3 Women Walk Into A Bar: Clever, Sexy, Witty, and Shot Glasses Full of Fun.
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Genre: Mystery Humor & Satire

3 Women Walk Into A Bar: 

by Linda Sands.

"Clever, sexy, witty, and shot glasses full of fun, 3 Women Walk Into a Bar is no joke -- and with one of the freshest and most exciting new voices in crime fiction, Linda Sands is an author to watch."

~Douglas Corleone, author of One Man's Paradise, Good as Gone, Payoff and Robert Ludlum's The Janson Equation.

 "Though its intelligent humor is obvious, 3 Women Walk into a Bar is no joke.  It's a wonderfully twisted tale with a sly take on our digital culture.  Riveting and beautifully written, this is a novel that should be on everyone's must-read list."

~ William Kent Krueger, Edgar award winning author of Ordinary Grace, and the Cork O'Connor mystery series

"Those who aren't real-life friends with Linda Sands - or at the very least on Facebook, have no way to prepare for the verbal onslaught that is her wit and writing. "Three Women Walk into a Bar" introduces itself like the opening of a bad joke then quickly unravels into a roller-coaster murder mystery with a pace not beholden to the style of either coast. Sands is an original in a field of copycats, as fresh and deliberate as a sucker punch in the face.

 - Matt McGee, editor

 Falling Star Magazine   

"A fresh new voice that's a bit noir, a bit off-beat, and a heckuva good time." - Maggie Toussaint, author of Bubba Done It, a Dreamwalker mystery

Read The Summary And A Chapter Below



It might sound like a joke, but there's nothing funny about
three beautiful women murdered in an Irish pub in Syracuse.

The cops think it's an open and shut case, pointing the
finger at the dead guy with the gun, bar owner James John Smith. But when a
mother of one of the victims hires her lover, Bill "Free Willy"
Tedesco, an ex-stripper and karaoke star turned PI to investigate, the secrets
of the dead surface and the question of who pulled the trigger becomes more
important than why.

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3 Women Walk Into A Bar: Chapter Read 


Chapter 1


The smell that drifted out the propped-open door to Flannigan’s was sweet coppery blood with an undertone of fish and chips.

On the sidewalk, a pigeon pecked at a lipstick-stained cigarette butt. A gust of warm wind ruffled his feathers, sent paper trash skittering into the gutter. He cocked his head as black rubber–soled shoes passed by, pushing a gurney.

At the entrance to the bar, cops milled about in various stages of procrastination. Some were putting off returning to the station out of dread of the paperwork that lay ahead, another thought that although there was no investigation to speak of, he’d rather be standing around an empty bar than go home to a wife who was still pissed about that thing last week. The two rookies leaning against the brick front, drinking coffee and sharing photos on their cell phones, knew there was no hurry. They’d be the last to leave—after the detectives and investigators, after the reporters, the extra cops, the coroner and the guys rolling out the corpses, after the technicians and the photographers. They were the tail end of a grisly parade on this Monday morning.

Inside, a well-dressed detective removed his latex gloves, tucked them into his pocket, and nodded at the crew to indicate they should continue collecting evidence.

It seemed like an open-and-shut case. No sign of struggle, three dead girls shot at close range. The murder weapon, a .45 caliber Glock looking more like plastic kid toy than real, on the floor near the killer. A man who’d taken the easy way out, offing himself with a shot to the head after the murders. The front door was locked from the inside, and a quick glance showed three surveillance cameras that would probably provide the rest of the answers. Murder. Suicide. Open-and-shut. It wasn’t a bad way to start a morning—for the detective, anyway.

A shadow passed over the bodies as a broad-shouldered man in a ball cap stepped through the door. He pointed to the camera hanging from his neck, flashed a lanyard holding credentials to the rookies.

“Hey Sam,” the detective said without turning around. “Took you long enough.”

“I was going to stop for donuts too, but . . . you know,” Sam said, adjusting the flash on the camera.

“Yeah. I know.”

Sam approached the four bodies, careful to stay out of the way of the forensics team. He raised his camera and fired off a burst of flashes, finishing with a chopped-beef looking shot—the close-up of the killer’s face.

“Looks like someone got seriously overserved,” he said, focusing on the three girls. They’d fallen side by side and were still holding hands. If it hadn’t been for the blood or broken glass or splintered wood, they might be sunbathing, napping at the shore, waiting for low tide.

The detective made a grunting sound.

Sam clicked away as happily as if he were the lead photographer at a wedding. “Pretty,” he said.

“What’s that?” the detective asked.

“I said, they’re pretty. All three of them. Unusual, don’t you think?”

Sam stepped back and reviewed the digital pictures on his camera’s screen.

The detective peered over his shoulder. “Yeah, unusual. Like their names.”

“How’s that?”

The detective pointed at the display on the camera. “That one is Roxanne Dupont.”

“Was . . .” Sam said.

“Right. And that one.” the detective said, pointing to the palest girl. “Crescent Moon.”

Sam chuckled then clicked the display again.

The detective leaned in. “The last one is Chamonix Leonard. She tried to cross the Leonard off her driver’s license though. Must have preferred just Chamonix.”

“Like Cher?” Sam said.

“Or Madonna.”

“And the shooter?” Sam asked, tipping his chin to the faceless dead man.

“No ID. I’m betting on the owner, currently MIA. Guy named James John Smith.”

“Is that right?” Sam turned off the camera and tucked it back into his jacket. “I went to school with a J. J. Smith.”

“I think everybody knows a James or John Smith, don’t we?”

“You mean like we all have an Aunt Rose?”

The detective laughed as he walked Sam to the door. He said, “That last photo, of the three of them? You can have it. We’ll need the rest.”

“Just one? That’s all you’re giving me to run?”

“That’s all for now.”

Sam looked over his shoulder into the dim bar. Black body bags were being unfolded. “Reminds me of a joke,” he said. “Three women walk into a bar. A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead . . .”

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Author Bio

Linda Sands is a well traveled Yankee transplanted to Atlanta via California. The author of the internationally published legal thriller, Simple Intent, Linda earned a Kirkus Starred Review for her Southern Gothic novel, Not Waving, Drowning. Her haunting, epic story of three women bound in a poetic tapestry spanning three generations has been called "The Hours" in Savannah.

Known for her award-winning short stories and essays, Linda's latest work includes a noir-esque detective novel set in Syracuse and a non-fiction photo essay book about the modern truck driver, You Bought It, We Brought It.

Watch for her new mystery series featuring Jojo Boudreaux, a tenacious trucker with the mouth of a sailor and the heart... of a truck driver. Book One, Grand Theft Cargo. Book Two, Precious Cargo.
Agented by Josh Getzler of HSG Agency.

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