A Toy for Christmas

by Mary Jane Forbes

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  A TOY

  FOR CHRISTMAS

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  DroneKing Trilogy Book 1

  MARY JANE FORBES

  A TOY FOR CHRISTMAS

  An ambitious real estate agent. A red-hot marketing niche. Will an inadvertent drone video expose her to a deadly foreclosure?

  Charley Kingman is desperate to prove herself to her wealthy father. After finally finding her niche as a real estate agent, she’s determined to get an edge in the cutthroat career. And when an incredibly cool drone video helps to sell a "difficult" house in a single day, she knows she’s struck gold.

  As the drone venture grows and she meets Tavis, her brother’s handsome new business partner, Charley thinks her dreams have at long last come true. But after sinister, illegal activities come to light in her boss's real estate office, Charley and her new beau must act fast to avoid being caught in the crosshairs. With nowhere left to turn, can Charley and Tavis escape the deadly drug cartel’s clutches and give their love air space or are they fated to crash and burn?

  A Toy Drone is the first book in a trilogy of romantic cozy thrillers. If you like gutsy characters, workplace relationships, and tangled twists and turns, then you'll love Mary Jane Forbes’ intricate mystery.

  As my way of saying thank you…

  Pick up a complimentary copy of a

  holiday short story…

  Once Upon a Christmas Eve

  Will a magical kiss change Bessie’s life forever?

  The Christmas holidays arrive on Bessie’s magical mountain. Magical because her village awakes on December first and goes back to sleep at the stroke of midnight Christmas Eve.

  Little did twenty-one year old Bessie know that today, when the ten-o’clock train rolls to a stop at the summit of the snow-covered mountain, Matthew, a handsome stranger, will climb down from the coach car and enter her world. Bessie’s father warns her she can only be Matthew’s friend. Time is short on the mountain, and he must leave on the midnight train.

  He cannot miss it!

  If you like the Cinderella and Snow White stories, you’ll love Once Upon a Christmas Eve. This short story combines the scent of Christmas cookies baking, twinkling tree lights, and the struggles of young love.

  Get your COMPLIMENTARY copy

  TAP the link below to get started!

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

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  Chapter 1

  REVIEW REQUEST

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  About the Author

  YOUR COMPLIMENTARY eBOOK

  Books by Mary Jane Forbes

  DroneKing Trilogy

  Chapter 1

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  IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL sunny day in Daytona Beach. The first week of May and the tulips and daisies danced with vigor. Clusters of azaleas exploded in a profusion of color—pink, red, white. Twenty-nine-year-old Charley Kingman’s spirits soared with the pelican overhead gliding on fresh crisp air. A new agent at Rachel Ramirez Real Estate, Charley was on her way to close her first sale. She dressed carefully—soft black slacks with a slight flare at the ankle. Strappy black sandals revealed carefully painted crimson toenails. She topped the slacks with a conservative, white sleeveless silk blouse.

  She’d been on the job for seven weeks and had experienced only a slight twinge of doubt in her decision to give selling houses a try, no matter if her father thought it a bad idea. But today was a new day, a good day. With her commission maybe she’d move into a real apartment, move out of the one room, roadside vacation rental.

  Rolling down the windows of her late model, deep blue Mustang convertible, she let her wavy auburn hair fly in the gentle breeze. Slapping the worn leather encasing the steering wheel, she turned the radio up singing along with Frank Sinatra belting out “Come Fly With Me.” A motorcycle pulled alongside, keeping pace with her car. The man smiled at her, nodded, then sped on.

  The Saturday morning traffic was building, office workers free to enjoy the sunny day even if only to run errands. Coupons in hand exclaimed the latest summer bargains--shiny stainless steel barbeques to bikinis. A line of cars on the inside lane waited, their signals blinking to turn left onto the bridge spanning the inter-coastal river to the beach.

