“ BEST OF 2019”  — SUSPENSE MAGAZINE   When a hang-gliding stranger is found fatally injured in the cliffs above Monterey Bay, the investigation into his death becomes a cluttered mess. Professional organizer Maggie McDonald must sort the clues to catch a coastal killer before her family becomes a target . . .   Maggie has her work cut out for her helping Renée Alvarez organize her property management office. Though the condominium complex boasts a prime location on the shores of the Monterey Bay National Marine Sanctuary, aging buildings and the high-maintenance tenants have Renée run ragged. But Maggie’s efforts are complicated when her sons attempt to rescue a badly injured man who crashed his ultra-light on the coastal cliffs.   Despite their efforts to save him, the man dies. Maggie's family members become the prime suspects in a murder investigation and the target of a lawsuit. Her instincts say something’s out of place, but solving a murder won’t be easy. Maggie still needs to manage her business, the pushy press, and unwanted interest from criminal elements. Controlling chaos is her specialty, but with this killer’s crime wave, Maggie may be left hanging . . . “A skillful amateur detective with an impressive to-do list.” — Kirkus Reviews , STARRED REVIEW, Address to Die For Mary Feliz writes the Maggie McDonald Mysteries featuring a Silicon Valley professional organizer and her sidekick golden retriever. She’s worked for Fortune 500 firms and mom and pop enterprises, competed in whale boat races and done synchronized swimming. She attends organizing conferences in her character's stead, but Maggie's skills leave her in the dust. Visit Mary online at MaryFeliz.com. Cliff Hanger Maggie McDonald Mystery Series By Mary Feliz KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP. Copyright © 2019 Mary Feliz All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-5161-0530-4 CHAPTER 1 Packing for a vacation on the central California coast means packing for weather extremes. While the average temperature in June ranges from a comfortable sixty-five to seventy-five degrees, summer daytime temperatures can plummet to fifty degrees or climb into triple digits — sometimes within a 24-hour period. On a typical summer day you're less likely to need your bikini than a warm coat. From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald Simplicity Itself Organizing Services Monday, June 17, Late morning "Mom, you sure those directions are right?" Fourteen-year-old Brian leaned over the back of the front seat. His sixteen-year-old white-knuckled brother David clutched the wheel and peered into the fog bank. "GPS says this road runs straight into the ocean." David lifted his foot from the accelerator and hovered it over the brake. The car slowed to a creep. "Seriously?" he said with a hint of panic in his voice. "I can't see a thing. Let me know if your feet get wet and I'll start backing up." "You're doing great, David," I said to my newly permitted driver. "Up here on the right, you'll turn and take a narrow road out to the condos." "Narrower than this?" David's voice squeaked a tiny bit as he tried to keep an eye on his mirrors, his speed, the fog-obscured road ahead, and the deep drainage ditches on either side of a road barely wide enough for two cars. The speed limit was 40 mph. The speedometer hugged 25. Luckily, there was no traffic on the rural road flanked by fields growing strawberries, artichokes, lettuce, and Brussels sprouts. As we approached the turn, the fog lifted. David easily navigated the narrow bridge over the slough. "Blue heron!" shouted Brian as one launched itself from a dead log partially submerged in the slough. With a few pumps of its massive wings, it disappeared behind the ridge separating the farmland from Monterey Bay. I rolled down my window to appreciate the cool salt air. We'd left oven-like temperatures behind us when we'd left the Bay Area less than an hour earlier. Our golden retriever Belle shoved her nose between the headrest and the window frame for a sniff. Santa Cruz County was home to some five hundred species of migratory and resident birds. She appeared to be smelling and identifying each one. "Ultralight!" shouted Brian again, pointing out the back window. "That hang-glider thing?" I asked, locating a lime green and shocking pink oversized kite that looked much like a committee had tried to reverse-engineer a dragonfly. It roared above us. "They're like hang gliders with engines," Brian explained. "You don't need a pilot's license to operate them." "Don't even think about it," I said in response to the note of anticipatory glee in his voice. "Ultralight aviation is not included in our summer plans." "It could be ..." Brian began. "Nope. Not while I'm your mother." I squinted at the aircraft. "Is it supposed to fly like that? All wobbly?" A sharp explosive sound echoed through the hills. "Or is there something wrong with the engine?" David ended our discussion when he pulled the car onto the gravel shoulde