Introduction

In A Pointed Death, biotech consultant Nola Billingsley discovers that one of her clients is stealing proprietary information from other startups. When the scion of a prominent Chinese-American family is murdered, Nola is convinced his death stems from his employment at the company pilfering scientific secrets. Nola seeks the identity of the killer and the destination of the purloined genetic data. Lanky fraud investigator Robert Harrison wants her to leave sleuthing to the professionals and leap in bed with him, but hardheaded Nola is convinced she and her band of biotech pals can solve the mystery. When the going gets tough and danger looms, she has her shorthaired pointer Skootch to watch her back as the action accelerates from lab to ocean's edge in San Francisco, the city where biotech was born. A Pointed Death is a funny, sexy who-done-it set in a smart industry, a 'Malice Corporate' unfolding in a town everyone loves but secretly believes is in need of its own twelve-step program.

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Excerpt

Prologue
The beefy hand of the liquidator, lifeline clogged with
grease, sliced the air like a rattlesnake’s head. I covered
the hovering palm with twenties. Don London had auctioned
the assets of my failed dot-com and was delivering the remaining
equipment I could not sell, because it was leased, and I would
have to pay it off, into the garage of my San Francisco home.
New businesses are supposed to start in California garages, not
end in them.
Don’s crew rolled the last piece of equipment into the
garage. The copy machine looked expensive and out of place
sandwiched between my treadmill and the recycling bins.
“Better luck next time, Nola.” Don hefted his corpulent
frame into the driver’s seat of his truck.
“Don’t wish me luck, wish me venture capital.”
“You entrepreneurs are a persistent breed.” He slammed the
driver’s side door.
“Persistent or plain stupid!” My shout startled an umbrellatoting
woman walking her poodle down the sidewalk of our
peaceful, manicured block. Hell, there you go disrupting things,
Nola Billingsley. You can never leave well enough alone. A rambunctious,
independent woman who has to have the last word.
As Don’s truck pulled away, I turned and surveyed the
stacked equipment. Over the copy machine, suspended from a
redwood rafter, an artificial Christmas wreath drooped. All it
needed was a rest-in-peace sash to become a memorial tribute
for my defunct start-up. I owed $13,500 more on this collating
colossus. Our dot-com’s accountant had negotiated the lease in
one of his last official acts before absconding with a sizable chunk
of my capital. What a depressing end for an entrepreneur. I
made my way along the narrow aisle that remained of my garage
toward the kitchen and the scotch bottle.
The next morning, as I sat down to yogurt and coffee, I realized
I had no place to go. My former offices, the scene of much pain
and frustration as the business lurched toward collapse, were at
least a destination. I looked across the table at my mother. Crap,
you’re a forty-eight-year-old woman with no visible means of
support living with your mother. How low can you go?
Turning from the blaring television, Janie Belle read my
thoughts. “You should reopen your consulting business. Why
don’t you call up some of your old biology contacts?”
“That’s biotechnology, Mother. I plan to, but I have to tie
up loose ends on the cyber-business.”
My mother is a vibrant eighty years young. She has survived depressions, wars, hurricanes, miscarriages and cancer. She is
a displaced Southern girl who wields her accent like a passport.
Everywhere she goes, she brings a moving van chock full of
eighteenth-century furniture, china, crystal, and family portraits.
The gilt-framed, manor-born ancestors were all here on
the Left Coast, hanging on the living room walls, mildewing
genteelly in the California damp.
She lifted her coffee cup, pinkie curled. “Is there anything
I can do to help?”
“Not unless you change your mind and learn the
computer.”
“Absolutely not! I am not going to start that at my age.”
Janie Belle has mastered many things: needlework, stenciling,
gourmet cooking, Girl Scout leading, duplicate bridge,
gardening, even chicken farming. She also has conquered things
technological. She handles the digital gadgets in the car with
skill, channel-surfs with the cable remote, gabs on the cell
phone, and nukes with the microwave, but she will NOT go
near a computer.
I got Janie Belle an e-mail address once. I would come home
to a cheery drawl, “Have I got maaail?” I printed messages off
for her, and she answered them with handwritten letters on
monogrammed stationery. She is complete, resolute, and content
in a way modern women, especially we boomer women,
can never be.
At this moment, the love of my life thundered into the
room. Skootch E. Hurry is a pointer dog. I wish I could be more
specific as to the exact breed of pointer he is, but we met at the
SPCA and his lineage is a mystery. The “E.” does not stand for
anything; it is just that the dog has such presence, he deserves
a middle initial.
At the pound, Skootch attracted my attention by wagging
his tail against the cage so hard it bled. I took pity and brought
him home. He is a spoiled, undisciplined, overweight slob, and
the dearest creature on the planet. Janie Belle insists he dipped
the tip in catsup. She says he is a con artist in dog’s clothing.
They are tight as shrink-wrap.
Skootch sauntered up to the kitchen table with a selfdeprecating
sway. This is a prelude to the Lunge. Eighty-pound
Skootch, who fancies himself a lap dog, drapes his upper torso
across your lap to get a better view of your breakfast plate. He
spied my yogurt and harrumphed in distaste.
“Nola, why don’t you take that mangy dog for a walk. He’s
so fat you can’t see any of his ribs, and his privates are disappearing
in his tummy roll.”
Skootch left my lap for the greener pastures of Janie Belle’s
side of the table. Janie Belle continued, “It’s your fault the canine is corpulent, you spoil him nonstop.” The Lunge was repeated.
Skootch’s head lowered into position over her half-eaten breakfast.
His tongue made fast work of the left side of the plate.
Janie Belle executed an ineffectual shove. “He must be
