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Exclusive Excerpt: Suspicious Truths (The Canes Inlet Mystery Book 3) by Adam Carpenter

PART ONE

Coastal Undertow

SUSPICIOUS TRUTHS

CHAPTER ONE

Devastation was all he felt. Everything else within him, numb.

He knew he’d never belonged here, not at Hatcher’s, not in Cane’s Inlet and definitely not pretending to play host at the upscale Medusa Lounge. In way over his head, the people around him too forceful, too powerful and easily able to toy with his chance at happiness. It was like the truth had become his enemy, destined to keep him from uncovering what lay beneath hidden tendrils. Maybe he didn’t want to know. Maybe he shouldn’t know. In a single moment, he’d left betrayal in his wake. Yes, total devastation.

His last word reverberated in his mind, it’s cry awful as he was left alone in the stateroom. Both men gone, though seared into his mind like a bad memory. The pain he felt ate at his insides as he ran out of the stateroom, down the corridor, where he darted past the entrance to the lounge, where he could hear the joyous sounds of the party, laughter, celebration, the popping of a fresh bottle of champagne. He had nothing left in which to celebrate.

Again, the word…that name, hit him hard. Nearly toppling him to the ground when he ran off the gangway of the Medusa and onto the dirty footpath. The trees absorbed him, thankfully hid him.

“Demetri…”

He kept running, his suit still a tangled mess. Forced to throw on the ink-stained shirt which had been the catalyst for what had transpired. Buttoning it as he ran, the tie forgotten on the carpet of the stateroom, along with his dreams and probably a few drops of Parker St. John’s thick load. He reached the dock, breathing heavily, and thankfully saw the schooner, and in terms of people, only Willy. He wouldn’t be able to face anyone else.

“What are you doing here? Ain’t it your big night?”

Noah looked up. The glow from the full moon must have caught his tear-streaked face.

“Just take me back to the mainland,” Noah pleaded.

Willy silently welcomed him with a simple hand gesture.

Once on board the schooner, Noah tried his best to keep from gazing back, but as they sailed toward the peninsula, the billowing sails and towering masts of the Medusa peeked up over the trees, almost as if they were playing with him. Shooting him a reminder of what an outsider he was. He wiped a series of tears from reddened eyes. Hatcher’s Island was in his rearview mirror. So was the life he’d attempted to forge here. Noah was done. Finished.

Cane’s Inlet would fade into view, too. All that it represented would fade from his life.

He’d lost everything.

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As he crouched near the stern of the boat, it was like he was willing himself to the shore faster, Willy left him alone with his thoughts. The old sailor knew when a man didn’t want to talk. What had happened during the last hour had seemed unreal, its events unfolding like in a movie, the pivotal scene down in cinematic slow motion. He was reliving it, vividly and relentlessly.

Parker’s threat, his manipulation. His undressing before him, exposing his muscular, thickly furred body, his powerful erection and asking, no—demanding–that if Noah desired to keep him from revealing to the Hatchers what he’d discovered, Noah agreed to have sex with him. Parker was sexy, sure, and Noah had always found himself jealous of the man’s easy confidence. Slightly attracted to the idea that Parker wanted him.

Noah had been weak, and afraid. Caught between a rock and hard cock.

He’d given in, had dropped to his knees. Taken the meat into his mouth.

Then just as Parker’s big cock was climaxing all over him, that’s when Demetri had arrived, finding them together. And this only hours after the two of them had declared their love for each other. What possible explanation could Noah have given? Not that Demetri remained for a half-assed explanation. He had run, disappeared. Would he have gone back to the party? Certainly, he hadn’t caught the boat, because Willy wouldn’t have had time enough to go and return given the time passed between then and now. Not even fifteen minutes.

Parker too had excused himself moments after Demetri had run off, his tone as cold as ever. His attitude self-satisfied. “Clean yourself up. I expect you back at your post.”

Fuck him was Noah’s thought as the boat reached the pier on the eastern edge of Cane’s Inlet. Willy was barely given the time to secure his boat before Noah was leaping off, running again. He’d have to offer his apologies later, but then again, that probably wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen.

He’d decided. Noah Sanders was leaving Cane’s Inlet, and he was leaving this minute. His car was parked in the lot, and thankfully the keys were secure in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He didn’t need any other thing, just keys, a car, and an open road. Zander’s Bridge awaited him, and then he’d be gone, never to be heard from again. All he’d sought, all he’d learned, none of it mattered anymore. His mind was a jumble of thoughts, his heart a mixture of emotions. His soul empty of everything but embarrassment.

He found his car in the crowded lot; so many guests still out at the Medusa had left their vehicles here. And why not, the night was young still, not even ten o’clock. Not one to believe in superstitions, Noah couldn’t help but think the full moon high in the black sky had something to do with the twist of events tonight. Or maybe it was fate finally intervening, telling him he’d been foolish to think he could outsmart the entire town. Find out his truth with most of the residents unaware of his reason for coming to town.

He’d trusted the Cane’s. And then gone and betrayed them. Or at least, one of them.

Trying his best to push the image of Demetri’s wounded expression from his mind, he got behind the wheel of his car, needing to focus. He gunned the engine, at last ready to disappear into the ether, just as his mother…no, not his mother, only the woman he’d thought for forever had been his mother, but really was just a woman who had stolen him. Could he do as she had done? Never to be heard from again. Was that the legacy he wanted for himself? To repeat the mistakes of the past, especially as he remained unaware of why it had all happened in the first place. Again, he fought against bitter tears, and he wiped them away with his hands, like wipers on a windshield.

“Shit,” he said aloud, the sound of his voice loud inside the confines of his car.

He couldn’t just run. He needed something vital—his laptop, back inside his room at the Ocean’s Breeze. No way could he leave that, because there was too much on it, website searches and notes about whom he talked to, what he’d learned, a full write-up of his luncheon with Stefan those couple of weeks ago. While it was password protected, Noah had little doubt someone would be able to get beyond his firewall, and then the Hatchers would learn everything.

Just run in, he told himself, pack his bags quickly, throw them in the car. And then he’d be gone. Which he tried to do, but after pulling into the lot and parking right up against the stairs that led to the porch, he noticed the Ocean’s Breeze was darkened; not even a porch light lit, much less one kept on in the lobby. Few people were staying here now, the season’s residents not yet in town. Which is why he’d been able to secure his room for cheap. But he’d never seen the old Victorian so black; it was almost like no one was there, no one even on duty.

He took the stairs, approached the front door. He tried the door and found it locked.

Where was Renny? Wasn’t he always on duty when Cilla was out?

Then he remembered what Cilla and Demetri had told him earlier tonight. Something had been off about Renny, he’d been upset and began throwing things. He’d calmed down, they’d said, but perhaps he’d experienced a relapse after they’d left. Noah peered through the small windows on the front door but again, all he saw was darkness. Should he knock? Or maybe call? Then he remembered yet another detail about Renny’s meltdown—he’d thrown a vase and in turn had broken a window. Demetri had needed to patch it up, making them late for the gala.

Moving along the darkened porch, his shadow barely visible from the moon’s glimmering light, Noah located the broken window. All the glass had been cleared out, the window secured by cardboard and tape around its perimeter. An idea formed in his mind, one he tried to dismiss. He couldn’t do such a thing as break-in. Could he? Turning his head, looking, listening, for signs of anyone lurking, he wiped sweaty palms on his suit pants, then began the process of removing strips of tape from the edges. Seemed Demetri had been thorough, taping the window from both inside and outside. Soon, though, the cardboard came free, leaving a gaping hole that gave Noah access to the lobby of the Ocean Breeze.

This was the moment of truth. Was this him breaking the law? Gaining illegal entry?

Except he was a legitimate tenant, he did pay rent on his room. He just didn’t have a key to the front door and had never needed one. Cilla or Renny had always been there, the door never locked. Again, a cursory look around him revealed no one watching him. So, he crouched down and stepped over the sill, seconds later finding himself inside the Ocean Breeze. As he made his way across the floor, stealth accompanying him, he listened for any sounds of life. But the place was deserted, the office door closed, no light coming from within. He reached around the check-in desk and retrieved his room key from the wooden slots. Nothing to stop him now.

Still, he felt he had to act fast. Up the stairs he went, dreading their creaking noise. But he made it to his room undetected and let himself in. He nearly turned the lamp on, a natural instinct. Except he had to think differently now, he was a cat burglar set upon stealing his own possessions. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, seeing was surprisingly easy. He went over to his desk and took hold of his laptop, placing it under his arm. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and saw what a mess he looked. Tear streaked cheeks, the black ink stain on his shirt, buttons uneven. With his attempt to run from Cane’s Inlet, anywhere he went he’d no doubt receive strange glances.

