My damn leg thinks it’s whole again; the knee thinks it’s connected to a calf and ankle and foot—thinks it has muscles, tissue, fat, tendons, veins, arteries and bones all in place to keep blood flowing from my left extremity to my heart and beyond.

Of course, I know it’s my brain dipping into the past. Wake up, I tell myself. My hair has fallen over my face, I sweep it off with my hand, its thickness especially heavy this morning.

Then I feel the warm body beside me, rolling onto my arm, breath hot on my cheek, fuzzy face close. I push him away, moaning, the hangover thick. A sleepy dog-yip escapes from his throat. Bert is a fifty-pound labradoodle. He belongs to my boss who’s out of town right now.

I force my eyes open, even though the Rittenhouse I drank last night at Sparrows wants to keep me submerged in a semi-conscious purgatory. Sparrows is a beloved neighborhood place in Portland, not far from my apartment. The night started with a meeting to button up a case. The client had gone away happy with the information that there was physical evidence—explicit photos and intimate recordings of infidelity—and he could now proceed to a quick and nasty divorce filing. I stayed for a drink to drown out the disappointment of seeing another example of humanity’s vindictiveness and greed. And more evidence that love can go very, very wrong. Pat Trangle, owner of the bar who favors vintage rock and roll, was playing, I Want to Know What Love Is, the Foreigner version from the eighties, and it seemed apt.

I put the heel of my hand on the bedside table and muscle myself upwards. I balance on my good leg, slip my half-leg into my iWalk and tighten the straps. Count a slow five, the time needed to focus on balance.

Bert bounds off the bed and lands on his four good legs, sniffs around the bedroom. My open-cuff crutches rest against the folded-up wheelchair, my vacuum-system, shock-absorbing LiteGood prosthesis is on the top of my dresser, my peg leg tossed on a chair. I’m aware my bedroom looks like that of a woman who can’t make up her mind—but it’s not the ‘what-to-wear’ dilemma, it’s the ‘how-will-I-travel-today’ question.

An hour later, I’ve arrived in Old Port, it’s time to open the G&Z Investigation office. A man with a rigid gait and a precisely trimmed beard waits. He’s in his early forties, wears an expensive gray jacket, pressed gray khakis, gray suede Chukka sneakers and a platinum Rolex; he also holds a gray oversized umbrella in his hand even though Maine’s forecast is for clear skies.

“Dee Rommel?” He radiates impatience. “Gordy said to come.”

“When did you talk to him?” I ask.

“This morning. When I told him I had to find out who my daughter is marrying.”

We move inside and I turn on my desktop monitor, enter my password, activate the coffee maker and continue with morning set up. “How does it happen a father isn’t informed on something like that?”

“Got this today.” He shows me a message, typed on a plain white sheet of paper. Definitely not a fancy wedding invitation. “The event’s scheduled for June 22.”

I glance at the calendar in the corner of my computer screen. “That’s ten days from today.”

“She’s around your age. Her name is Lucy Claren.”

That’s why this man looks familiar. The reclusive golden boy of Portland who invests heavily in the city, sits on the boards of the civic institutions but is shy of being the ‘face’ of his endeavors. He’s a local legend, a tech genius – often alongside Bill Gates and Elon Musk. And his daughter, Lucy, has become his partner in Claren Labs; she has a reputation for being just as brilliant. “Two weeks ago, when she turned twenty-two, Lucy got access to over twenty patent profits. She’s never even had a boyfriend. The job is to figure out why marriage, and why this guy. Why this guy now.”

“Why don’t you just ask her?”

“She’s missing. She was at a conference in Philly, didn’t get back to her condo. Didn’t show up for work. She’s not responding to my emails, messages or texts. Her mother’s not returning my calls. Gordy says you’ll find her for me. . .”

This request takes Dee, who is on medical leave from the Portland Police Department and working with her godfather, the private eye Gordon Greer into a world where greed, manipulation, and desire for power threatens her and the lives of many of the people she loves. She won’t back down, even while still reeling from her below-the-knee amputation. Her need for justice is always strong.

10 Days, A Dee Rommel Mystery #1
Genre: Domestic Thriller
Release: August 2021
Purchase Link

Eleven months after a mysterious and devastating on-the-job injury, former policewoman Dee Rommel is managing her godfather’s office – private investigator, Gordy Greer. Her medical leave is nearly up – the Portland Police Department, and her ex-training officer (and newly single), Detective Donato, expect her to reinstate. Dee’s conflicted, she hasn’t found a new balance in her life yet – and the chip on her shoulder has gotten more pronounced. When she’s challenged to step in for Gordy to investigate the disappearance of a brilliant heiress, Lucy Claren, who announced hasty and surprising wedding plans, life gets more complicated. Especially when her good friend trusts the wrong person and is physically assaulted and also needs Dee’s help. Need for justice drives Dee – and she makes it her personal mission to get it in both cases – and comes face-to-face with determined factions who want to ensure her failure – and demise.

About the author
Jule Selbo is an award-winning author and screenwriter, and an active member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime. She has given workshops and speeches at numerous writing conferences and book events. She lives in Portland, Maine. Her latest book is 10 Days: A Dee Rommel Mystery (Pandamoon, August 2021). 

Connect with Jule on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram and her website at juleselbo.com.

All comments are welcomed.