True paranormal story told by Candace Morehouse

‘Twas the week before Halloween and all through the village, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Out to explore the beauty of nature one crisp fall day in the White Mountains, Candace Morehouse became disoriented. She allowed her writer’s mind to carry her away to another place and time. Candace was always mesmerized by the castles, vineyards and majestic mountainsides of Germany, and she found herself leaving Arizona to venture into the Black Forest.

Before long, she was in the deepest thicket of the woods, far from civilization. A dark shadow fell over the forest--and with a shudder--Candace realized nighttime had set in. The wind swooshed through the mighty pines, sounding like the wise old whispers of the ancient Mogollon Indians who populated the grounds thousands of years ago. But suddenly, shivers danced down Candace’s spine. And when she heard blood-curdling screams coming from deep in the thrush, her heart caught in her throat.

Bathed in the eerie glow of the full moon, busy little dwarves hammered and pounded, chiseling beautiful cuckoo clocks out of the barks of pine. In the distance, werewolves howled and witches cackled, their blood-curdling cries slicing through the forest. Over the pummeling of nails, the dwarves kept right on working. But as Candace moved in closer, she heard them chattering amongst themselves and her blood ran cold.

“Beware,” the tiny man’s scratchy voice echoed in the wind. “Tis the witching season when one clock will be snatched up by the werewolves and witches that come out during a full moon. And with the powers bestowed upon them by the Mogollon Indians, they cast a wicked spell on a clock.”

“Indeed so,” another little man screeched. “And that clock will haunt its owner. It will cuckoo precisely three times, even though the hands of the clock will show a different time. The witches and werewolves of the Black Forest play this trick to frighten a person out of their wits. And we are the only ones that can break the spell with our chanting.”

Captivated by this mystical legend, Candace moved closer, her feet crunching dry twigs and pinecones. The dwarves stopped hammering and gawked, their wrinkled little faces twisted into gasps.

“Who are you and what do you want, mere mortal?”

“I’m Candace Morehouse and I have one of those haunted clocks. Please help me. Can you break the ancient spell so I can sleep at night?”

“Sit a spell on this pine stump and tell us your tale of woe,” a tiny bearded man gestured with a gnarled green fingernail. “And we’ll help if we can. But first, we need to hear the entire story.”

Sucking in her breath, Candace began to tell the tale of the Haunted Cuckoo Clock:

“A couple years ago my folks took a trip to Germany. My dad loves going there and exploring his ancestral roots. Of course, shopping for gifts for their brood of kids and stepkids is always part of their trip. Especially for me they brought back an authentic cuckoo clock manufactured in Germany’s famous Black Forest region.

“I was tickled pink. I’ve always wanted a cuckoo clock, and this one features a delightful tune and a cute little boy and girl that dance in and out of the doors. I put it up in my Mesa home (much to the chagrin of both my son and my husband, who hated hearing the cuckoo noise). A few months later I moved up to my current home hear in northeastern Arizona. Of course, the clock came along with us. Unfortunately I didn’t pack it correctly for the move and when I hung up in my kitchen, it never worked right; it kept stopping at will. I got tired of starting it back up again so I let it hang as a decorative object.

“Some months later I was all alone working away doing my freelance writing. It was a blustery, gray, gloomy sort of day. The wind was blowing and a chill was in the air. As I was sitting in the living room at my laptop typing, all of a sudden I heard the cuckoo clock strike three o’clock in the afternoon. I got immediate goose bumps. I glanced at the clock on my laptop and noted it was exactly three o’clock. The cuckoo clock tick-tocked several times, then abruptly stopped. When I went into the kitchen to look at it, the hands were pointing at a completely different time.

“I got so freaked out I had to leave my house for a while. I told my husband the story when he got home that night and he pooh-poohed the whole idea of a haunted clock. To this day, I still think something paranormal was going on. After all, what are the odds that a malfunctioning clock would suddenly strike exactly on the hour even when it wasn’t set to that time, start out of the blue, and then stop and never do it again?

“Perhaps it has something to do with the ancient Mogollon Indians who populated this area thousands of years ago…”

“Indeed so,” the little man stood, excitement gleaming in his eyes. “You have a haunted clock. And we can break the ancient spell but it must be done before the clock strikes midnight tonight.”

“But,” Candace stammered, fear blazing in her eyes. “I’m so far from home and I’m lost. I can never…”

“Hush up and listen,” the bearded man took charge. “Drink this, dearie.”

“What’s this?” Candace peered at the blood red liquid in the silver cup the size of a thimble.