He made the decision right then to change. Off went the suit and he quickly donned a pair of comfortable jeans and casual shirt, his leather jacket the last piece. The rest of his clothes would just be forgotten. Like he hoped he was, once the residents here knew he was gone for good. It was his only option. Before leaving the room, he took one last look, at where he’d lived these past few months, his eyes landing on the discarded suit on the bed. He thought about what might have been. A new life, a glamorous one. So much potential. All of it destroyed.

Noah Sanders bid farewell to the Ocean Breeze, his room and the stairs, slipping out again through the window. Still not seeing a soul. Was everyone in town at the Medusa opening? And where had Renny gone running off too? None of this was Noah’s concern anymore, and so, with the laptop comfortably under his arm, he made his way back toward his car.

That’s when he heard the blaring of an alarm. Fear struck him as he stared back at the grand house he’d called home, wondering if he’d tripped a wire. But no, the sound wasn’t coming from here, but certainly nearby. He thought of the other times he’d heard sirens in Cane’s Inlet, both instances revealing the bodies of two slain women, their necks sliced. The killer still not caught to this day. My God, he thought, could there be another victim?

Yet the sound was different. Not police, not an ambulance. More like a security alarm.

Whatever the type, this was none of his business.

Noah dashed to his car, fearing discovery, as though the alarm was meant to alert the cops about his escape. Out of the parking lot he went, taking the side streets instead of the access road to the shore. He needed to get to the downtown area and ultimately find his way over Zander’s Bridge. As he drove past the Little Liffey, an establishment he’d miss, he thought he detected a shadow running on the sidewalk, a lone figure caught ever-so briefly under a streetlight before becoming absorbed in the black night. Noah then realized where the person—man or woman. he couldn’t be sure—had come from, the blaring alarm that much closer.

He noticed which building’s alarm had been activated.

“The Historical Society,” he said aloud.

For some reason, he pulled to the curb. He shouldn’t have, but he did. Cane’s Inlet still had a pull on him, most notably its connection to the long-ago past. Out of the car he went, dashing up the pathway to the porch. Unlike the Ocean’s Breeze, not only was there a light on beside the door, but the front door was wide open., shards of wood indicating a break-in. The alarm was deafening. Noah wondered if there was a switch he could find to shut it off. Then he would call anonymously call 911 before driving off again.

As he entered the museum, he realized he dare not touch anything. This was a crime scene. All he wanted was to turn the alarm off. But his efforts in the dark proved fruitless, the piercing sound penetrating his ears, seemingly growing louder with each step he took. A stream of light caught his attention, and so he moved further into the room, finding himself drawn to the Medusa Room. The door was ajar, the source of the light found inside. Another couple steps and he eased open the door, finding before him a mess of destruction. Shelves had been torn down, books lay on the floor, broken picture frames whose shards of glass had fallen to the dark carpet. But what he most noticed was he’d found the source of the alarm, the sound at his loudest inside this room.

The famed Star Diamond case had been smashed, no doubt such action tripping the alarm.

Noah breathed deeply, shock consuming him, as he realized that the diamond was gone.

“Who would have stolen it, and on a night like this?”

There was no answer, not from him, nor from the intruder he suddenly heard behind him. The footsteps startled him. He tried to spin around, but the alarm had aided in the person’s stealth-like approach. So, Noah never saw what happened, he only felt it.

A quick, hard blow to his head. And then came darkness. He never ever heard the thud of his body crumpling to the floor.

* * *

A beep. That’s what heard. Persistent, droning. He wanted to turn it off but he didn’t know how. Didn’t know where the sound was coming from.

Hell, his mind a jumbled mess, he didn’t know where he was.

Still just darkness, perhaps a slit of light giving him a sense of hope he didn’t know that he even needed.

Nothing made sense. Except that his head hurt. That much thundered inside him.

His eyes flickered but failed to fully open. The effort was painful, so he stopped.

At least his ears worked.

“Well, look who’s coming around.”

The voice was familiar to him, except his mind couldn’t process the face behind it.

Could he speak? He tried to move his mouth and even that hurt. His entire head felt like an anvil had fallen on it. His mind randomly inserted an image of the Road Runner cartoons, and even as tried to fight the laugh he felt inside, knowing it would be painful, he did anyway. A short, loud bark that sounded dreamlike to him.

“Ow,” he said, his first word. He tried to suck down air.

“That’s an appropriate one, I guess. Rest easy, you’re going to be fine.”

Again, that voice, soothing now, resetting his breath. Normal and easy, and his eyes closed. Gentle murmuring around him, lulling him to sleep, or perhaps a far worse place. Thoughts of his mother carried him down a path, dark, tree-covered, no sunshine and no warmth. He shivered and thought of snow, and then blackness found him. Again.

Then came that persistent beep once more, relentless in its efforts to annoy him.

“Can you turn that off?” he heard, and realized the words had somehow come from him.

“No, Noah, it’s monitoring your vital signs. Don’t think about it.”

“Thinking is the last thing I can do.”

He was speaking but still unable to open his eyes, still unable to decipher the source of the voice. It was female he’d figured out, his brain beginning the slow process of healing. Or cognitive function. What he most knew was that his head still hurt. Not an anvil hitting him, his head replaced by one.

He shifted his body, deciding he was lying on his back, slightly angled. One of his fingers felt funny, like a clamp was around it.

“Where am I?”

“Cane Medical Center. It’s nice to have you back among the living.”

So, he was still in Cane’s Inlet. Last he knew, he’d been running from it, his intent to never return. What had happened to make him stay? And who was this woman?

That was a good next question to ask. He formulated it first in his brain. He struggled before saying, “Who are you?”

“Noah, it’s Ginette Hatcher. Just go easy, don’t push yourself.”

“Mrs. Hatcher…?”

He heard a slight laugh. “Good to know nothing has changed on that front. No killing your relentless politeness.”

He was processing what had happened to him by her choice of words. Killing, back among the living, relentless. Cane Medical Center. Just how close had he come to dying? Suddenly he wondered what time it was; he didn’t sense any light in the room, so it must still be dark, perhaps only an hour or so since…since…that part of his memory was blank. A good thing, he surmised.

He recalled the full moon. Shadows all around him. The thought of that piercing alarm worse than the beeping sound around him.

“What time is it?”

“It’s just after ten o’clock.”

He let that sink in, realizing she hadn’t said whether a.m. or p.m. It couldn’t have been p.m. because it had already been after ten when he’d made his escape from Hatcher’s Island. A chill hit his body courtesy of the onslaught of memory and the fact that he might have been unconscious for nearly twelve hours. He’d never been in a hospital before, at least not for himself. The antiseptic scent hit him like a brick just now, his mind taking him back to White Pine’s medical center, where his mother had endured poking, proding, so many tests that ultimately were unable to save her.

“Mom,” he said, softly, to himself.

That’s when his eyes flickered open, wide and questioning. The word a shock to his system. Like the fear washing over him had awakened him. His vision was blurry, the woman at his bedside more shape than human.

“Sshh, just rest. It’s too soon, don’t push yourself.”

He tried to shake his head, a gesture usually so effortless. He felt his brain rattle. He spoke. “Tired of rest. Ironic, right? I need to know, how long have I been asleep?”

“I’ll let the doctor know that you’re awake and talking. It’s more his job than mine anyway. He’s the professional.” He felt a gentle squeeze to his hand that bordered on the maternal. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. If you need anything, there’s a call button in your left hand. Just press your thumb down on it.”

His eyes closed without him trying, his hearing heightened. He heard the click of heels on hard tiles, the opening and subsequent closing of the door. He strange it was, he thought, the very woman he’d been running from, fearful of what Parker St. John might reveal to her, she was now at his side, none the wiser about who he was but behaving in a manner that could only be defined as maternal.

Resisting sleep was futile, so he gave in. Worry ceding to healing. When he woke up again, his eyes flickered open and this time he could see better. Ginette Hatcher looking as lovely as ever, her graying hair perfectly styled, her outfit a crisp blue. She appeared to be dressed in work clothes, as opposed to the glittering gown she’d worn just hours…no, not hours…could it have been days? Panic set in and his thumb found the call button and he began to press it.

“Noah, it’s okay…Dr. Delvecchio is here…right next to me.”

Blinking away a blur of fresh tears, he looked up and saw a kindly older gentlemen standing next to her. He wore a white coat, and a stethoscope hung around his neck. A thick white mustache highlighted his face, aided by kind eyes. But his physical details weren’t what piqued his curiosity, but rather…his name. There was something familiar about it.

“Do I know you?” Noah asked, his eyes trying to focus on the elderly man.

“Not unless you remember the events of Friday night, when you were brought in. I was on duty—and a rare night at that.”