  The beach wasn’t on Charley’s itinerary today. No sir. There was a Purchase and Sale document on her desk waiting to be signed. She turned right onto Dunlawton, the agency a short two blocks away. She smiled, spinning the wheel of fortune in her mind over the past eight years of her life. The spinning was over. A scowl crossed her face—a semester of computer science at MIT. She didn’t register for the next semester leaving that field to her genius brother Frank. A session on nursing—no way. A day of piercing the skin of an orange made her squeamish. Then over coffee with her friend Elizabeth Stitchway, the idea of selling real estate was laid on the table. Liz said she’d be a natural—naturally friendly, naturally smart with numbers, naturally knew about the bones of a house as well as commercial construction from her father. And best of all Charley countered, “I wouldn’t be stuck inside a stuffy office for days. I’d have the freedom to be out and about, meeting people. Happy people. After all, they’d be buying a new home. How exciting is that? Here in Florida for heaven’s sake. Perfect!”

  The test for a license to sell real estate was a breeze. Her photographic memory helped. She felt she’d paid her dues as a new agent—answering the telephone, transferring the calls to the senior agents.

  But that was then.

  Today she was finalizing signatures to close her first sale. A lovely Florida house, stucco over cement block. It was painted a light salmon with beige trim. The landscaping was lush, lawns bordered with Hawthorn bushes covered with tiny white flowers. There was an abundance of flower beds—marigolds mixed with silver dusty miller and red and pink geraniums.

  Changing lanes, Charley tucked a wave of hair, covering the right lens of her sunglasses, behind her ear.

  She turned into the agency, drove through the portico, and parked under a large live oak tree dripping with Spanish moss. After putting the top up on the car, she grabbed her tote, and strolled into the agency her five-foot-six frame straight, head held high. As she reached her desk her cell played When the Saints go Marching In. The New Orleans street music always put a spring in her step. “Hi, Mrs. Wurthy, it’s a wonderful day to buy a new house. I’ll brew some fresh coffee—”

  “I’m sorry, dear, but Mr. Wurthy and I decided the house just isn’t for us.”

  “I don’t understand, Mrs. Wurthy. You thought it was perfect yesterday.” Charley shook her head, eyes pinched, questioning. “Did I say something that made you change your mind? Maybe there’s a way to rectify your concerns, if I know what—”

  “Oh, Miss Kingman, you were most delightful, respectful, a delight to work with. It’s just another agent called about a house reduced in price. Price is a big consideration for us as you know.”

  “Of course. I can ask the seller if she will accept a lower offer.”

  “No need. Mr. Wurthy put in an offer last night on the other house. They accepted right away. You have a nice day, dear. Bye.”

  The disconnection exploded in Charley’s ear like a rocket launcher. Wincing with the reverberation, she pocketed her cell.

  Last night she went to bed with a smile, going over in her mind the papers that Mr. and Mrs. Wurthy had to sign setting the closing date. The Wurthys were special—her first sale. Not! She glanced around the agency. Kitty was on the phone laughing, scribbling notes on a legal size yellow pad of paper. Hank was in the front sitting at a table with his clients as they signed the paperwork for their new house.

  Charley’s hands
turned clammy. She took a deep breath. The sale had been a sure thing, or so she thought…last night. She clutched her pen making a fist to keep from shaking. Slowly she brought her mind back. Gained control.

  So, she didn’t get this sale, but she darn well will get the next one. She had a way with people. Everyone said so. She was made to sell real estate. She didn’t do what was required. She went way above to help her clients. Not pushy like some salespeople she’d witnessed. No, she was professional, friendly, spent hours finding the perfect property—right location, style, size and price. Determined not to fall short, she’d watched the local sales reports to compare the houses she showed the Wurthys versus others in the neighborhood.

  Charley was aware it took time to build up a clientele. Hank and Kitty were very self-assured. They’d been through the first six-month drought several years ago, typical for a new agent. Kitty was now a top producer, had taken Charley under her wing, given her numerous tips.

  Charley opened the journal document on her computer where she kept notes of every meeting with the Wurthys. Was there something she should have done differently? No. She did everything on the checklist, brilliantly she thought but obviously not good enough. In hindsight, there was one thing she wished she hadn’t done. She wished she hadn’t told her mother and father that she was closing a sale today. She could hear her father now, “I told you real estate wasn’t for you.” Her mother would say she was sorry it didn’t work out.