“Tis shiraz, m’dear. Drink up and you’ll be home.” He then proceeded to hand her a clove of garlic he snatched up from the floor of the forest. “Then rub this on the face of the clock. It’s been sprinkled with root of the pine. As you are rubbing the garlic into the face of the clock, you must repeat the chant three times.”

“What chant?”

“Spell of the ancient druids begone. Now drink the …ah…” A wicked chuckle spewed from his lips, “…shiraz and off you go. But you must never enter the Black Forest again…or else….”

And as Candace disappeared from the deep dark woods of the Black Forest, the mournful wails of the werewolves warbled through the mighty pines.

Beware haunted cuckoo clocks and have a happy Halloween!

To learn more about Candace Morehouse and purchase her books, visit her at:
www.candacemorehouse.com

Ghostly Research with Candace Morehouse

The crisp fall air swooshed through the pines as Candace scampered up the rickety old steps to the Haunted Saloon. Bats hurled about the steeple of the bell tower, flapping their wings. A ghost of a moon skittered across the midnight black sky just as a coyote howled from the nearby woods. And when the bone-chilling wind billowed through her red satin dress, flipping it up to reveal her corset, fishnet stockings and garter belt, the sheriff keeping vigil in the graveyard smiled. The wild horses lassoed to the post whinnied, kicking up their hooves.

Hanging on to her feathered headpiece with one hand, clutching her flimsy black lace shawl with the other, Candace sauntered through the swinging doors of the haunted saloon, her satin dress rustling.

The lights were dim and the sultry vocals of Patsy Cline floated through the room, the bitter-sweet lyrics laced with heart-wrenching pain. Legendary outlaws sat around card tables, shuffling decks of cards while doing shots of whiskey. The smell of tobacco singed the air. As Candace sacheted her way up to the bar, Jessie James looked up and gave her a wicked wink before resuming his card game with Frank, the brothers Cole and James Younger. Candace’s high-heeled boots tapped rhythmically on the hardwood floor as she joined Mae West at the bar.

“Howdy, Candace,” Mae smiled, crossing one leg. Dressed in a black satin dress with red ruffled bottom, she raised her wine glass to the bartender. “Another one here, darlin’ and one for my friend.”

Posters of wanted outlaws framed the walls and empty whiskey jugs lined the scarred surface of the mahogany bar. Peanuts in cowboy boots were on either side while the cactus candles flickered, displaying bullet holed walls.

The bartender placed two glasses of shiraz down and smiled. “Courtesy of the James brothers, girls.”

“Thank you, Oliver,” Mae winked, turning to smile at Jessie and Frank.

“Aren’t they something,” she turned to Candace.

Candace: “Sure enough. But I’ve got my eye on that hunky sheriff prowling about. He can do a strip search on me anytime, Mae.”

Mae: “So tell me, surely you are aware of the ghosts that haunt this saloon. Why, the brothers James and the brothers Cole and James Younger are all dead and gone. But their ghosts come by every night to drink, play cards and socialize with the saloon gals, just the way they did back in the days of the Wild, Wild West. So why are you here, m’dear?”

Candace: “Research, Mae, research. One cannot write effectively about a topic like ghosts unless one has experienced it for herself.”

“Do you really believe in ghosts?” Mae swiveled around on her bar stool to openly gawk at the outlaws, noticing with a gasp their images are not reflected in the mirror above the bar.

Jesse throws his deck of cards down and stands up and approaches the bar, walking straight through the table where two cowboys sit doing shots.

“Did you see that? Mae gasped, chugging down her shiraz in one gulp. She holds it up to the bartender. “Another round, Oliver.”

Oliver obliges.

Jesse James materializes behind Mae and Candace, his handsome face a tad pale up close. But his beguiling smile is dazzling. “Even’, ladies. Me and the boys would like to request the pleasure of your company. Come join us at our table.”

Mae and Candace join the outlaws, drawn into the scene of the Wild, Wild West.

“So what brings you ladies to the Haunted Saloon tonight?” Frank asked, the wooden legs of his chair squeaking on the floor as he moved closer to Candace. “How’s about you, sugar?”

Mae adjusts herself to reveal her legendary bosom. “Well now honey, I belong here, being dead and gone myself. But my friend Candace is an author and she’s doing research on her book Suspicion of Love. And in one of her scenes, a ghost appears to her main character. Go on, tell them about it, Candace.”

“Sure, sugar,” Frank winked, ordering more shiraz. “Tell us all about it.”

