A Book Cover Illustration for author Wendi Whitsett's latest.
A long-time client, Wendi Whitsett is an inventive fantasy, and now mystery, author. Inspired by her own mother, and the dramatics of her scrap-booking clique, this comedic who-done-it is a delight.
Typically, our studio's work with Ms. Whitsett has been more classically illustrated, even collaborating on a comics-inspired graphic novel, The Figure Eights. For the new series however, a more photographic and collage-inspired design seemed appropriate for the book cover illustration.
"The Crop Murders", the first installment of the "Behind the Curtains Mortuary" series, is coming soon to your digital bookstore.
Excerpt from The Crop Murders:
I saw the reflection of a window. A dark, wide window. I was looking at myself from above. The ground rushed at me. I was Rose Wolfson and I was dying.
“Oh my-balloon-pants, Mom, speak to me! Are you alright?”
Devon had been around the funeral biz his entire life. My mother, his grandmother, was constantly berating him as a kid for the phrase ‘oh my God’. Due to her staunch belief of not taking the Lord’s name in vain. Around her or the grieving. So he’d been substituting the word since he was old enough to talk. When he was little it was cartoon characters, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and the like. Now it was tacky eighties trends.
The thought was light and funny. It helped me come back. “I’m OK, Devon. Just help me sit.”
After a minute, the sensations began to fade. I could breathe, feel my own throat, know where I was. Sitting on the floor of my mortuary just outside the cold room. But not the memories. Not the sights, the feelings, even the smells. They felt as if they were part of my memory now.
“What happened? I saw you go straight down through the window. I came out here and you were lying face down on the floor.”
Working in a mortuary can be peaceful, quiet. There is, yes, the mourning and the grieving of the living. But sometimes the dead have something to say, too.
“I don’t exactly know.”
I did know. I didn’t want to say it. The woman lying on our table, Rose Wolfson, did not die by accident. She was murdered.