Galley proofs done! Wait Watchers

Wait Watchers! Book 6 of The Liberty Heights series will be out soon. I’ve finished the galley proofs. Yay! Lots of fun with this book.
Here’s a peek. Excerpt Wait Watchers: Copyright Elle Druskin 2014
Unable to contain her curiosity, Portia squinted out the window. She pressed her nose against the glass. Wayne leaned against her thigh. Obviously, Wayne was a lot smarter, or possibly, more fearful than LouAnn. The beagle clearly had no intention of sprinting out the back door with that old man still armed out there.
The front door banged open. Bud and Truman marched into the kitchen and glanced at the Valentines, all armed to the teeth. BettyAnn flounced past them. LouAnn’s boyfriend Howie shouted from the second floor.
“Me and Simon have a clear shot from the upstairs bathroom.”
BettyAnn yelled back. “Don’t shoot. It’s Uncle Rupert.”
“Rupert Freedbush? Oh brother,” Truman mumbled. He stooped next to the kitchen table and poked his head underneath.
“It’s safe for you to come out now. Whatever you do, don’t tell Rupert you’re a literary agent, or he’ll yak your head off.”
Portia stared at him. Truman must be going nuts too. It must be something to do with the water. Or the air. Or some weird electrical charge that only affected people in Liberty Heights.
He slipped an arm around her waist and helped her scramble to her feet.
“Boy, we’re in for it now,” Bud muttered.
Portia glanced from Truman to Bud. Serious expressions morphed into amusement.
“What’s going on?” Portia asked. Her temper was at all-time high. Scared half to death and nobody seemed the slightest bit concerned. The Valentines lowered their weapons. Portia wasn’t sure which was scarier; a pack of Valentines armed like a SWAT team or the old guy out in the yard.
Footsteps scraped on the back door steps. Alice steamed into the kitchen clutching the confiscated rifle. LouAnn followed with one hand hooked around the old guy’s elbow. She steered him into the kitchen.
“This is such a nice surprise. We’re so excited to have you here,” LouAnn said.
The man harrumphed. “Of course you are. Everyone is celebrity mad.” He shook off LouAnn’s hand, pivoted and glared at Alice.
“I demand my rifle back,” he shouted.
“Nothing doing,” Alice snapped.
“Alice is right,” LouAnn said. “No safari. It’s winter. All the animals are hibernating.”
“Alice?” The old man’s eyes narrowed on the police chief. “No wonder I didn’t recognize you, Miss Toklas. You’ve put on weight. Gertrude’s cooking must agree with you.”
“Thanks a bunch,” Alice muttered.
The old man eyed the crowd. Portia estimated the man was in his sixties although she couldn’t be sure. Stocky and slightly bowlegged, he was dressed in khaki pants, a safari jacket, and a topee. Confusion marred his round face, and his stubby fingers stroked his salt and pepper moustache and beard. A glimmer of a smile lit his features. He folded his arms over his chest and bowed to Portia in a rather courtly gesture. The smile widened to a grin.
“Lovely to see you again, my dear. As fetching as always.”
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. Portia’s eyes widened as he turned to Truman.
“Still married to the most exquisite woman in Paris. Some men have all the luck. You two should have come to Pamplona with us.”
“How was the running of the bulls?” Bud asked.
“Exciting as always. Spain is so inspiring Pablo. You should go home more often.”
Pablo? Portia shot a furtive glance at all the others. The Valentines all wore confused expressions. Alice’s face dripped of resignation. Bud and Truman seemed to be enjoying themselves.
“You remember Ernest,” Truman said and squeezed Portia’s hand. Tom tom pain thudded in Portia’s temples. She was getting the mother of all headaches. Plus, she didn’t have the faintest idea what the heck was going on. The old man snorted.
“Of course Zelda remembers me. No need to get a swelled head, Scott.”
Portia’s legs, still shaky from the sprain, gave way. She lowered herself into the kitchen chair.
“Surely you remember Hemingway. He’s so fond of you Zelda. Maybe a little too fond,” Truman said. He shot a dark glance at the old man.
Portia thunked her head on the table. For Pete’s sake. Every time she thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, somehow, they magically deteriorated to an entire new level.
If she wasn’t mistaken, the old guy thought he was Ernest Hemingway.
This wasn’t possible. It was insane. Maybe she should sign herself away for treatment. Was she the only person who thought this was crazy?