“Dr. Delvechhio is mostly retired,” Ginette explained. “I asked him to consult.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” Noah said, more confused than ever. Trying to decipher what he’d just heard. Still unsure what day it was. Surely wasn’t Friday, since he’d referenced it as the past. Also, that Ginette’s presence here wasn’t recent. It sounded like she’d been here for a while…which had him asking, internally, for how long had he been here, both her being here and himself. The words he thought became the words he said.

“How long…?”

“It’s Sunday night,” Dr. Delvecchio said. “You’re been here for forty-eight hours.”

“I lost two days?”

“You rested for two days. Now, what do you say I run some tests and ask some questions, if you’re up for it?”

“Uh, sure.” All he’d wanted since coming to Cane’s Inlet had been answers.

Now it was just more questions.

“What year is it?”

“Twenty eighteen.”

“Good.”

“Month?”

“May?”

“Are you unsure?”

“May.”

“What’s your name?”

Now that was a complicated answer and he felt his brain swell again. “Noah.”

“How about a last name?”

“Sanders. My name is Noah Sanders.”

He looked at Ginette Hatcher as he spoke those words. She nodded.

“Do you know who the President of the United States is?”

Noah frowned. “Do I have to admit to that?”

Both Ginette and the doctor laughed. “Ok, we’ll keep things local. What town do you live in?”

“White Pine,” he said.

“Is that where we are?”

“No.”

“Where are we, Noah?”

“Cane’s Inlet,” he said. Despite his efforts the other night to escape. He was still here, and the truth of the matter was he’d lost two days of his life. Had he just been laying in this bed? That awful beep the only sound, he unable to hear it until only recently. Thoughts of the beep brought it back to the forefront of his mind; he heard it again, loud and invasive.

“Well, why don’t we have a looksee at you,” Dr. Delvecchio said.

“Should I leave?” Ginette asked.

“She can stay,” Noah said. “I’d like her to stay.”

“That’s fine,” the doctor said. “Why not give us a little breathing room though.”

Noah watched as Ginette took a seat in the corner of the room, assuring Noah she’d be near if he needed anything, and he thanked her, his inner self feeling an unfamiliar warmth. She’d never been so friendly in all their dealings while at Hatcher’s. What had changed? His injury, or maybe Parker had told her what he’d learned? He forgot his questions as he felt a shock of cold against his skin. The doctor had begun his examination, placing the metal end of the stethoscope directly against his chest, Noah took a deep breath, tried to relax as his head fell back against the pillow. The doctor then checked his lungs, asking Noah to inhale, exhale, then repeat. A check of his blood pressure came next, then a pinpoint of light shining in his eyes. That hurt, making him blink, close them.

“It’s okay, Noah. Just open your eyes again. Just stare forward.”

Noah did, fighting against the light, knowing it was important to get an accurate diagnosis.

At last, Dr. Delvecchio was done, Noah thankful for his gentle bedside manner.

“Am I gonna live, doc?”

“Keeping a sense of humor does the mind wonders, but regardless, yes.”

“So, what happened to me?”

“Before you arrived, I don’t know? You were brought into the Center with a head wound, a bit of blood leaking. We sewed you up quickly. Nothing serious, but there was a slight gash. The stiches will dissolve on their own, doubt even your barber will notice a scar. What most concerns me is in your eyes; your pupils remain dilated, which is the sign of a concussion. You’ll need time to heal, but you’ll be fine in a few days. You may suffer blurriness, faintness, or nausea.”

“So I’m stuck here?” Noah asked.

“Hardly. We’ll keep you one more night for further observation, but you should be good to go in the morning, barring any overnight setbacks. I’ll check in on you again. Make sure you have someone to pick you up and take you home. You have a roommate, a wife? Someone to stay with you”

Noah tried to process all he’d just heard, but what most struck him was the fact that he was being released tomorrow. He decided not to answer any of the doctor’s questions, instead closing his eyes, faking sleep while his mind tried to ascertain just what the next day would hold for him. Sure, while only two days had passed since the party at the Medusa, so much had gone down, most of all his living arrangements. Demetri had asked him to move in, but that was no longer an option; betraying your lover had a way of killing a relationship. And Cilla, siding with her nephew, would surely kick him out of the Breeze.

He heard a scrape of a chair, the click of heels again.

“Thank you, Dr. Delveecchio. I knew I could count on you to help out.”

“Lucky for us all I was on duty that night. I may be retired, but I’ll tell you being home alone makes for long days.”

“I think I’ll retire when they carry me out,” Gineete said. “Thank you for always being there for our family.”

Then he heard the door close, leaving Noah wondering had both departed.

A creak of the chair next to him suggested otherwise. He fought against the pain by taking a chance of opening his eyes. He saw Ginette Hatcher again by his side, again questioning why she was being so caring. No boss showed this level of concern toward an employee.

“You don’t have to stay here,” he said. “I’ve got nurses. The call button.”

“Now is not the issue,” she said. “Tomorrow is.”

“We don’t even know that I’ll be released.”

“If it’s not tomorrow, it’ll be the next day. You’ll be leaving the hospital soon.”

He allowed a small laugh, feeling the pain rattle inside his brain. He reminded himself he’d have to avoid any emotion that produced a physical result. A laugh, a sneeze. They seemed to rattle him, and not just his brain. Because at the moment, even his heart hurt too, from all that he’d lost. Demetri, his residence, probably his job, too. He’d run out on the biggest party of the year, ditching his post on what was essentially his first night.

“I’ll figure something out,” he said, and then, unable to fight the tears inside him, he said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“In the Army, I believe they call it dereliction of duty. Being AWOL.”

“We’ll deal with all that later, Noah. For now, I have some arrangements to make.”

“My replacement?”

“No, your housing,” she said. “Because I’m guessing you need a place to stay.”

“Yeah, uh, sort of, I think.”

“The last thing you need when healing is further stress. You’ll stay at Hatchers.”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to give up a room, I mean, not with the season coming…”

“I don’t mean the resort, Noah. I’m referring to the house. We have many rooms.”

Her words couldn’t have surprised him more if she added the words “what else is a mother to do for her son?”, but those he failed to hear. Still, her invitation reverberated inside the echo chamber that was his hurt brain. He recalled Emerson’s words about mixing business and pleasure, a warning for him to maintain a fair distance between the resort and the house. This was dangerous territory, and all he wanted to do was say no.

Except he had no other option.

“I don’t want to intrude…Mr. Hatcher…”

“You leave him to me,” she said, “Besides, there’s someone I’d like for you to meet.”

“Who is that?”

“My son, Stefan.”

“Stefan…”

“I’ll think you’ll get along brilliantly. He’s quite a smart boy.”

This confused Noah even further. Had Parker not exposed him for the fraud he’d been all these months? Was Ginette Hatcher unaware that her son lay in this hospital bed, soon to rest his body inside the house which should have been his home all along?

Now his head truly hurt; in fact, it throbbed. So too did his heart.

 

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Adam’s new Cane’s Inlet Mystery trilogy includes SCANDALOUS LIES, SINISTER MOTIVES, and the forthcoming SUSPICIOUS TRUTHS.

His acclaimed Jimmy McSwain detective series includes HIDDEN IDENTITY, CRIME WAVE, STAGE FRIGHT, GUARDIAN ANGEL. and FOREVER HAUNT, in eBook and print. The first two titles are available on audio as well. Jimmy will return in FRESH KILL.

To find out more about author Adam Carpenter’s books, click on his photo above!

 

Exclusive Excerpt of FlabberGassed: A Mister Puss Mystery by Michael Craft

Setting the scene:

The narrator is Brody Norris, a small-town architect who has stepped into the role of amateur sleuth in a local murder. He and his husband, Marson Miles, have invited an attractive new acquaintance, Dahr Ahmadi, to join them for dinner at their loft, hoping to get to know him better—and to sound him out as a possible suspect—but the evening ends with an unexpected development.

This scene is taken from the middle of the novel. Mister Puss, the cat in the series subtitle, winds his way in and out of the story—as cats are wont to do—but he does not appear in the following.

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Excerpt from FlabberGassed:

Some three hours after Dahr arrived at the loft, our evening together came to a close. A wonderful time, as they say, was had by all. Marson had charmed Dahr with his cooking and his small talk and his considerable skills as a gracious host. Dahr had charmed both Marson and me with his stories and his magnetism and his winks. Or were they tics? And apparently, I, Brody Norris, had all but charmed the pants off Dahr Ahmadi. It was not my intent to create an atmosphere of flirtation—I had simply tried to be amiable and welcoming—but Dahr must have tuned in to a more primal vibe.

When he arrived that night, we had greeted each other with handshakes and tentative hugs. Upon parting, however, we had cemented our friendship, so we forwent the handshakes altogether and hugged in earnest. And then, after the thank-yous and good-nights, Dahr offered kisses.

“May I, Mr. Miles?” he asked Marson outside the front door, leaning near for a smooch.