twenty pounds overweight. How you can look the vet in the
face?” The tongue swirled around the right side of the plate, a
movement as elegant as Renoir’s brushwork. Skootch aimed a
wistful gaze at the butter dish. His neck extended outward in
its direction.
The spunky eighty-year-old smacked him on the nose and
pushed him off her lap. “That’s enough! Y’all should be ashamed
of yourself.”
I took Janie Belle’s advice and treated Skootch to a walk in order
to procrastinate before calling former colleagues in the biotechnology
industry. I drove Skootch to Fort Funston, a national
preserve perched on the edge of the Pacific Ocean.
Fort Funston is an unspoiled expanse on the cliffs that rise
from Ocean Beach. Hundreds of acres of native plants, winding
trails, desolate beachfront, and Technicolor views spoiled by
only one thing—bureaucracy. The Park Service had decided to
make war on dogs. A band of control freaks fueled by an ecoreligious
fervor, these policy-wielding potentates wish to restrict
the use of Fort Funston to, well, themselves and the birds.
The horseback riding clubs and the hang glider association,
San Francisco’s own indigenous air force, had the foresight to
create legal barriers protecting their use of the park when the
City ceded the recreational area to the Feds. The naïve pet owners
relied on the common sense and decency of freedom-loving
people everywhere, and got screwed. Now dogs, which previously
ran free, are leashed and led in the park.
As I pulled my station wagon into the parking lot, the
weather was getting worse. The fog gathered substance and
rolled over the cliff, a bully looking for a scrap. I saw a solitary
dog owner wrapped in a slicker, hunkered against the cold.
I did not see any park rangers. Weighing my chances as the first
drops of rain hit my windshield, I decided it was worth the risk
of a citation. Opening the door, I freed the caged canine and
picked up a plastic bag, but not Skootch’s leash. The rain pattered
in approval.
I have a problem with authority, especially authority embodied
in small-time functionaries who often magnify the scope of
their power to annoying extremes. I know I am being petty, but
I love getting around such people.
Skootch flew over the parking lot and on to the sandy dunes,
picking up speed like a fighter jet on a flight deck. Then he threw
himself into an elegant spin and ended in a seamless squat. He
pooped robustly and flew off again. Without any elegance whatsoever, I trudged over and retrieved the doggy detritus.
I caught up with Skootch as he was about to enter the coppice.
Most of Fort Funston is wide open, covered with low
grasses, succulents and wild strawberry, but there are a few
small stands of trees. The first one that guards the approach to
Battery Betty, a pre-WWII artillery installation, always makes
me apprehensive. There is something about the abrupt silence.
You walk across an open stretch, deafened by wind and wave,
and step into a dense tunnel of trees. The trees are remarkably
effective at shutting out the sound, yet the breeze makes
it through, causing the branches to move in the sanctuary. The
effect is uncanny.
Skootch becomes fully alert in this place, collecting himself
as consciously as a diver on a springboard. He walks in the
middle of the path. A powerful scent can lure him to the edge,
but he is cautious as he sniffs and always returns to the center.
I was content to let him walk ahead of me. Rough-riding on the
breeze, the fog penetrated to the heart of the coppice, obscuring
my vision. Skootch picked up speed as he neared the end of the
tree canopy. There is an elbow of land between the thicket and
the concrete passage of the old military structure. It contains a
riotous mix of plants, a peek-a-boo view of the ocean, another
trash receptacle, and a convenient park bench.
The concrete battery is not Skootch’s favorite place, because
it produces first-rate echoes. He waits for me in the elbow,
circling through the grasses, sampling aromas here and there.
Once I enter the tunnel, he powers past me out the other end
and congratulates himself on his bravery.
The fog was thick as mucous now. We’ll have to cut our walk
short, I thought, as I zipped up my jacket. Intent on the zipper,
I nearly fell over Skootch. The dog was stopped in mid-trail at
a full point, stiff and immutable as a statue. I had to overcome
my shock because despite his heritage, Skootch never points
anything but the refrigerator. Yet he pointed now, pointed the
park bench.
I eased around him. “Is someone there?”
“Burf.”
As there was no other reply, I advanced again. Skootch crept
behind me, torso low to the ground, neck extended, growling
from deep in the throat.
The bench reclaimed some definition from the fog. A person
sat on it. As I grew closer, a gust cleared the immediate area,
and I gasped in shock. A body slumped on the bench, propped
with its legs wide apart and arms over the back rungs.
I jammed my hands in my pockets for my cell phone. Nuts,
I’d left it at home. The elbow area became claustrophobic.
There was not enough room for Skootch, a dead man, and me.
Especially, since the slouching corpse was as headless as Irving’s
horseman.
I sprinted into the tunnel of the old battery. My choice was
a mistake, but I could not make myself go back. The fog had accumulated
here in a dense and dripping shroud. Not wishing to
follow me into the awful scary place, but not able to leave me,
Skootch began to howl. The reverb terrified both of us. My jog
accelerated into a stampede, but the surface was too slippery for
my leather-soled shoes. Losing my balance, I tried to recover
but pitched forward instead. I narrowly missed knocking my
teeth out. Scrambling to my feet, I started again but stumbled
over something.
Winded now, I gasped for air and planted both palms to
push myself up as Skootch reached my side. His body language
telegraphed he was protecting me from something. He growled
with certain menace at an object about two feet in front of my
nose. It must have been the thing I tripped on.
This time it was the reverb from my scream that sent
Skootch and me racing from that place. The scream I let out
when I found myself face-to-face on the sodden floor of Battery
Betty with the head of my former employee, the embezzler,
Roger Chen.
* * *
... view entire excerpt...

