There's nothing better than a classic noir detective mystery!

Repeat guest Renee Pawlish joins me today to read from the first book in her Reed Ferguson noir mystery series, This Doesn't Happen in the Movies. If you love stories in the vein of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, you're going to love Renee's books.

We discuss the Reed Ferguson series and her historical mystery series featuring detective Dewey Webb, which interestingly is a spin off from the Reed books.

This week's mystery author

Although born in California, Renee Pawlish has lived in Colorado most of her life. She went to college and graduate school locally, and currently lives in her dream home in the foothills west of Denver. Renee used to be a counselor, with a focus on teen sexual abuse issues and substance abuse, but then she moved into the IT field and never looked back. 

Renee writes in several genres that include mystery, horror, action-adventure, and historical mystery.

To learn more about Renee and her books, visit her website ReneePawlish.com

Press play (above) to listen to the show, or read the transcript below. Remember you can also subscribe to the show on Apple Podcasts. And listen on Stitcher, Android, Google Podcasts, TuneIn, and Spotify.

You can also click here to listen to the interview on YouTube.

Excerpt from This Doesn't Happen in the Movies

“I want you to find my dead husband.”

“Excuse me?” That was my first reaction.

“I want you to find my husband. He’s dead, and I need to know where he is.” She spoke in a voice one sexy note below middle C.

“Uh-huh.” That was my second reaction. Really slick.

Moments before, when I saw her standing in the outer room, waiting to come into my office, I had the feeling she’d be trouble. And now, with that intro, I knew it.

“He’s dead, and I need you to find him.” If she wasn’t tired of the repetition, I was, but I couldn’t seem to get my mouth working. She sat in the cushy black leather chair on the other side of my desk, exhaling money with every sultry breath. She had beautiful blond hair with just a hint of darker color at the roots, blue eyes like a cold mountain lake, and a smile that would slay Adonis. I’d like to say that a beautiful woman couldn’t influence me by her beauty alone. I’d like to say it, but I can’t.

“Why didn’t you come see me yesterday?” I asked. Her eyes widened in surprise. This detective misses nothing, I thought, mentally patting myself on the back. She didn’t know that I’d definitely noticed her yesterday eating at a deli across the street. I had been staring out the window, and there she was.

The shoulders of her red designer jacket went up a half-inch and back down, then her full lips curled into the trace of a smile. “I came here to see you, but you were leaving for lunch. I followed you, and then I lost my nerve.”

“I see you’ve regained it.” I’ve never been one to place too much importance on my looks, but I suddenly wished I could run a comb through my hair, put on a nicer shirt, and splash on a little cologne. And change my eye color – hazel – boring. It sounded like someone’s old, spinster aunt, not an eye color.

She nodded. “Yes. I have to find out about my husband. He’s dead, I know it. I just know it.” Her tone swayed as if in a cool breeze, with no hint of the desperation that should’ve been carried in the words.

“But he’s also missing,” I said in a tone bordering on flippant, as I leaned forward to unlock the desk drawer where I kept spare change, paper clips, and my favorite gold pen. Maybe writing things down would help me concentrate. But I caught a whiff of something elegant coming from her direction, and the key I was holding missed the lock by a good two inches. I hoped she didn’t see my blunder. I felt my face getting warm and assumed my cheeks were turning crimson. I hoped she didn’t see that either.

Perhaps I was being too glib because she glanced back toward the door as if ...