“With pleasure,” said my husband, and they exchanged a chaste peck.

“And Mr. Norris?” he said to me.

“Of course, Dahr.” We pecked.

Marson said, “Hope to see you again soon, Dahr. Good night.” And he turned inside to begin cleanup. It was not in his nature to leave things till morning.

Dahr asked me, “Walk me to my car?”

First Avenue was dead quiet—Saturday night, and our tiny town had “rolled up the sidewalks” already. A bit of evening drizzle had left the street dark and shiny. Yellow leaves glistened and dripped in the warm glow of a streetlamp. The soles of our shoes kissed the damp pavement. Then the man in black turned, and once again, he kissed me.

This was no tic. This was no ritual observation of some ancient parting custom handed down by Dahr’s Persian forebears. No, this was a kiss that meant business. This was a kiss that shot through me, that left me speechless and woozy and open to the unknown.

But then, without a word, he turned and left.

Shambling back to the loft, I wondered, What the hell was that? Was he making a statement? Was he challenging me? Daring me to fall for him?

Or was Dahr just using his wiles—buttering me up for a good report to Sheriff Simms?

When I stepped inside and closed the door, Marson looked up from the kitchen sink, merrily rinsing his way through a stack of dishes. “He’s such a sweet guy—what a great evening.”

Still a bit dazed, I confessed, “He kissed me.”

“He kissed me, too, kiddo.”

“I mean, he kissed me again, outside.”

“I’ve said it before, Brody: you’re an attractive man, desired by many.”

I took my explanation a step further. “I mean, he really kissed me.”

Marson gave a playful growl. “Yikes. Was it good?”

“Marson”—I moved toward him in the kitchen—“aren’t you … jealous?”

He set down his sponge. “Jealous? I’m complimented! Besides—” And he broke into laughter.

“Besides what?”

Marson grinned. “He’s not old enough for you.”

“Or”—I grinned—“he could be just the exception that proves the rule.”

#

Truth is, there were no rules, etched in stone or otherwise.

True, when I was fourteen, I had developed an abiding attraction to older, creative men. True, my first marriage had been to an older, creative man, an architect in California named Lloyd Washington. True, my current marriage was to an older, creative man, a Wisconsin architect named Marson Miles. True, this seemed to denote a pattern. But there were no rules.

True, Dahr Ahmadi was perhaps two or three years older than I was, but this did not qualify him as an “older man.” In the generational scope of things, we were contemporaries. Dahr was a certified nurse practitioner, a respected professional with a noble and humane calling, but this did not qualify him as a “creative man.” He was a man of science. So it was easy to understand Marson’s confident assumption that, in my eyes, Dahr could never measure up. But there were no rules.

True, Marson and I were married. The conventions of marriage—of conventional, heterosexual marriage—demand a lifelong commitment of body, soul, and desire, frequently sworn in vows at the altar, which can lend poignancy to a fairytale ceremony. But even the most earnest exchange of vows offers no guarantee that reality will not evolve and intervene. And the truth is, for us—for any gay couple, married or not—there were no rules, other than those we were content to define for ourselves.

True, Marson and I had written “vows” and delivered them at our tidy civil ceremony, but they were sworn to no god. They focused on an abiding love, which sprang from friendship, and a commitment to “be there” for each other in a joining of forces till death do us part. But they made no reference to carnal fidelity, which struck us both as an irrelevant hangover from some medieval obsession with procreation. So for us, in the matter of Dahr Ahmadi, there were no rules.

True, we had a shadowy understanding that indiscretion could be hurtful to each other and therefore harmful to “us.” Did such an understanding therefore imply that any contemplated indiscretion should simply be replaced by discretion, by the venerable bromide that what you don’t know can’t hurt you?

I don’t know.

What I do know is that the memory of Dahr’s kiss—the second one, out on the street, under the drizzle in the yellow lamplight—vexed me and excited me and consumed my thoughts from the moment I stepped back into the loft on Saturday night. It followed me up the winding staircase as I prepared for bed. It stirred beneath the blankets as I cuddled with my husband, who drifted off, exhausted by his efforts to stage the perfect dinner party. It staved off my own sleep, and when at last I slumbered, the memory of the kiss peppered my dreams with possibilities. This was temptation, pure and raw and simple.

Learn more about author Michael Craft:

www.michaelcraft.com

Click on title below to access the interivew I did with Michael Craft in 2014.

Michael Craft Shares What He’s Been up to Since penning the Mark Manning Series.

 

Exclusive Excerpt: Thin Blue (The Thin Blue Line series Book 1) by Patricia Logan

Excerpt:

“Stop yelling, man. Calm down. We’ll talk about it, okay?”

The anger on the man’s face turned to rage and he stepped forward. Before Felix realized what was happening, the man had both hands twisted in his T-shirt and he was propelling Felix backward. When his back hit the side of his own truck, it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

Goddammit!

“You’re crazy!” Felix yelled. Now he was getting angry and that was an almost foreign emotion for him. He was pretty sure he could have used his Marine Corps Krav Maga training to put the guy on the ground, but he really didn’t want to resort to hand-to-hand combat with an angry trick from a gay bar. Getting hauled off to jail until he had the opportunity to tell his side of the story wouldn’t exactly keep him off the radar, and getting arrested in West Hollywood with the smell of spunk all over him wasn’t his idea of fun.

He reached up and grabbed the guy’s forearms to try to pry them free of his shirt but he realized the attempt was futile. The muscles of the man’s forearms felt like solid steel bands under the long-sleeved Henley he wore. No matter how hard he tried to get him to release his shirt, he couldn’t move him. The detective pushed his enraged face closer to Felix and normally he would have been intimidated by the outrage painted all over his expression. Instead, he found himself growing impossibly hard as he stared at the beautiful full lips he’d been kissing only fifteen minutes before. Even though the man had worked himself into a rage, Felix found himself unbelievably attracted to him. He wished the guy would let go of his shirt and touch him in other places. Felix wanted the man’s hands all over him. He remembered how amazing it felt to have the detective buried inside his body and he wanted it all over again.

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“I’m crazy? You told IA that I intended on shooting that suspect when I fired! Who the hell are you?” the man shouted.

So that’s what he’s pissed about? His face was now so close to Felix’s that he could feel the wash of hot breath which smelled of beer and something alluring that he just couldn’t put his finger on. Felix just wanted to cover his mouth again and draw his breath inside so he could taste it. But he couldn’t do that. The guy was obviously under the impression that Felix was some sort of spy for Internal Affairs and he had to dispel him of that notion right away. The very last thing he needed in the middle of a huge case for Homeland Security was to be at odds with an LAPD detective who could easily blow his cover or worse, compromise the case they were building against the filthy animals that trafficked kids across the US-Mexican border.

“This isn’t about your career,” Felix growled through clenched teeth. He was growing angry now that he thought about those kids.

The guy sneered. “So, you want me to believe that it’s mere coincidence that you just happened to be at the same club as me tonight? That you offered your ass to a guy whose career would end if caught in a public disgrace?” He bunched his fists in Felix’s shirt, pulling it even tighter across his back as he pulled him closer. He didn’t wait for Felix to answer before he let go and grabbed the edges of his T-shirt to lift it. “You wearing a wire? You get everything on tape?” He yanked at Felix’s clothes as he shouted. “Where is it?” His tortured gaze met Felix’s and a wave of such sadness washed over him that it blocked out the man’s words.

He stopped fighting even as his T-shirt was lifted up to reveal his chest. As the man’s gaze ran over the expanse of tattooed skin, he relaxed and let him look his fill. The detective finally lifted his gaze to meet Felix’s and Felix reached out, flattening the palms of both hands on the man’s chest. The thick bands of muscle felt solid under his shirt. He wanted to examine the cop’s chest and see his body. He imagined it was beautiful.

“Stop it. I’m not—I’m not doing that—I’m not working for anyone who wants to hurt you and I think you know I’m not wearing a wire. You had your hands under my shirt fifteen minutes ago.”

The man didn’t look convinced. Felix sighed.

“You have to believe me. I don’t even know your name,” he explained calmly. “I told the officers what I heard you say but you have to believe me that they didn’t even tell me your name. When I gave my statement at the scene out at the YMCA, I told them the truth. I certainly didn’t tell LAPD’s IA anything different when they came to go over my statement. They referred to you as ‘the detective involved in today’s incident near the YMCA’. You think I don’t know what Internal Affairs can do to a career? I worry every day that OPR is going to target me for some shit because I’m gay. I’m not a snitch or a rat and I understand what brotherhood means,” Felix said quietly. It took every bit of his strength to hold still. His hyperactive nature was almost always to be in motion but he wanted to get his point across. Wasn’t I dancing a half hour ago?