Discussion Questions

From the author:

1. The setting, San Francisco, plays a significant role in this mystery. In fact, the city almost rises to the level of importance of a main character. Nola has a love-hate relationship with her city. She loves the views and hates the political correctness, adores the entrepreneurial culture and hates the parking situation. How does the setting affect her behavior and the outcome? Can you think of other books where setting plays an integral role?
2. Nola has problems with authority. Authorities let her down big time in the case of her roommate Joyce's murder. In modern life, nobody wants to go back to being a serf cowering before the lord of the manor, but we can't have citizens turning into self-styled bounty hunters every time a crime is committed. Does Nola toe the line when she should, or is she stepping over the line when she shouldn't?
3. Nola and Bob Harrison have commitment issues. Sally says Nola sabotages her own relationships. This couple is an example of the problems that face many modern romances. Can Nola learn how to balance feminism and commitment, independence and intimacy?
4. How does Nola rate as an amateur sleuth? Nola has brains, but no badge. Does her involvement in the murder case and the investigation occur naturally? Is this character believable?
5. The different aspirations and roles of 'traditional' and 'modern' women are embodied in the Janie Belle and Nola characters. Today, most women are a blend of the two. What can Nola learn from Janie Belle?
6. If Nola were not a Baby Boomer, would her risk taking choices be different? What if she were a Gen-Xer or a Millennial?
7. What role does ethics play in the minds of the RNA Irregulars? Are they right to mettle in the industrial espionage case? Should they defend their industry, or leave it to the professionals?


8. Nola is intelligent and well-educated, but she seems to get herself into a lot of trouble. What role does IQ play in solving everyday challenges? In confronting unusual situations? In romance?
9. In A Pointed Death, we are confronted with a range of career situations: Running your own business, heading a startup, working for a big company, and being a consultant. Each has its pluses and minuses. Nola, Serge and Dakota talk about their choices. What works best for your personality?
10. When the going gets rough, Nola and Sally go shopping. Why are women attracted to shopping as a solution? Does it have to do with control? Creativity? Insecurity?
11. Nola is an education snob. She is impressed with advanced degrees and the institutions that confer them; that is how Roger gets past her radar. What other blind spots does she have? How about you?
12. Nola feels alive when she takes risks. Today, most of us have desk jobs which are not physically risky unless you want to count obesity and stress. For many people, a typical day at work doesn't pose much of a mental risk either, unless you are a professional high stakes poker player. You can get that occasional jolt of exhilaration vicariously by watching sports. Is her need for an adrenalin fix normal?
13. Is Harrison the right man for Nola? Are their careers compatible or at odds? Harrison does after all work for the government which makes him a bureaucrat, and we know how Nola feels about them. At the end of the book, it looks like they might be headed for a long distance relationship. How will that work for these two people?
14. Both Nola and Bob are haunted by the violent death of a loved one, and both of them made changes in their lives that can be directly traced to these deaths. Have you experienced such a tragedy in your life? If so, what advice would you give Nola and Bob?
15. Can you tell a successful company by the way managers and employees act and the way the place looks. Or can appearances be at odds with performance? Think of your current workplace or a business you have dealt with recently. Is the company more like Screen Leaf or more like CAI?
16. A Pointed Death is a hybrid mystery, containing elements of other genres, including thrillers and romances. It also is a humorous book, or at least the author hopes so. As a reader are you comfortable with books that mix genres? What can the author do to help you embrace a hybrid?
17. When it comes to books that feature animals, do male and female authors treat literary pooches and kitties differently?

Weblinks

»	Publisher's Book Info
»	Web Site for the Pointer Mysteries
»	Book Review of A Pointed Death
»	Author Katherine Russell's blog

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