Candace: “Well, this is what I came up with for a scene in an old, drafty English castle. Tell me what you think.”

Jacqueline was now lying abed, a thick wax candle dripping into its heavy pewter holder on the table next to her, a mountain of fluffy bed linens piled up around her body, and a book open in her lap that she’d barely read two lines from. There was a listless fire burning in the grate of the fireplace; it, along with the thick wool rug on the wood floor, the soft shine of the highly polished oak paneled walls, and the fine linen drapings about the canopied bed, should have made the room comfortable and cozy. It did not.

Although she was well acclimated to the bitter cold winters in Wisconsin, the castle’s brisk humidity and the cool, dank air seeping in beneath the door and around the windowpanes of her room brought on a chill that Jacqueline could not seem to shake.

She was tired enough to yawn continuously, but her mind refused to follow suit, replaying, instead, the events of the day over and over in an unending loop: Hayden avidly taking the role of tour guide throughout the long coach journey, Stephen standing rigid and stony-faced before the immense fireplace in the priory parlor, the somber view of the gray-cloaked river and churning sea visible beyond the heather and nettle-covered cliff as seen through the castle’s lead-paned windows. Abruptly Jacqueline tossed the book to the side of the bed and blew out the sputtering candle, drawing the fine bed linens up tight beneath her chin and closing her eyes, willing sleep to come quickly and cease the pictures in her mind’s eye.

She must have slept for some time—how long she was unsure. Something had awakened her with a start. Disoriented, Jacqueline slowly opened her eyes and strained to make out shapes in the unfamiliar chamber by the dim light of dying embers in the stone fireplace.

It was the odor that had first awakened her, she thought, waking up fully. She sniffed at the air, and the scent of lilacs in the room became suddenly overwhelming. It didn’t make sense. Where could it possibly be coming from? How could there be lilacs blooming in a castle next to the sea?

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Jacqueline propped herself up on her elbows, recognizing the shape of the bedside table, the rocking chair, the embroidered ottoman next to the fireplace, and the massive bureau with wide mirror above on the wall opposite her bed. As she peered at the far wall of the room between panels of soft green linen draped over the bed’s canopy, a flicker of movement was reflected in the looking glass opposite. She squinted her eyes and swiveled her head left and right, trying to determine what might have caused it.

There it was again—a wisp of white curling about the edge of the mirror. She looked behind her, finding nothing and knowing it could not be her own reflection. There was no movement of any kind save for the strange white miasma in the mirror.

Goose pimples freckled Jacqueline’s arms, and the hairs at the back of her neck danced with fear as Jacqueline lay frozen in one spot, the wisp of white swirling and twirling alongside the bed now, elongating and dangling just inches from the floor. The smell of lilacs was even more pervasive, wafting about on the breeze created by the white wisp. The temperature in the room plummeted, and Jacqueline shuddered with the cold.

Although she was frightened, Jacqueline found she could not look away from the scene unfolding before her. The smoky tendrils started to bond together and lengthen into something more substantial, although she could see right through the mist clear to the fireplace beyond. A face began to form, a woman’s face surrounded by a cloud of white-colored hair. A pair of ethereal hands fisted at the sides of the white mist, but then the image trailed off into nothingness.

“Stay…help…,” it whispered, the transparent mouth opening and closing with each syllable, “help…please…”

One of the ghostly white hands reached out to touch hers, and it was when she felt the ice-cold mist across her hand that Jacqueline finally found her voice. She cringed, hunching back against the headboard and let out a scream, the likes of which would surely disturb any lingering occupants of the room.

Mae West: How ‘bout it, boys. Think she’s come to the right place for research?”

A low chuckle erupts as Frank and Jessie exchange a wicked wink.

Suddenly Oliver appears, costumed in a sheriff’s costume. And as the Monster Mash blasts on the CD player, he handcuffs Candace, but not before frisking her. As the ghost of the headless horseman gallops through the saloon, the candles flicker once then go out. And when the lights come on, all the Halloween guests have arrived, masquerading as characters from the Wild, Wild, West.

To read the entire Suspicion of Love to learn more about Jacqueline’s ghost, visit Champagne Books at:
http://www.champagnebooks.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=1_28&products_id=287

Or visit Candace Morehouse at her website:
www.candacemorehouse.com

Tell us your favorite ghost story. We’d love to hear it!