The man had been glaring at him, staring at him so hard that it threatened to burn him up but the moment Felix mentioned OPR, the acronym for the Office of Professional Responsibility, the truth seemed to finally hit him. He instantly stepped back.

“Wait a minute… OPR? You’re a Fed?” He looked Felix up and down. “You don’t work for IA?”

“No, I don’t work for IA.” Felix tried to keep the shakiness he was feeling out of his voice and he wasn’t so sure he succeeded. It wasn’t that he was really upset but he hadn’t expected to be threatened by the man who’d just kissed him and fucked him through the best orgasm he could remember. “I work for DHS and I was undercover when I saw your encounter with that punk.

Blurb: Thin Blue

Detective Pope Dades is a veteran police officer working in the Hollywood division, one of the busiest police precincts in the country. Dealing with drug dealers, hookers, and mentally ill suspects on a daily basis is his stock and trade. He once loved his job with the LAPD but three years ago, he put his trust in the wrong man and he’s been paying the price ever since. Refusing to work with a partner after the first one nearly killed him, Pope is jaded, still hurting, and hanging onto the career he once adored by a thread.

Homeland Security Investigator Felix Jbarra is a fresh-faced young agent with a bright future in the DHS ahead of him. Deeply closeted, Felix hides his sexual orientation from his huge Catholic family which brings him terrible guilt and grief. One night in a back-room nightclub encounter, he connects with a man who inexplicably makes him want to confess everything. Assigned to help shut down an elusive child sex trafficking ring, Felix instinctively knows he’ll need turn to the more experienced detective for help if he and his partner want to crack this case.

In the first book of the brand new Thin Blue Line series, join Felix and Pope in this exciting adventure as their worlds collide on the mean streets and in between the sheets…

Thin Blue contains a sneak peek at Order & Anarchy (The Thin Blue Line series Book 2)

** Please Note**

If you’ve read the Death and Destruction series, Lincoln Snow, McBride M. McCallahan, Jarrett Evans-Wolfe, and Thayne Evans-Wolfe also play ongoing roles in this new series. Never fear, Jarrett probably won’t be base jumping off any more buildings… probably.

Discover more about author, Patricial Logan, and her numerous novels below:

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http://authorpatricialogan.com/

International bestselling author Patricia Logan, resides in Los Angeles, California. The author of several #1 bestselling erotic romances in English, Italian, French, and Spanish lives in a small house with a large family. When she’s not writing her next thriller romance, she’s watching her grandchildren grow up way too soon, and raising kids who make her proud every day. One of her favorite tasks is coaxing nose kisses from cats who insist on flopping on her keyboard while she types. Married to a wonderful gentleman for 30 years, she counts herself lucky to be surrounded by people who love her and give her stories to tell every day.

 

Exclusive Excerpt: Boystown 11: Heart’s Desire (Boystown Mysteries) by Marshall Thornton

Excerpt:

I got up early the next morning and drove to Irene’s apartment, which was on Malden right above Gracie Cemetery. It was right on the edge of Uptown. Not a great neighborhood. I parked Harker’s car on the cemetery side of Montrose.

Gracie Cemetery wasn’t one of my favorite places; I’d killed a man there once. I told myself I wasn’t there for a trip down memory lane and, even if I were, that wasn’t a lane I should go down.

When I found Irene’s building, it was a grand old brick apartment house, three stories tall and covering all of the lot from Malden back to the alley. It had originally been six apartments, but I walked up to the front door and saw there were twelve names on the modern intercom. Using the key Irene had given me, I opened the door and stepped into the lobby. Beyond it was the stairwell. As soon as I stepped inside, I noticed there were four doors on the first floor, and presumably the same on the floors above. It looked like the building had been divided at some point.

Irene’s apartment was on the third floor. The railing was on the right, which lately hadn’t been much fun for me since it was my right arm in the sling. Slowly, I climbed the three flights of stairs. It was kind of stupid; I didn’t need to hold onto a railing. I wasn’t decrepit. It’s just one of those things you get used to, resting a hand on the railing as you climbed stairs. It was stabilizing—something most thirty-six-year-olds never had to think about.

On the third floor, I walked over to the door marked A. It was on the right at the front. Slipping the key into the deadbolt, I turned it and didn’t encounter any resistance. Normally, you could feel the bolt moving out of its slot, hear it if you listened. I reached down with my left hand and turned the doorknob. The door opened. It hadn’t been locked. I was sure of it.


I leaned in and said, “Hello?”

When no one replied with a friendly, “I’m burglarizing this apartment, just give me another few minutes,” I stepped inside. I was standing in a decent-sized room that had a sunporch to my left and a narrow room on my right, which was part kitchen, part dining room. I opened a door to what I thought might be a closet and found a cramped bathroom with a shower.

The place was messy, but I couldn’t tell if someone had been in there making a mess or if the mess was Irene’s. Given the shape of the apartment she was staying in at Two Towers, I’d say it was possible the mess was hers. The stale odor of cigarettes hung in the air, making me quiver as I longed to light up and  contribute to the stink.

I stood there a minute and realized something I hadn’t been expecting to realize. My gut said Irene hadn’t seen anything real, that she’d imagined the whole thing. But the door hadn’t been locked. If someone had been in her apartment, that changed things. It could be a coincidence, but I doubted it. And I doubted it more as I looked around.

There were pocket doors between the sunporch and the living room. Irene had put a bed onto the porch and covered the windows with purple velvet drapes. The living room had a big mohair sofa that was probably fifty years old, a wooden rocking chair, a large table with just one chair, a portable record player and a stack of albums. There was no TV that I could see, which left out the possibility that the murder she’d witnessed had been on the Sunday Night Movie. I suppose the TV could have been stolen, but there was no TV Guide, no empty space where a TV might have sat, no antenna, no VCR, no rented movies, no tapes at all actually.

And the longer I stood there the more sense the mess made. It wasn’t the kind of mess made by a person looking for valuables. There were stacks of newspapers on the big table, for instance, but none on the floor. There was a dresser at the foot of the bed with an unopened jewelry box on top of it. The drawers weren’t even open; no one had rifled through them.

Plus, the answering machine was there. If you’re going to steal the TV, why not steal the answering machine? They were easy enough to sell; easier even. They were smaller. Retail was almost a hundred bucks for most answering machines. Street value had to be at least twenty.

The answering machine sat beneath a black desk phone. Both were on top of a spindly wire telephone stand from the fifties that sat next to the rocker. On a lower shelf, beneath the phone and answering machine, sat the Chicago-area phone book.

A red digital five on the front of the answering machine told me how many messages there were. I turned the dial so the messages would play. The first was nothing but a long pause followed by a scratching noise. Weird. The second was from a Dr. Vann’s office telling Irene she had an appointment at one-fifteen the previous Thursday. Then there was another blank message with some scratching, this time the scratching went on longer and got louder. It was disturbing. Creepy even. The caller hung up. Another message began and it was the same thing: a long pause with some breathing, followed by another round of scratching. It was beginning to make my skin crawl.

The final message was from a man:

“Hello dear, it’s your father. It’s time for our Saturday call. I hope you’re out and about having fun, and not angry with me. Call me back.”

I stood there piecing things together. Clementine said the murder had taken place almost a week ago. So not Saturday and possibly not Sunday. I’d have to pin down the exact time later. If the murder happened on Monday night, then the first message came sometime on Tuesday or early Wednesday. The call from the doctor’s office would have been sometime on Wednesday, since a doctor’s office would call to confirm an appointment the day before.

The second and third scratching messages happened between that Wednesday call and Irene’s father calling on Saturday. Possibly one on Thursday and another on Friday. Someone was calling Irene nearly every day leaving disturbing messages. Not even messages, just sounds. I wondered if that someone had been in the apartment. If so, they’d have to have had a key.

I opened the front door again and looked down at the welcome mat sitting on the wall-to-wall carpet in the hallway. Reaching down I flipped it over.
Underneath was a key. Anyone could have gotten into the apartment. All they had to do was get through the front door downstairs and then look in the most obvious place in the world to leave a spare key.

If the person leaving the scratching noises was the same person as the one who’d left the door open, they’d likely gotten in on Friday or Saturday, since that’s when the scratchers seemed to stop. What had they been looking for? And had they found it? I wondered if any of the neighbors had seen who’d been in the apartment.

Going back in, I spent a few more minutes looking around. The only thing I saw was evidence of an interrupted life. A few dishes in the sink, some unopened mail—I assumed there was more of that downstairs in her mailbox—dirty clothes ready to go to the laundry.

Stepping out of the apartment, I shut the door and locked it, pocketing both keys. There was no reason to leave strangers a way into the apartment. It was around eight-thirty on a Sunday morning. I decided to knock on a few doors. I didn’t think people would like it much, but that wasn’t really my problem.
First, I walked down to the door of the apartment that had originally been the rear half of Irene’s apartment. From the way things were configured, I wondered if this door hadn’t once been a service door. The original apartments might have been luxurious enough to merit maid service. The maids might have gone up and down the backstairs, but they could have also slipped in this way without disturbing their masters.

