unpaved, rocky and rough. A couple of times the Camaro scraped bottom, and the engine whined pitifully as my poor, two-toned car crept up the vertical hill. I had to stand on the gas pedal to get to the top.
As it turned out, I needn't have bothered. Not only was I late for the press conference, I had missed it entirely. The clearing around the mine entrance was deserted. No cops or news vans in sight. I'd have expected yellow police tape marking the murder scene or a patrolman to shoo away curiosity seekers. But there were only black and bare trees.
That's when I really got worried. Perhaps I had misread Mr. Salvo's directions. Maybe the press conference was underway right now, except it was back at the police station or at another location.
I flicked on the map light. It blinked twice. Not a good sign as my battery was on its last legs. My watch indicated it was a little after 11:30, so I wasn't that late. I scanned Mr. Salvo's note for clues and found none except the sending fax number. All the News-Times exchanges began with 457. This one was 238. And the area code was local to this part of Pennsylvania - 570, not Lehigh's 610.
Mr. Salvo hadn't sent this fax at all.
A mournful howl echoed from the hills and I suddenly felt very alone and small.
Moments like these I needed a cell phone. I don't have one because they scare me. Not because of brain cancer or distracted driving. With my pathetic technical skills, I'm afraid I'll accidentally leave one on and be stuck with a thousand-dollar bill and yet another collection agency after my overcharged tail.
I opened the glove compartment and pulled out my yellow flashlight from Shop Rite. Then I gathered my purse, including my Reporter's Notebook, and exited the car to do a quick inspection before heading back to the Passion Peak. To cover all my bases, so to speak.
A chilly breeze blew across the mountain and I folded my arms tightly to keep warm. Too bad I hadn't thought to bring a coat since my ninety-eight percent spandex turtleneck provided all the insulation of Kleenex. I ventured a few yards, my heels crunching on the gravelly surface as I surveyed the area. The place smelled of rotting leaves and faint traces of wood smoke while the flashlight revealed no signs of a press conference having been held minutes ago. There was only an empty coal car perched at the mine entrance. A slag heap. A few molding wood beams.
And a late model gold Lexus with the license plate STINKYK4.
STINKYK4! I stopped in my tracks.
Couldn't be. Why, that rat. That fink! There was only one Stinky K in my life and he lived right here in Slagville. His real name was Carl Koolball and he was a consummate, pencil-necked geek. Stinky annoyed everyone with his practical jokes. He was always slipping whoopee cushions onto coworkers seats or unscrewing the salt shaker caps in his company's cafeteria -- that is, when he wasn't engrossed in his job as a cartographer for a mining company.
Unfortunately, he was also the husband of my absolutely favorite cousin, Roxanne, who, besides introducing me to the exciting world of neighborhood hairdressing, snuck me into my first Journey concert when I was fifteen.
Leave it to Stinky Koolball to play a prank on me. Mama must have let it slip to Roxanne about my stay at the Passion Peak and he took it from there. But how did he get hold of News-Times letterhead?
The Lexus was vacant and locked. That could only mean Stinky was somewhere in the woods spying on me, having a laugh at my expense.
"I hope you're happy, Stinky Koolball!" I hollered. "You completely ruined my night."
I cocked an ear. No response. I tried a different approach. "Come on, Stinky, puhleeese. This isn't funny anymore."
Still nothing. Fine. I spun on my heels and headed back to the Camaro. What a waste of time. I got into the car and turned the key in the ignition. Maybe, if I hurried, Stiletto would be still be at the Passion Peak, relaxing on the circular bed, a glass of champagne on the nightstand. Then again, maybe he figured I'd chickened out and split.
Geesh, I wished this car would start. The ignition beeped once, whirred and then died. Click. Click. Nothing more. I turned the key again, although this time I couldn't even conjure a whir or a beep. The car was dead. Not even a spark. What luck.
I slumped in the front seat and let out one sigh short of a sob. The Fates were against me. It was as though some cosmic force -- in this case my cousin's husband -- didn't want me to get together with Stiletto, didn't want my life to take a positive uspswing with a man who might actually love me forever. A man who sent a tingle of sexual electricity to my lilac fingertips every time he smiled with that generous mouth.
The wind intensified, whipping my car mercilessly. No heat. No light. No radio. No way to communicate to the outside world. I'd just have to wait for Stinky to return to his Lexus so he could give me a jump.
I didn't wait long. For somewhere in the distance, over by the coal car I estimated, echoed the sizzling crack of a gun shot.
My heart stopped. Deer season come early? I thought optimistically. A coal cracker jacker?
But then there was another shot. And this one came straight from the mouth of the mine.
Like a thunderclap, the gravity of the situation hit me. Here I was, a single mother alone in the woods, possibly the victim of cruel mischief, miles from any home or business, with a dead battery and a nutcase shooting guns off in a mine.
I considered my predicament. I could sit here, cowering in my Camaro, or I could find Stinky and get him to stop scaring me and start jumping my battery.
"Stinky!" I shouted again, getting out of the Camaro and marching over to the mine. I leaned against the rotting wood beam and poked my head into the dark abyss. "Stinky Koolball, come out of there. Come out or you'll have to answer to LuLu Yablonsky." Great, evoking my mother's wrath like I was back in grade school.
"Ohhhh. Ugghh. Ohhh."
The sound, an awful moan, was coming from right behind me. The hairs on my arm bristled under my turtleneck in alarm.
I froze for a minute, unsure of what to do. Carefully, slowly, I directed the flashlight beam into the coal car and gasped at what it revealed. A man's body, legs at odd positions, a white oxford shirt torn and stained with brown patches. Face bloodied.
It couldn't be. It was.