“The house is called High Cotton.” I said to the cabbie while I helped him unload suitcases from the trunk. “My two aunts now own this Savannah beauty. It was built in eighteen-hundred something, but got its name during Prohibition. There’s still a hatch door leading down to a once-upon-a-time speakeasy where my great greats served up bootlegged hooch, fine Cuban cigars, and played High Cotton into the wee hours of the morning. The aunts still host charity parties at the house from time to time.”

“Well I’ll be,” the cabbie said, “my mamma’s been to one or two of those events. I do believe the police got called in. Something about stealing a trophy, dealing from the bottom of the deck and who bribed who to get crowned High Cotton queen.” The cabbie laughed and added, “That there’s some spicy gene pool you got going on, missy.”

“I know,” I said on a sigh as I watched the cab blend in with the one-way traffic circling Monterey Square. I turned my back to the park with the Pulaski Monument in the middle, huge live oaks draped in Spanish moss now turning silver in the afternoon sun, and pink and white azalais big as a bus this time of year. I stared up at the house that I’d called home since I was twelve and my mother had died in bed. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Kitty Loves’ own bed, and the wife of the senator she shared the bed with took great exception to Kitty Love being there.

At High Cotton I didn’t have to worry if the rent was paid, if the electricity came on when I flipped the switch, if there was something besides tequila and Twinkies in the fridge. And I had a room all to myself, meaning I didn’t share space with those damned New Orleans cockroaches.

It’s not that FrancieAnne Cottonwood, aka Kitty Love, was a bad mother, she just lived life on her own terms and took me along for the ride. Her self-written obituary went something like bawdy, redheaded, talented, gregarious grifter who arrived in the Big Easy at age eighteen and fell in love with bayous, bourbon, and burlesque and not necessarily in that order. Her hobbies were pier fishing, rolling joints and buying dirty magazines. She died knowing Monty Python and the Holy Grail was the best movie ever, Bruce Springsteen the best recording artist, Clint Eastwood the baddest man on the planet. She had few regrets including that she never quite mastered pole dancing, or making a good martini, and no videos exist of her prowess on stage or in the bedroom.

OK, not everyone memorizes eulogies. I figured this one was worth the effort. And it explained a bit about who I am today, content to be dull as boiled fish…until now.


Murder, Mayhem and 4 of a Kind, A High Cotton Mystery Book #1
Genre: Cozy Mystery
Release: September 2023
Format: Print, Digital
Purchase Link

When rotten-to-the-core Payton Wilder winds up dead in Savannah, Nola Cottonwood’s two aunts are suspects in the murder. Can Nola find the real killer, and how can the others help them get away with it.

Giveaway: Duffy has generously offered to give away one print copy of Murder, Mayhem and 4 of a Kind. To enter, please leave a comment below. One entry per person and the giveaway is limited to U.S. residents only. Giveaway ends October 31, 2023. Good luck everyone!


About the author
Duffy Brown loves anything with a dead body, five suspects, lots of humor and a few pets. She’s been writing for nearly thirty-five and now self-publishes cozy mysteries with Amazon.