No one came to the door.

Next, I tried the door directly across from Irene’s. As soon as I knocked a dog began barking. I waited, expecting someone to open the door. Instead, I heard a thwack and the dog whimpered a couple of times and then stopped barking. Someone was in there, and they’d just hit their dog with a rolled-up newspaper. At least I hoped it was a newspaper and not something worse. They didn’t come to the door.

There was no answer at the final door on the floor. This time I knew what game I was playing, so I watched the peephole intently. Thirty seconds after I knocked a shadow seemed to pass over it, telling me there was someone on the other side of the door deliberately not opening it.

I went down the stairs but stopped on the landing. This would have been where Irene witnessed the murder before she turned and ran. Well, there was no blood and no signs of blood being cleaned up. At first glance there didn’t seem to be anything unusual about the wall. It was wall-papered, had probably been wall-papered several times. The pattern was striped in various colors and thicknesses.

After staring at the wall for a full minute or so, I noticed a spot where the stripes seemed to wobble. The spot was about eye level. I ran my left hand across it. Behind the wallpaper, the plaster was dented. The indentation felt circular, almost like a crater. I ran my good hand up and down the wall but didn’t find anything else. I squatted down as close as I could to the floor. I could have gotten on my hands and knees, but that was challenging since the sling meant I could only partially wear my trench coat. Between the loose coat and the sling, it was hard enough just to squat.

When I did, I immediately smelled urine. Urine that could easily belong to the dog I’d heard upstairs. I stood up and then pushed the toe of my boot around the carpet. I found a squishy spot. It was directly below the crater. The crater in the plaster might have been from a man’s head being slammed against the wall. And the urine, well, that can happen when you die. Your bladder lets go. Everyone knows that.

Blurb:

It’s February 1985. Nick struggles to recover from a gunshot wound, while taking on the case of a woman with a mental illness, who may or may not have witnessed a murder. As he attempts to determine exactly what the woman saw and how much danger she may be in, he juggles the approaching DeCarlo trial, an ill Mrs. Harker, and the sexually precocious Terry. Valentine’s Day with boyfriend Joseph produces some big changes in their relationship. Life is evolving, but there’s no guarantee it’s for the better.

Find out more about Lambda Literary Award Winner, Marshall Thornton:


Author Marshall Thornton

https://marshallthorntonauthor.com/

Exclusive Excerpt: Reasonable Doubt (Hazard and Somerset Book 5) by Gregory Ashe

Chapter 8

April 22

Sunday

12:19pm

In Chief Cravens’s office, Hazard held his hands firmly in his lap. If he unlaced his fingers, he was going to start hitting things, and if he started hitting things, he might not ever stop.

Cravens, for her part, had the same unruffled calm as always. She was older, with long, gray hair, and she was well on her way into middle-age spread. Something about her eyes and her smile made her look like she was just somebody’s grandmother; anyone who scratched the surface, though, just found old, rusted gunmetal all the way down.

“I’m sorry, there aren’t any other options,” she was saying. “Norine won’t be back until Tuesday, and the state won’t send somebody on the weekend.”

“So he’s going to sit in a jail cell.” Hazard caught his partner’s glance; Somers mouthed, Cool it, and Hazard added, “Chief.”

“I appreciate your concern, but he’ll be fine, Detective. He’s a minor; we can’t send him back to those people. We can’t turn him loose on his own. And we can’t put him in Social Services because everybody needs a weekend and we’re small-fry and can’t raise hell.”

“It’s a jail cell. He’s a kid.”

“We’re not going to cuff him, Detective. But he needs to be somewhere safe.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

Somers put a hand on Hazard’s shoulder. “What my partner is trying to say—”

Cravens spoke over him. “Do you want to take custody of him, Detective Hazard?” She tapped a pile of paperwork. “I’ll be happy to turn him over to you until Tuesday.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Hazard said.

“Then the discussion is finished. Go work your case, Detective. And keep me up to date.”

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In the bullpen, Hazard stared at the computer. He wasn’t ready to type. Not yet. Last time he’d typed while he was angry, it had cost him a keyboard.

“You need food.”

“I need to get away from this shit.”

Somers nodded. “Let’s get away.”

“We’ve got work to do.”

“You need lunch. I need a partner who’s not going to rip my head off. Let’s get away. Half an hour. Then we’ll come back here and start fresh.”

“I don’t want to eat.”

Eyebrows raised, Somers put on a thoughtful expression. “Well, that’s a problem because you need to eat. But you’re also being obstinate.”

“Fuck off.”

“What should we do about this?”

“You should fuck off, Somers. Right now.”

“I might be able to take you in a fight.”

“Not a chance.”

“Or I could try to use my dazzling charm.”

Hazard turned on the computer, shifting his attention away from Somers.

“But I think the most effective method with you is blackmail.”

“Then you don’t know me very fucking well, do you?”

“I know that you’re ticklish.”

Hands above the keyboard, Hazard froze. “You don’t have the balls.”

Somers frowned. “I mean, I know you’re ticklish, and it hasn’t changed how much I respect you. But I wonder how all these other guys would feel.”

“I don’t care how they feel.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I—” Somers stood and circled the desk.

“Touch me, and I’ll break your hand.” Hazard shoved the keyboard away. “Fine. Let’s eat.”

Instead of driving, they walked to Saint Taffy’s, the cop bar on Market Street. It was April: sunny, warm, the sky just hinting at the deep blues of summer. Hazard walked fast until Somers took him by the hand, and then the day felt a little warmer, a little brighter, and the sky was a deeper blue. They had been together two months, and his touch still did that to Hazard. Two months, and they still got looks on the street, not that it mattered.

It was going to happen, Hazard knew. Any moment now, Somers was going to start asking questions. And then those questions would turn into more questions. They’d proliferate: questions upon questions until Hazard wanted somebody to drag him out back and put a bullet in his head. And the worst part is that it would all come from Somers’s genuine concern. So Hazard braced himself and waited.

They walked the two blocks to Saint Taffy’s. At noon, Market Street was busy, and people stared. One woman picked up her little girl and carried her across the street to avoid walking near them. For the most part, though, the stares weren’t hostile—simply curious. Even though Wahredua had a growing LGBT community, Hazard knew that he and Somers stood out for a number of reasons.

And still no questions. Somers had a furrow between his eyebrows, the kind of pondering look that made Hazard want to curl up next to him with a book and enjoy the silence. That little furrow took up a lot of Hazard’s thinking. It was damn sexy, that look on Somers.

Inside, Saint Taffy’s was cool and dark, with a polished concrete floor, a long bar, and a pool table mixed in among the seating. A few months ago, Somers had gotten drunk and laid waste to the bar; the old mirror that had hung there was gone, shattered and replaced with a 4k TV. But Somers had paid the damages, and Saint Taffy’s was a cop bar, so after a month they’d let Somers come back, and now they just charged him extra and tried to hide it when the bill came.

They sat, ordered a burger each, and even after the waitress had left, Somers still hadn’t asked any questions. The girl came back with soft drinks. The only sound in the bar were the conversations at the tables around them. Then the burgers arrived, and they ate. And still not a damn question. Not even a word. Just that very sexy furrow between his brows, while Somers stared off into space like he was doing calculus for fun.

“All right,” Hazard finally said, dropping the half-eaten burger on the plate. “Just ask me already.”

“What?”

“Ask me whatever it is you want to ask me. Why I’m so pissy today. What’s going on with me. Whatever it is, just ask me so we can get it over with.”

“Nah.”

“Somers—” Hazard swallowed and leaned closer. “John, you want to ask me, so just ask me.”

“Yeah, I want to ask you. But you don’t want me to ask you. Or you don’t want to tell me. I don’t know which one. So it’s fine; you’ll tell me when you want to tell me. Or not.”

And then he picked up his burger, took a bite, and grinned like he hadn’t said the most goddamn confusing thing in the entire universe.

“What does that mean?”

“Huh?”

“What you just said. What does that mean?”

“I don’t get what’s happening.”

“You want to ask me, so ask me. There. I told you to. So do it.”

“I don’t really want to know.”

“You think that’s going to work? That reverse psychology bullshit?”

“I’m not doing anything. I told you that I wasn’t going to ask. You can tell me whatever you want. That’s it.”

Hazard took a bite of his burger, but he couldn’t taste it, and he had to chug cola to get it down his throat. He tossed the food back onto his plate. “Fine.”

Somers laughed. “You’re going to make my life really hard sometimes. That’s what this is about, right?”

“When I came out to my parents, you know what they did?”

