Welcome back, mystery readers!

I'm thrilled to be re-launching It's a Mystery Podcast today after many months.

In the coming weeks I'll have an interview with a new mystery author every Monday and we're going to change up the format slightly. The first 10 or 15 minutes of each episode will be a reading from my guest. We'll tell you a story!

After that, I'll interview my guest and ask them about their characters, their inspiration, and what drives them to write their books.

This week, we're kicking things off with me reading from my new mystery, Lark Lost. Here's the transcript, if you'd rather read than listen.

Lark Lost is a free download and you can get your copy here.

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.

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

Prologue

I heard the raised voice before the automatic door whooshed open in front of me, releasing me into the hot July night.

“I’m not going to ask you again, sir. Please move along.” The security guard made the word ‘sir’ sound like an insult.

The young man was sitting, slouched against the outer brick wall of the grocery store, slumped but defiant, a woolen toque crushed onto his skull despite the warm night. The baseball hat he was holding, dome down, in his right hand flapped briefly against his outstretched legs.

“Imma waiting….” he began, but the security guard was exasperated.

“You can’t sit here.”

I hiked my canvas grocery bag up higher on my left shoulder and walked over to stand at the thin soles of the slumped man’s sneakers. I looked at the security guard but didn’t recognize him.

“Trouble, officer?” I said, smiling.

He wasn’t in a joking mood. “He needs to leave. Store rules.”

“Gotcha.”

The young man was named Rory. He rolled his head backward, eyes mostly closed. Then he glanced at the guard. “See?” he said, briefly confident. “I tol’ you I w’s waitin’. Sh’s here f’r me.” He flapped the baseball hat toward his chest.

This wasn’t true, but I reached down anyway and grabbed his right arm and tried to heave him to standing. He was a human-sized wet noodle, however, and I was struggling. I felt rather than saw someone walk behind me, and then a man appeared on Rory’s left side.

“I’ll give you a hand,” he said, reaching down.

Together we got Rory upright. Then we were able to cradle one of his elbows each and get him moving toward the street.

“I’m David,” the man said, looking around Rory at me. He had dark hair, thick, dark eyebrows and a pleasant, open expression on his face.

“I’m Freddie,” I said.

“That’s an unusual name for …” He trailed off.

“It’s okay. You can say it. ‘For a woman.’” I smiled at him. “I’m named after my grandmother. Alfreda.”

“Oof,” he said.

I laughed. People usually cover up their reactions better when I have this conversation with them. “Right?” I exclaimed. “Who would want to be called Alfreda? Hence…Freddie.”

“I think you made the right choice.”

We reached the public sidewalk, Rory slightly wobbly but still moving between us, like an oversized toddler learning to walk between his parents.

“Where to?” David asked.

I glanced to my right and saw what I’d been hoping for. “There,” I said, pointing. “The next corner.”

This was not the first time I’d seen Rory drunk. I had known the too-slender man of indeterminate age—probably mid-20s, though he looked older—for four or five years, although we were not friends. I didn’t know his last name, and he didn’t know mine. We first crossed paths because I live in the neighborhood where he panhandles. As often as I can, I give him a few dollars. Sometimes when I have a big load of groceries, he will offer to carry some of my bags home, and I’ll pay for that service.

An articulated trolley bus rattled past us and stopped with a teeth-clenching squeal of br...