  Tapping a pen on the large calendar desk pad, she couldn’t stop her father’s admonition from creeping into her mind. Maybe he was right.

  Twisting her waves of auburn hair back into a knot she secured it with a clip from her desk drawer. The cool air on her neck helped to return her focus. Another day at the office. Another learning experience. Not a sale until the buyer signs on the dotted line.

  She heard the slap of high-heeled sandals. Rachel, the owner of the agency, stopped at her desk. “What time are the Wurthys coming to sign the Purchase and Sale document? I’d like to meet them.”

  "They’re not coming,” Charley said as she retrieved her cell—the Saints were marching. “They bought another house last night.”

  Checking the caller ID, she turned away from Rachel. “Hi, Mother. What’s up?”

  “Your grandfather’s had a heart attack. I need you to come home,” she said in her soft sugary voice.

  Chapter 2

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  THE WHITE CADILLAC PARKED at the front door of the ocean side estate meant one thing to Charley. Well, maybe two things. One, her Grandpa Bernie had survived the heart attack and Dr. Henry Stewart was tending to her high-strung mother. Or Grandpa died and Dr. Stewart was consoling both of her parents. Either way, Charley’s heart was pounding. Breathing in short gulps of air she shot out of her car and up the flagstone walkway to the front door. “No, no, no, not Grandpa,” she mumbled. “It can’t be. He can’t be gone forever.”

  She charged through the front door, through the empty house to the terrace. The sparkling ocean surf belied the fear gripping her body. But Grandpa Bernie was not dead. Seeing the patriarch of the Kingman family sitting upright in a lounger a blanket tucked around his legs, the adrenalin storming her body ceased, leaving her limp.

  Geoffrey Kingman, her father, was nursing a shot of whiskey. His head resembling a billiard ball glistened in the sunlight as he patted a drop of sweat with a napkin.

  Dr. Stewart was handing Dottie, her mother, a prescription for valium. “Dottie, fill this today. It’s for you. You had a scare. It will help you sleep.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you. What about Bernard? Shouldn’t he take something?” Dottie said.

  “Everything checks out with your father-in-law. He was smart to ask you to get his nitroglycerin. It’s been three years since I prescribed it for him. He told me at his checkup last month that he wasn’t wearing the chain anymore. He didn’t feel he needed it. I’m just glad you knew where he kept it,” Henry said.

  They all looked up as Charley emerged from the French doors into the balmy afternoon with a forecast of seventy-five degrees.

  “Lovely. So happy to see you’ve risen from the dead, Grandpa,” Charley said bending to kiss his cheek.

  “Now, now, Charley. Not to worry. Let’s crack a bottle of champagne, salute your success,” the seventy-two-year-old man said, patting his granddaughter’s hand, a broad smile under his bushy salt and pepper mustache. More salt than pepper. His signature white safari hat topped his head keeping the sun from his eyes.

  “Oh no, not so fast. You’re not changing the subject. Dr. Stewart, what happened?” Charley said looking over at the family doctor and dear friend.

  “No champagne for you today, Bernard. Not sure, Charley. Your grandfather blacked out, a few minutes. There are no residual effects as far as I can tell. So, Bernard, maybe you had a bit too much sun. Your heart is strong as an ox. However, we need to run some tests, find what caused the blackout if we can. Tell me what you did this morning.”

  “Geoff and I played with our regular foursome. Our usual routine at the clubhouse…golf, beer. Felt fine then a little woozy when I got home. It came on suddenly,” he said in his gravelly voice, not quite robust as usual.

  “You seem to be okay now, but I want you to go to the ER to have some tests. It won’t take long. Geoff, can you follow us? You can bring him home after the tests. Just a precaution, but I want to draw some blood close to the event. After you come home, Bernard, give me a call if the woozies return,” Dr. Stewart said with a chuckle.