Wednesday Spotlight Candace Morehouse

Hello and welcome to Wednesday Spotlight! My special guest today is Candace Morehouse. Candace is here today to chat about her latest release from Champagne Books, Suspicion of Love. Here is an excerpt:

Stephen turned to face his charge who was standing in
dumbfounded silence in the entry, her hands still shaking as
she removed her second glove, her complexion pale. “No
worries, now, miss. We’re safely inside.”

He propelled her past a tall hall tree bearing a hat and
coat, past a curving set of stairs, through a wide doorway
and into the office proper. He fairly pushed her into a
straight-backed chair with a cracked leather seat that sat
next to its twin in front of a massive mahogany desk
surrounded by a set of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

“Would you care for a glass of sherry? You look as if
you could use it.” Stephen offered the drink with ill-disguised
impatience as he strode about the office pulling heavy, sun-
faded draperies closed across the tall, narrow windows facing
the street. The scent of musty velvet was cloying in the stale
air, and a cloak of darkness invaded the office save for the
dim illumination of a lamp with three bulbs covered in dusty
brass shades hanging from the ceiling. He paused at the
liquor cabinet conveniently located an arm’s reach behind the
desk to pour a finger’s worth of amber liquid in a glass,
offering it to her with outstretched hand.

She smiled weakly and reached out to take it from his
grasp. No sooner had her fingers touched the glass than they
trembled uncontrollably and it fell, spraying sherry across
the crowded top of the desk.

“Oh dear!” she exclaimed, jumping up from her seat
and vainly trying to stem the flow of liquor with her flighty
hands. Unimpeded, it sloshed across the multitude of loose
papers that vied for attention amidst the file folders, pens,
pencils, envelopes, baskets, and legal volumes sprawled over
the desk’s surface.

“Damn, damn and bloody damn!” Stephen watched
helplessly as the final report on a case he’d just finished was
soon sopping, the inked letters on the pages running and
joining and becoming hopelessly lost in a jumbled blur. His
brows drew together in consternation over her clumsiness,
and he joined her in trying to move the bulk of his work out
of the way, their noses nearly touching across the breadth of
the desk.

“Have you a cloth?” she asked, finally saying
something that made sense. “Oh, never mind. Here, I’ll just
use my handkerchief…” She turned to retrieve her reticule
from the chair, accidentally sweeping much of the mess to
the carpet in the process. As she bent over, the misplaced
bustle promptly fell clear to her ankles and she tripped over
the hem of her skirt, propelling her into the seat and toppling
the chair with her in it, ass over teakettle to the floor. She
landed in a heap on the threadbare carpet with only her
petticoat-covered bum and the lone drooping feather of her
hat visible from Stephen’s vantage point.

Stephen glanced down at the ruined fistful of papers
clutched in his hand, and his fingers loosened. The pages
floated to the floor.

He started laughing.

He couldn’t help himself. His light chuckles turned into
gales of deep-throated laughter as he rounded the edge of
the desk to see her booted feet flailing about in the air,
trying to gain purchase but hampered by the heavy folds of
the skirt twisted about her ankles. He could only imagine
what someone might think, were a client to walk through the
door at that moment. This is what happens to clients who
refuse to pay, he imagined explaining, his eyes tearing.
You’ll be forced to clean my filthy floor with nothing more
than your tongue…

“Utdya ink so unny?”

Her tone was frosty and indignant. At least it was from
what Stephen could decipher whilst her face was planted in a
pattern of cabbage roses and ivy leaves.

He coughed conspicuously, wiped at his eyes with the
palms of his hands, and did his best to stop the corners of
his mouth from twitching as he bent down to extricate her
from the chair. He stood behind her and lifted her up from
the ground by the waist, trying unsuccessfully to avoid her
kicking feet. “Be still, damn woman!”

She refused to comply, however, and her legs and
arms continued to flail about like a windmill on a gusty day.
Stephen’s own feet soon caught in the heavy wool of her
skirt and he found himself losing his footing. He narrowly
avoided hitting the sharp corner of the heavy desk as he fell
backward with his ungainly burden.

“Would you just settle down!” he bit out painfully,
tightening his grasp about her waist to still her movements.
Her bum was placed in a particularly tender spot of his
anatomy. Not that that tender spot was feeling any pain. To
the contrary, her soft flesh and wiggling attempts to rise
from his lap were causing quite a stir in that region.

Sharon: (fans herself wildly) Whew! Now if that little teaser to Suspicion of Love doesn’t set the stage for coming attractions, I don’t know what will! We might need a rain to cool things off after that one. LOL Let’s have a warm cyber applause for the author of Suspicion of Love. Candace Morehouse, come on out!

