Carolyn Anderson Jones
Carolyn Anderson Jones

Scared Hitless!

Catherine, Constance, and Cynthia are three trendy-chic BFF’s who live on the Colorado Front Range and have known each other forever.

Catherine is a syndicated columnist, Constance a retired grandmother, and Cynthia a hair and nail tech – the best in the west!

These three mild mannered “mature” women have lived fairly uneventful lives until Catherine writes an expose about the head of the Denver Mafia and they put a contract out on her.

What’s a girl to do? Head for the mountains and Grand Lake Village to hide out with her best friends, that’s what!

But thank God these ladies aren’t your normal baby boomers. They may have French manicures and highlighted hair, but they have no fear, they’re physically fit and they have really cool tattoos. Just saying.

Hiding out isn’t all bad when there’s kayaking, hiking, boating around the lake in their Moomba, bellying up to the bar at the Lariat Saloon for a Coors, or driving up to the Grand Lake Lodge for a Lemon Drop Martini.

But all that ends when they find out the hit man has found their hideout. Watching their backs and turning the tables on the would-be killer becomes their top priority. Because dodging bullets can really wreck a great hair day!

Quotes from Scared Hitless

“We have to be careful, or he’ll know someone has been in his room! We have to leave everything just like we found it, and we can’t leave any fingerprints or butt DNA. Quick! Wipe down the toilet seat and I’ll do the bags.”

“Well, we’ve done ‘wreaking havoc on unsuspecting villagers’ and ‘causing chaos with the wildlife’ to death. What does everyone want to do today?” I ask when we finish cleaning our plates.

“That’s just wonderful,” I tell Flavia sarcastically. “I know my tarot cards predicted a new adventure in my future, but I was kinda hoping it was going to be something like a cruise down the Nile, or a hot-air balloon ride over the Napa Valley.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Catherine exclaims, and sits up straighter, holding her eye. “Are you telling me that after nearly two weeks of worrying about Dusty and some hit man whacking me, I get knocked out by a flying lemon?”

Dusty pulls himself up with his good arm and grabs his cousin’s shirt. “Ya know me, Frankie. I’m too chicken to whack myself—I’d never do that. But you know hexes and spells are for real, right? Remember Grandma Belladonna? She had the ‘eye,’ man. She put a hex on Uncle Tony Fioni, and his nuts turned black and fell off! You remember that?”


When I was seven I watched my best friend, Catherine, fall off a swing on our school playground and do a face plant in the hard gravel.

It was the 1950’s and we didn’t have soft green grass around our two-story, white clapboard schoolhouse. Dirt, gravel, a few weeds and a cracked sidewalk leading up to the front door of the Louisville Elementary School was the “Martha Stewart” landscaping we all grew up with and loved.

I panicked when I saw Catherine fall, but seeing her accident wasn’t the only cause for my upset. Another cause was the premonition I had of the accident moments before it happened, and then watching it come true.

But my biggest panic was I didn’t want any of the boys to see Catherine’s panties.

It was hard being a girl in the 1950’s. We had to wear dresses to school everyday. No shorts, leggings or jeans for females back then. Even in the harsh Colorado winters we had to wear dresses. And it was tough trying to have fun on our old playground equipment - the swings, slides, merry-go-rounds, monkey bars, and seesaws - while holding your dress down.

I knew Catherine could handle a bloody nose, loose tooth or scraped knee, but the constant teasing if the boys saw her Pokka-doted panties would be pure hell. All we’d hear the rest of the day would be “I saw London, I saw France, I saw Catherine’s underpants!”

So I pushed my panic aside, knocked a few guys to the ground, and rushed to help her up before they could see what happened.

As it turned out, Catherine managed to fall flat on her stomach and only knocked the wind out of her lungs and skinned her face up a little.

Somehow, while careening through the air, she was able to grab her dress and cover her ass before she hit the ground. Now that’s what I call multi-tasking 1950’s style.

We didn’t have a nurse in our small town school, so Catherine was sent to be checked out by our second grade teacher.

Me? Well I, Constance Canary Woods, got sent to the principal’s office for knocking the guys on their butts. The big whiny babies.

But, all in all, I didn’t think it was such a bad deal because that day I learned I had a special “gift”. Premonitions.

I have no control over my gift. Just like I have no control over my middle name. My mother was big into birds so my two sisters and I were blessed with bird middle names. Rachel Robin is the oldest, I’m stuck in the middle, and Whitney Wren is the baby. I always felt I got the raw end of the deal because Robin and Wren are almost normal names. But, Canary?

Well, back to my premonitions.

Over the years I learned I could never tell when one was going to happen, or who or what it was going to be about. They’d suddenly hit me out of the clear blue and sometimes I’d have time to warn people, and sometimes I didn’t.

Fortunately, they were never about catastrophic or historic events, like earthquakes, hurricanes, or the death of a famous person, like Elvis. They were simply premonitions about people, places and things close to me in my own little world.

I also learned very early on that talking about my premonitions would creep people out, so basically I kept them to myself and a few close friends. Catherine being one of them.

Well, that was over 50 years ago, and if nothing else, having the middle name of Canary helped me develop a tough skin, a good sense of humor, and a great right hook. Maybe I didn’t get such a raw deal after all.

Scared Hitless! Book Cover

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