That wiped the laughter from Somers’s face. “Ree—”

“They waited until the summer, and then my dad told me we were going on a family vacation, and he drove me to this shithole in Iowa and left me there for two months. He and my mom went on to Kansas City. That was the family vacation. I stayed at conversion therapy.”

Somers set down his burger. One of his hands came across to Hazard’s, and Hazard had to fight not to jerk away.

“Two months. Bible study, fasting, late nights, early mornings, hard work. We’d go to our sanctuaries. That’s what they called these little closets where they’d lock us up; we were supposed to spend the time in prayer, but mostly, it was to make us lonely, desperate for contact and approval. They’d put us in a room and show us porn. Straight porn, I mean. They hammered at us all day. Every day. There were no breaks, no changes to the routine. We were either isolated or immersed in a group where we couldn’t build relationships.” Hazard’s throat was tight, and he drank some of the cola, but that didn’t do a damn thing. “It’s all pretty standard brainwashing stuff. You get punished when you don’t do what they want. You get rewards when you do things right. Most of the time. Then, out of left field, you get punished anyway because they don’t want you getting comfortable. The whole thing is meant to break down your resistance, make you pliable, make it hard for you to think rationally or critically. Things just start to make sense. They get inside you and you can’t get them out.”

Somers didn’t say anything. His grip on Hazard’s fingers tightened, though. And his eyes—they were dark, the way even the deepest waters grow darker when clouds race over them.

“I came back pretty fucked up.” Then he had to take a drink again, and his throat was still dry, still so goddamn dry, and the cola didn’t help at all. “And maybe I would have stayed fucked up, but then I met Jeff, and—I don’t know.” He tried to laugh, and his chest moved, but no sound came out. “Like you said, I’m obstinate. My parents never talked to me about it. They never asked me about it. I brought Jeff home one time when I was feeling brave, and they didn’t say anything about that either. Maybe by then they couldn’t give any more fucks. Maybe they just couldn’t.”

Somers still hadn’t said anything. He got out of his seat, still holding Hazard’s hand, and he dragged the chair around so they were side by side. Then he sat again, looping one arm around Hazard’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss. It was long, tender, and surprisingly chaste.

Hot prickles traced Hazard’s neck. “We’re in public.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah, John. I know. But we’re at a restaurant and everyone’s staring—”

Somers kissed him again. This time, he added a little tongue.

“Any more objections?”

Everyone was still staring, but Hazard couldn’t think of a single damn thing.

Instead, Hazard turned his gaze to the window, where sunlight and shadow cut neat lines out of the sidewalk. “I just can’t think straight when I’m around that kind of stuff. God, Jesus, all that. I’m back in that shithole again. And I know, up here, that it isn’t all the same. I know about Mother Theresa and I know about people, good people, who are religious. But then someone opens their mouth and it doesn’t matter what my brain says.”

Somers nodded. Clouds were still racing over those eyes, turning their turquoise the color of stormwater. “Let’s get the check.”

Outside, the daylight was crisp, and from Market Street Hazard could outline the catkins on the riverbank, could count the silver scallops on the water, could see, on the far side, the grasses rustle as a hidden animal came down to the shore. He saw all that, and inside he was seeing north, to Iowa, and the closet they had called the sanctuary, and its scintillating white paint as the sun crawled in, and the way that cramped space had smelled of sweat and carpet padding and basement.

“I’m Methodist, I guess,” Somers said, taking Hazard’s hand as they started towards the precinct. “Do you want to break up?”

Hazard tried to laugh.

“I believe in God. Or I believe in something better than me. Bigger than me. I’ve felt that. When I hold Evie, I feel that sometimes.”

“You can be Methodist. You can be Buddhist. You can be a witch for all I care.”

“Good. That’s really good. I’m thinking of becoming a sexual wizard.”

“You pretty much already are.”

And this time they both laughed, and some of the wire around Hazard’s chest unspooled.

“But you don’t have faith in anything? That’s not an attack. Just a question.”

“No. Faith is irrational. I make decisions. I decide who to trust and what to trust based on reason. Once you get beyond that, people believe what they want to be true or what they’re afraid is true, and either way, they’re only justifying their own opinions. I’d rather not fall into that trap.”

Somers had that furrow between his eyes again, and Hazard imagined kissing it away. “That’s an oversimplification.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m not trying to pick a fight.”

“All right, let’s hear it.”

“I don’t know. Not yet. But that’s what my gut’s saying: there’s more to this.”

“When your gut has a thesis statement,” Hazard said, bending to kiss Somers on the cheek, “let me know.”

 

Reasonable Doubt (Hazard and Somerset Book 5) – Blurb

After almost twenty years, Emery Hazard finally has the man he loves. But things with his boyfriend and fellow detective, John-Henry Somerset, are never easy, and they’ve been more complicated lately for two reasons: Somers’s ex-wife and daughter. No matter what Hazard does, he can’t seem to get away from the most important women in his boyfriend’s life.

While Hazard struggles with his new reality (changing dirty diapers, just to start), a bizarre murder offers a distraction. John Oscar Walden, the leader of a local cult, is found dead by the police, and the case falls to Hazard and Somers. The investigation takes the two detectives into the cult’s twisted relationships and the unswerving demands of power and faith.

But the deeper Hazard looks into the cult, the deeper he must look into his own past, where belief and reason have already clashed once. And as Hazard struggles to protect the most vulnerable of Walden’s victims, he uncovers a deeper, more vicious plot behind Walden’s murder, and Hazard finds himself doing what he never expected: racing to save the killer.

Only, that is, if Somers doesn’t need him to babysit.

5-Year Gay Mystery-Thriller-Suspense –  Anniversary Giveaway: Win a FREE audiobook copy of Pretty Pretty Boys (Hazard and Somerset Book 1).

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Author Gregory Ashe has graciously offered a chance for two of our members to win a FREE audiobook copy of the first novel in the Hazard and Somerset mystery series!!

Look for the announcment to enter the FREE drawing via the Gay Mystery-Thriller-Suspense Facebook group, leave at least a one-word comment for your chance to win!

The Winners will be announced on Friday, August 10th @ 8pm EDT. Stay Tuned!

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Timing Is Everything: (The Gulfport Mystery Series Book 1) by Alison R. Solomon

Excerpt:

Where the fuck are you? Gordy saw the text as she sped up Beach Boulevard, racing toward Kenwood. Stopping to reply would slow her down and she was determined to get to Dana’s on time, so she ignored it. A line of cars was waiting to pull into the main drag, which was surprising, but Gordy knew the area well enough to know she could avoid them by going down a side street. She pulled the steering wheel sharply to swing a right down a narrow one-way street. She was halfway down when she realized there was a U-Haul farther down completely obstructing the street. Who the heck moved at this time of night? And if they did what gave them the right to block the street? She watched as two people of undetermined gender struggled to pull a large mattress from the back of the truck. Shit. This could take awhile, especially if they had a whole lot more furniture to unload. Now what? She supposed she could try to back all the way up this street but it was narrow and she wasn’t great at backing up the SUV at the best of times.

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She heard a ping and looked down: I’m gonna put Sammy out on the curb if you’re not here in seven minutes. She’d promised Dana she’d be back before ten and even though she didn’t think her ex would really leave their child in the street, the second text worried her. She remembered what Dana had said the last time she was late to pick up Sammy. It was the night she met Kat. “I’ll sue for full custody if you do it again.”

Ahead of her to her left she saw a dirt alley that ran between the homes. She could use it to cut over to the next street. She generally avoided these alleys at night because they were dark and could be rutted, but she had no choice. She swerved left off the street feeling the gravel of the alley crunch beneath her tires. She should have explained to Kat that she didn’t have time to listen to the man serenading them, however romantic it was. She didn’t think Dana would put Sammy out on the street and she wasn’t totally convinced her ex would really ask for full custody, but she couldn’t risk either. She decided to text, just in case. She looked down at her phone. There in ten—, her thumbs flew across the keys and just as she was about to type mins she felt a massive jolt and heard a loud bang. Moments later she heard dogs barking in the distance.

She looked up in horror as the car shot forward. Shit! What the heck had she hit? She glanced in the rearview mirror and from the light reflectors made out something that looked like a large pile, though she couldn’t tell of what. Had she hit it? Was that what caused the loud thud? If she hadn’t been looking at her lap, texting, she’d know for sure. Meanwhile her car was still moving forward and was already at the end of the alley.