Thunderous applause explodes on cyber stage as Candace struts out singing Southern Rain by Mel Tillis.

Sharon: Welcome, Candace! Grab a seat and make yourself comfortable. Now before we get talking, can I pour you a glass of Shiraz?

Candace: Howdy! You didn’t have to tempt me with my favorite drink, you know. I would’ve come by and set a spell with you anyway. But heck, I’m not complaining.

Sharon: Mmmm. A woman after my own heart. It just so happens I love Shiraz wine, so naturally, I’ll join you in a toast. Here’s to the smashing success of Suspicion of Love. Cheers!

Candace: Cheers! Thanks so much for the warm welcome. Mind if I put my boots up here on the table?

Sharon: Not at all, make yourself at home! Oh, and help yourself to the snacks. We’ve got Cheez-Its, potato chips and fresh fruit slices and a cheese tray. So Candace, Suspicion of Love has been out as an eBook since April with Champagne Books and is about to come out in print. How exciting. Can you tell us a bit about your book? The genre? The setting? And even though we got a very upclose and personal…ah…dare we say feel for the main characters, can you tell us a little about each of the characters and what makes each unique?

Candace: Suspicion of Love is an Edwardian mystery/romance. It’s a bit of a departure from my first book, a historical western romance. This one takes place in London, and a big, drafty, old castle by the sea. Jacqueline, the heroine, is a rather mousy spinster from Wisconsin who learns to come into her own by the end of the book. Stephen, the hero, is a down-on-his-luck British solicitor who is forced to accept his new partner in the Brooks detective agency. Together, they solve a murder mystery and then…well you’ll just have to read the book to find out the rest!

Sharon: I certainly will. I love a good romance, a good mystery and what better place for both than a big, drafty castle? Sounds intriguing! So let’s talk a bit about the Edwardian era. Even though I can’t imagine myself tightly bound into a corset or wearing a petticoat, the flair for fashion during that period has always intrigued me. And aside from some of those gorgeous gowns with all those little loops and buttons that needed the assistance of the maid, the accessories were such an intricate part of the ensemble, especially the hats and jewelry. So tell me, Candace. Where did you get your research for this era? And does the Edwardian period hold a special place in your heart?

Candace: I did a TON of research. Luckily, I’ve always been a real history buff and I already had lots of reference books in my personal library, including a historical atlas of London that allowed me to show the exact routes my characters would have taken to get around the city. I watched the earliest recorded moving pictures made by Thomas Edison and old episodes of Upstairs, Downstairs, too.

I used to work in an antique store that also sold vintage clothing when I was going to college in Las Cruces, NM. Back then I was a size one or three and could actually fit into the old gowns we carried. I bought a beautiful ice-blue ball gown with lots of crystal beadwork that I dated to about 1910. So not only do I have pictures of the clothing and accessories, I own some, too!

Probably the biggest challenge was getting everything about the era right. The turn of the century was such a fascinating time – while there was still a lot of the 19th century as far as transportation and amenities, there were public telephone booths, motorcars, trams, and a host of other things most people might not associate with the year 1901.

Sharon: I’d say you did your research quite well. Working in the antique store sounds like a lot of fun and dressing up in vintage clothes is something I would love! The ice blue gown sounds simply gorgeous! Now when you write, what’s more important to you? The setting or the dialogue and why?

Candace: When I’m writing a historical, both the setting and the dialogue go hand-in-hand. I abhor reading a book where the author has not done their research and refers to something like “Levi’s” in a western taking place in the 19th century.

Sharon: I love a good mystery, a good who done it. Suspicion of Love is classified as an Edwardian mystery. Can you explain to readers a bit about this type of genre? Is it similar to a cozy?

Candace: In some ways it is similar to a cozy mystery. Basically I took the premise of a twisting, turning mystery solved by partners in a detective agency similar to Sherlock Holmes and Watson, plunked it down in turn-of-the-century London, and added some steamy romance scenes.

Sharon: Sounds like a best-seller! More wine?

Candace: Keep the glass filled, please, Sharon!

Sharon: You got it, girl. Sharon snaps her fingers and Edward VII appears on cyber stage with a bottle of Shiraz. Sharon and Candace clink glasses. Now let’s talk about Candace Morehouse. What makes you tick? What are you all about? What motivates you to keep on writing, despite all the hard work and edits, promoting, promoting and more promoting?

Candace: Writing is just something I have to get out of my system. My characters make me do it! I’ve always been a creative sort. My older sister and brother were both talented musically and artistically. I really couldn’t compete in those departments, but found my niche in putting thoughts into words.