  “I heard him fall,” Dottie said. Her normal soft voice was strained. “I hurried down the hall to the front door. Geoff was kneeling beside his father. Bernard looked…gone. White as a ghost. I screamed to Hildy to call you Henry. I…I called Charley…and Frankie.”

  A stocky Scottish woman, gray hair fastened back in a bun, joined the group carrying a large silver tray of tea sandwiches. Hildy, the housekeeper, set the tray on the umbrella table next to a tea service. She smoothed her white bib apron waiting for further instructions. Her feet encased in black leather shoes appeared to be stuck to the varicolored flagstone terrace.

  “Thank you, Hildy,” Dottie said. “Please, be so kind to pour the tea.”

  A young man rushed out through the French doors screeching to a halt. Glancing from person to person arrayed in front of him, he let out a long sigh as he turned to the man on the lounger. “Grandpa, you look quite dapper for a dead man.”

  “He wasn’t so dapper an hour ago, son,” Dottie said a slight edge to her voice.

  “Sis?” Frank said nodding to Charley. “Mother, the message on my cell didn’t sound like you were inviting me to a tea party.”

  “Your grandfather seems to have overdone it at the golf course, or he ate something that didn’t agree with him, or more than likely it was just too much sun, Frank,” Dr. Stewart said.

  Geoff set his crystal glass on the table. “I’m ready to go when you are, Henry. But hold on a minute. Now that the family has gathered, we have to settle the time tomorrow for Frank’s big reveal. You must come.”

  “A reveal Frank?” the doc said, stuffing his stethoscope into his black leather bag.

  “Frank and his partners are going to launch their drone prototype. I hope you can make it. You’re practically family,” Geoff said.

  “Well, that sounds mighty fine. A drone? Those little devils are certainly in the news. I wouldn’t miss it.” Dr. Stewart feigned a punch to Frank’s shoulder as he turned to leave, giving a friendly kiss on Dottie’s cheek. “Geoff will get that script filled while he’s waiting at the ER, Dottie. Get some rest.”

  “Yoohoo. Bernard, where are you?”

  “Here, Jane, my pretty one. Out on the terrace.” Bernard kicked off the blanket snapping to a sitting position.

  Jane Haliday, a plump woman with pink hair, her pink lips puckered in a bow, bustled out the French doors. Her purple dress was a garden of red cabbage roses. Ignoring the family, she made a
beeline for her friend. “What’s happened, Bernard? You look pretty good to me.”

  “Just a little too much golf, my dear, with a beer chaser. You are a vision as always,” Bernard said as the pair swapped air kisses.

  “He almost had a heart attack,” Dottie interjected. “How about a cup of tea, Jane?”

  “Yes, thank you Dottie. Tea would be nice. A heart attack, Bernard? Charley, what happened?” Jane asked turning to her friend’s granddaughter. “Thank you, Hildy. My throat is a bit parched. This tea will help. Lemon ginger?”

  Hildy nodded, with a smile.

  “Don’t listen to her, Jane,” Bernard said.

  “He’s fine, Jane,” Geoffrey said. “Don’t worry. Bernard and I are going to the ER with Henry…a few tests. But he did give us a scare.”

  “Speaking of tests, I’m testing my drone tomorrow morning, Jane,” Frank said. “I bet your niece would be interested, maybe her husband, too. Both private investigators,” he said grinning. “My drone would be perfect for them, a couple of PIs, help solve their cases—eyeballs in the sky so to speak.”

  “Oh, how exciting. Yes, I’ll tell Lizzie and Manny. As private investigators they’re always interested in the latest gadgets. Where? What time?” Jane said.

  “Here, down on the beach. Seven o’clock okay everyone?” Frank said, glancing around the family. Frank looked the part of a young CEO. Poised with black facial hair, sideburns to beard carefully clipped short as was a hint of a mustache. Central casting would have picked him to play the part.

  “Seven’s fine, Frank,” his father said.

  “How nice. We’ll have brunch,” Dottie said, beaming at her family. “Hildy, defrost some of those lovely crab cakes you bought at the fish market yesterday.”