Plus-size reading pleasure—try this one on! —Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author of the Jack Reacher Mystery series

One day Odelia's tiny world of contented boredom is rocked by the news that her friend Sophie London has committed suicide by putting a gun into her mouth and pulling the trigger. To add to the shock, Sophie's final actions were viewed on the Internet by dozens of people via a web camera. To Odelia it did not make sense. Sophie was a survivor, a beacon of light to women of size, not a despondent victim. Teamed with Greg Stevens, a handsome paraplegic who witnessed the death, Odelia sets out to investigate the truth. But one revelation follows another as she uncovers Sophie's very private past.   Too Big to Miss is the first installment in the Odelia Grey Mystery Series.   Read more comments about Too Big To Miss.

Excerpt from Too Big To Miss

     It's amazing, this profession of serving the dead. Everyone seemed positioned to help, solicitous and sensitive, causing as little emotional friction as possible. The business of death operated like a well-oiled machine, and was as organized as a Fortune 500 company. It seemed more orderly than life, making me wonder why the business of living couldn't run as smoothly as that of death. Maybe if it did, there would be fewer self-inflicted gun shot wounds.

     On Tuesday, with a few short phone calls from the office, I was able to set up the memorial service. It would be Friday afternoon at four o'clock. Following the service, everyone would be invited back to the Washingtons for a light buffet. I also placed an obituary in the Orange County Register.

     Zee was tasked with calling everyone we knew who would want or would need to know about Sophies death. I would send e-mails to others tonight after I got home.

     Seamus was his arrogant self when I came through the door after work. But he did rub my legs and purr to let me know he'd missed me a little. After receiving some well-placed scratching behind the ears, he followed me into the kitchen where I made myself a quick sandwich. Carrying my plate and a diet soda, I headed upstairs to my spare bedroom where I kept my computer and desk.

     First, I checked for phone messages. There were two, one from my stepmother. In her usual disapproving voice, she reminded me to pick up a cake at the supermarket for Mothers Day, less than a week away. It annoyed me to think that she felt it necessary to remind me. It annoyed me even more to know that I had forgotten just as she'd expected. I wrote myself a note and stuck it to the front of the computer, then wondered why, knowing full-well that she'd call again with another reminder.

     The second message was from Glo, Gloria Kendall. She was one of the mainstays of the Reality Check group. Glo is a delightful character with a big heart and cornpone Southern accent. Her voice sounded sweet and kind as she asked if she could help with the upcoming memorial. I made another note, this one reminding me to call tomorrow and accept her offer.

     After listening to the messages, I started up the computer. I hadn't been online in over a week and needed to check my e-mail. With a few strokes to the keyboard, I found myself properly connected to my online provider.

     My e-mail box held a whole slew of new correspondence. Most were from Reality Check members, dated within the last two days. Our regulars would have received a call today from Zee, so I wasn't too concerned about responding right away.

     Some of the other e-mails were from concerned online friends who hadn't heard from me in a while. These were friends from around the nation who only knew me from the Internet. I wasn't much for the chat room scene, finding it boring. But I loved to play backgammon online, as well as hearts and cribbage, finding the games a nice diversion from television. Over the years I had made many acquaintances this way. My online handle, or screen name, is OdieWanKanobie. Go ahead, laugh, most do.

     Reality Check also had a web page which promoted equality for all shapes and sizes. It had been set up and operated by Sophie, and my name and e-mail was one of the contacts for more information. This web page was something else that would need attention. I didn't know much about computers and web design, but Sophie was very organized, so I felt sure that Zee and I would find information about the site among her office papers. If not, we knew people who could help sort it out.

     Suddenly I found myself wondering about the future of Reality Check. Would the group continue? Sophie London was more than its founder and leader, she was the group's heart.

     Instead of answering each and every e-mail inquiry about Sophie individually, I drafted a short note about her upcoming memorial and sent it out to my entire Reality Check address list, as well as a few others who had contacted me through the web site. I thought about posting something nice on the web page, but didn't know how. Later, I told myself, it didnt all have to be done tonight.

     A hot shower and bed beckoned me. I was still exhausted from lack of sleep. Monday night had been better than Sunday, but only marginally. Another restless night and I would be comatose.

     Just as I was about to sign off and answer the pleasant call of hot streaming water, a tone sounded. It was the signal informing me that a new e-mail had just arrived. The sender was someone named Rocknrlr. No one I knew, but I remembered the screen name from one of the earlier e-mail inquiries about Sophie. I had just sent this person memorial information. The subject line for the new e-mail read Suicide????.

     I opened the e-mail with a tentative click.

     "Hello, Odelia," it started. "My name is Greg Stevens, a friend of Sophie's. I was one of the people who saw her die."

     My right hand trembled. The news stories, both in the papers and on television, had been full of the horror. Some programs had even rustled up people anxious to talk about it. Last night on the eleven o'clock news, I had watched a skuzzy middle-aged man relay how he had tuned in to Sophie's web site expecting to see some skin, only to watch her blow her brains out. He had been zealous and graphic in his description, like a bystander describing a drive-by shooting or a beating.

     Now, here in front of me was another viewer willing to talk. What was the purpose? Titillation? Attention? I didnt know and I didnt care. I felt violated. My memory of Sophie was being ransacked and pillaged, replaced by carnage up close and personal. I didn't want to know about the mechanics of her death. It was gut wrenching enough to know that she wouldn't be coming back. There'd be no more dinners, or discussions about movies, or leaping tall buildings in a single bound for the right of fat girls to wear spandex. It was over, and I had no patience for people interested in the sideshow that was her death.

     Still.

     I wrapped my fingers tighter on the computer mouse as I read on.

     "Sophie spoke a lot about you," the e-mail continued, "so I almost feel like I know you. I don't believe she committed suicide. Do you? If you knew her as well as I think you did, there is no way you could. I'd like to talk to you about it. Please call me at (714)555-1821. Call anytime."

     At this point, most people would have made themselves a drink. Wine perhaps, maybe scotch on the rocks with a twist of lemon. Not me. Instead, I padded downstairs and rummaged through my refrigerator. In answer to my emotional needs and agitation, I located a box of Girl Scout cookies in my freezer. Thin Mints. My favorites. And they're even better frozen.