Sharon: Here here! Candace, not only do we share a love for Shiraz wine, but we both love horses and horseback riding. There is no comparison to riding wild and free on horseback with the wind whipping you in the face, is there? What is your favorite kind of horse to ride and why?

Candace: I don’t necessarily have a favorite type of horse. Right now I am riding one of my neighbor’s “extras”, a 17-hands tall brute named Cochise who is really gentle as a kitten. I used to own a full-blooded Arabian with some bad habits. He was more of a challenge of a ride. But you could even put me on the back of a mule and I’d be happy! In fact, not only have I ridden a mule, but an elephant, too, once.

Sharon: I know exactly what you mean. And since I was once thrown by a spirited stallion, the next time I rode was actually on muleback! And do you know it has always been one of my desires to ride an elephant? We must talk more about that after the interview! And you also like to hike and camp. What do you suppose it is that draws you to the great outdoors, being close to nature that makes you feel alive?

Candace: It was moving to New Mexico when I was 11 that really made me appreciate the outdoors. The beauty of the landscape here in the southwest is so different from Wisconsin – but it just invites one to explore it. It’s also the history of the land that I love. In the national forest just beyond my house here in the White Mountains are the remains of an old Mogollon Indian trading post dating back from about 1500 B.C. My love for both history and nature come alive in places like this, and inspire me to write.

Sharon: Oh, here comes dessert.
Edward VII wheels a caddy on cyber stage filled with goodies—a butterscotch cream pie and coffee and tea in sterling silver carafes. After presenting the treats with a sweeping bow, he pours the steaming beverages into dainty floral teacups and slices the pie.

Sharon: Ah, thank you, Edward. Very good. Isn’t this lovely, Candace? How about it, girlfriend, could you see yourself in that era? I wouldn’t mind a bit of pampering. Bon bon anyone?

Candace: Oh, dear, I’m afraid I just broke your lovely teacup. You can’t trust me with anything delicate, Sharon; I’m like a bull in a china shop. Sorry!
I would love to have lived in that era, but probably would have protested the corsets and stays and the ladylike manner of deportment. I would have been “the hoyden” climbing trees and riding bareback!

Sharon: Don’t worry about the teacup. And I’m the same way. Although I love to dress up, all those stiff under garments would have driven me crazy, plum loco! But there is something about gliding across a grand ballroom that appeals to me. Oh I just have to ask. Do you have any superstitions you’d like to share with us? Some little something or other you feel brings you luck when you write?

Candace: Not so much a lucky charm, but the mood is important. I love a stormy day and listening to country music – or classical when I’m writing a historical.

Sharon: I wear the pink tourmaline ring and bracelet. According to my Irish heritage, wearing this stone brings good luck to the wearer. LOL And now for the three trivia questions. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be and why? If you could play the leading lady in any literary fiction who would it be and why? And last but not least, who would you want playing your romantic hero?

Candace: Honestly, I wouldn’t trade where I live now for anything in the world. I love the mountains and forests and lakes; this is where I am meant to be. Hmm…a leading lady? Perhaps Calamity Jane! And my romantic hero would have to be Matthew McConaughey – he is the actor on whom I based Stephen Haversham in Suspicion of Love. I know I’m supposed to say my husband, but this is pure fantasy, right? And BTW, love your jewelry, Sharon. It really sets off your lovely hair and eyes.

Sharon: Why thank you, darlin! You can come back any time! And pssst… we won’t tell your DH about Stephen. We’ll let him think you were fantasizing of him and only him! Candace, it’s been a blast, girl! I wish you mega luck with Suspicion of Love and all future books. Now where can readers buy this book and get in touch with you?

Candace: I’ve had a great time eating all your fantastic culinary delicacies, Sharon! Thanks!

Readers can buy all of my books at www.champagnebooks.com or visit my website at www.candacemorehouse.com, which also links to my blog. If they are so inclined to subscribe to my site, they can receive a free copy of the e-cookbook, Recipe for Romance. I brought along a copy just for you – it has my personal recipe for meatballs and a funny excerpt from Suspicion of Love you can’t find elsewhere.

Sharon: Thanks, Candace. I can’t wait to try it out. It’s been a pleasure and I hope you’ll come back again. All right folks. That brings us to the end of Wednesday Spotlight. Let’s hear it for Candace Morehouse. Don’t forget to run out and buy your copy of Suspicion of Love. I know I will!