BRENT KROETCH
A Ham McCalister Mystery
When rich and eccentric rock legend Blake Garrett offers private detective Kyle “Ham” McCalister an astonishing fee to find his predicted would-be killer, Ham is not even sure he wants the case. His reluctance is based upon Blake’s belief in a trusted psychic who predicts that there will be three attempts on his life before the actual assassination occurs. Ham, who has a deep seated distrust of most people and their motives anyway, feels certain that Blake’s psychic is a phony, that there is no murder to prevent, and that Blake is even more naïve and gullible than he is rich and famous . Once he arrives in Hawaii to meet with the superstar, however, Ham is confronted by madness and murder—and a self-proclaimed ghost who won’t leave him alone.
In order to solve the case—whether real or imagined—Ham must overcome his distrust of people and their motives, his would-be cynicism and hard-boiled pessimism, his occasional and very much unwanted flights into Walter Mitty-esque fantasy...and his utter fascination with Blake's free-spirited daughter, Charlie. And that, he discovers, is much, much easier said than done.
Private Eye Meets Ghost. Ghost Wins.
“So tell me about your dad.”
She shrugged a noncommittal reply. “What’s to tell? He’s Blake Garrett.”
“You must have an opinion more helpful than that he’s Blake Garrett. Tell me what he’s like.”
“Like any old guy who’s lived it all. Brilliant. Stupid. Self absorbed. Generous. Tender and mean. An open enigma.”
Right, he thought, that makes sense. To Charlie, if nobody else. “Okay. Thanks. That prepares me.”
Bemused, Ham studied her as she drove, tongue slightly protruded between her teeth as she concentrated on the constantly changing traffic. She enchanted him as always, from her almond eyes that hinted at some exotic influence, to her astonishing mane of blonde hair that nearly touched the lower back. Not to mention a slim but elegantly curved physique that perfectly suited her five and a half feet of height. All set off by a face maybe just a touch too round, but provoking nevertheless, and with a smoothness that belied her age, which fell only a couple of years south of his own. As always, a bloom adorned her ear, this time a large white flower that might have been a gardenia.
“You’re drooling.”
“Pardon me?”
Charlie laughed, a little tinkling sound that was the female version of Blake’s soft chortle. “The way you look at me. You drool, Ham Man. With your eyes.”