She was shaking badly. She should run back and take a quick look. What if she’d damaged something on someone’s property? But it was an alley so the only stuff out there was yard debris or trash to be picked up by the city. There must have been something in that pile. She pulled out from the alley onto the street, thankful that she hadn’t blown a tire, but then, feeling guilty, she decided she had to make a quick stop. She grabbed her flashlight and ran back down the alley. She shone her flashlight, sweeping it from side to side. There was a pile of wood, stacked neatly next to some trashcans. Several logs seemed to have toppled off it. That must have been what she’d hit. Relieved, she ran back to her SUV and gunned the engine. Dana would make a song and dance about being late. Thank goodness the SUV was in her name only. If it were joint property, she could only imagine the torrent of criticism that Dana would have hurled when she saw the damage to the body and paintwork.

She was almost at Dana’s house. Once her ex had finished dressing her down she’d take Sammy home and put him to bed. Then she’d be able to relive the earlier part of the evening, remembering the way Kat’s eyes danced and how a little dimple appeared in her cheek when she smiled. In the morning she’d see what the damage was to the Hyundai and ask her cousin Rico to fix it. And from now on she absolutely wouldn’t text while driving. It was stupid and she could have gotten into serious trouble. What if she’d damaged someone’s property and they got nasty and wanted to call the cops? An even scarier thought came to mind. What if she’d hit someone and been arrested on the spot? The form she’d completed for her green card had asked her not only if she’d been convicted of a crime, but also if she’d been arrested for one. If she were arrested now, it would be catastrophic. She knew they would repeat that question verbally when she got to her fingerprinting appointment. That appointment next week was so they could do one more full background check. If she told them she’d been arrested that week, even if she were out on bail, they would turn down her request for the ten-year green card. Once they did that, it was the same as being given a deportation notice—she’d have no legal way to stay in the country. How could she have been so stupid as to risk all that?

Just the thought of deportation made her shake all over. People who’d never been through the immigration system had no idea how tenuous life as an “alien” could feel, especially now. It never even occurred to them that people like her, professionals with legal permits, felt some of the same stress and strains as those who lived in the shadows. They didn’t realize that until she was actually a citizen, she didn’t enjoy the full protections they did. But now, finally, she was getting closer to that day. The ten-year card would end much of that stress, and long before the ten years were up she’d be eligible to apply for citizenship and become just like everyone else.

For months before she got the letter requesting her presence for fingerprinting, she’d visualized herself over and again getting the card. She spent nights picturing herself walking through those wide doors into the Tampa Immigration and Naturalization office, waiting way past her appointment time (as she always did), then getting called back to an office. In her mind, the immigration official who would quiz her and Dana would be supportive and sympathetic and would smile warmly at them when they gave her the stamp of approval. Gordy tried not to remember the officer who granted the two-year card. A large military-looking women who’d made it clear she didn’t believe in same-sex marriage, she’d scowled throughout the entire interview and then snarled at Gordy in her Russian-accented English, almost spitting as she made jabbing motions in the air. “You think you citizen? You not. Don’t forget. You commit crime? You deported.”

At the time she’d shrugged it off. She wasn’t going to commit a crime, and there was no reason why an upstanding professional would be deported. She’d felt pretty secure. But lately everything had changed. Just this week a soccer coach had been deported, his only crime being a traffic violation.

She was so close to the finish line, but tonight she’d almost blown it. All she had to do was keep her nose clean for another week. And if that meant picking up her son late and getting in trouble with her ex for not texting, the price was worth it.

Blurb:

Click on image to learn more about Alison R. Solomon

A hit-and-run. A terrified suspect. A woman caught between her friend and her lover Wynn Larimer (who readers met in Along Came the Rain) is putting out the trash late one night when a car smashes into her, injuring her so badly that her entire livelihood is put in jeopardy. Gabriella Luna (Gordy) is about to achieve permanent resident status in the USA when she’s accused of a felony crime. The timing couldn’t be worse—she’s terrified of being deported. The woman caught in the middle is Kat Ayalon (who readers met in Devoted.) Wynn is Kat’s best friend and Gordy is Kat’s new love interest. But when the worlds of Wynn and Gordy collide, Kat doesn’t know how she can support both women, if helping one means selling out the other.

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Exclusive Excerpt: Guilt by Assocation (Hazard and Somerset Book 4) by Gregory Ashe

Excerpt: 
Chapter 3

February 11

Sunday

11:15am

The phone’s ringing went through Hazard’s skull like a couple of inches of good steel. One minute he was asleep. The next, awake and feeling like someone had shoved a spear through the back of his head. It went on for a long time. Then it went quiet. Later, it rang again. A fragment of memory—not for us, the flashing bronze, was that Homer?—because the noise was like the blade of a fucking spear going into his brain. And then, again, blessed silence. The pillow, he thought drowsily as he tried to sink under the headache and into the gray stillness of sleep, smelled like Nico.

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For a while he was there again, inside that grayness, while a part of his brain recycled the past night. The hammering music inside the Pretty Pretty. The smell of sweat and superheated lights and Guinness. Nico pressed against him—no, Nico across the room, far off, while Hazard talked to Marcus. No, to the hot guy in the jacket and tie. No, to the bouncers. And through it all, that mixture of headache and bass line, pounding, pounding, pounding—

Pounding on the door. Hazard jerked free of the tangled bedding. Immediately, he regretted it. The headache surged back to the front of his head, and he had to steady himself against the nightstand. The clock marked a bleary eleven. Whoever was knocking was really going to town.

“Just a minute,” Hazard shouted.

Pants. And a shirt. But he had no memory of where anything had ended up last night, and he came up with a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. The shorts fit. The shirt didn’t. It had to be Nico’s, but it felt like a child’s. A child’s small. Jesus, maybe an infant’s. It was choking the life out of Hazard.

And somebody was still trying to pound down the door.

Squeezed into the tiny shirt—had Nico bought it for a nephew? what the hell was it doing on the floor?—Hazard stumbled to the door and glanced through the peephole. Groaning, he turned back to the bedroom.

“I can hear you,” Somers called from the other side of the door.

Hazard kept going.

“I’ll keep knocking.”

Hazard kicked aside Nico’s empty laundry basket. His toes caught in the plastic mesh, and he swore as he ripped them free.

“I’ve got Big Biscuit.”

At the bedroom door, Hazard stopped.

Somers had gone silent. Even without seeing Somers, even with a solid door between them, Hazard knew the bastard was smug. Probably grinning. Hazard knew he should go back to bed. He should take one of those pills for his head and pull the covers over his eyes and just go back to bed, and when he woke up, he’d call Nico, and he’d figure out what he’d done wrong last night, and he’d apologize the way he’d apologized to Billy, the way he’d apologized to Alec. He’d eat the same old shit out of this shiny new bowl. That was it. He’d just get into bed and ignore Somers. He’d—

By that point, he’d already unlocked the front door.

“Took you long enough—Jesus God, what are you wearing?”

“Shut up.”

Somers, a plastic carryout bag hanging from one hand, appraised him. And it was exactly that: pure, fucking appraisal. Somers was hot. He was runway hot, swimsuit hot, blond and golden-skinned, even in the middle of winter, fuck him, and with eyes like Caribbean waters. Today, like every day, he managed to look like he’d just rolled out of bed—and like he hadn’t been alone. His button-down was rumpled, his jacket was askew, his hair had that perfect messiness that made Hazard itch to run his hands through it. And he was still standing there, still appraising Hazard like he might buy him at auction. Now there was a thought. Hazard barely suppressed a second, very different kind of groan.

“What happened?”

“Give me the food.”

“You look like shit.”

Hazard tried to shut the door; he blamed his headache and hangover for the fact that Somers still managed to sneak inside. As Somers always did when he came to Nico’s apartment—Nico and Hazard’s apartment, Hazard amended—he made a show of considering the mess. Nico’s clothes, Nico’s books, Nico’s shoes, Nico’s latest shopping. There were about three square inches of space that weren’t covered by something that Nico owned.

Somers went straight to the table and shoved a pile of unmatched socks onto the floor. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he shoved a stack of textbooks.

“Hey.”

“I’m messy.”

“Please don’t start.”

“I know I’m messy.”

“Somers, I’ve got the worst headache, and I’m tired, and I—”

“I mean, I know I’m messy. I know that’s why you moved out. One of the reasons.”

Hazard gave up and waited for the rest of it.

“But this,” Somers gestured at the chaos—he paused, Hazard noted, when he saw a stack of some of Nico’s more provocative underwear. Hazard shoved them under one of the sofa cushions.

“Pervert.”

Somers, smirking, continued, “But this is insane. It’s like you’re living in a dorm. Or a frat. And as much as you might have enjoyed close quarters with all those rich, athletic boys, sharing showers, dropping towels, a few playful wrestling moves turn into something not quite so playful—”

“Somers, I swear to Christ.”

“—you’ve got to admit you don’t like living like this.”

“Are you done?”

“Finished.”

“You’re sure?”

“Perfectly.”

“Because if you’ve got more jokes, get them out now.”

Somers spread his hands innocently.

“Any more comments about my—” He had been about to say boyfriend, but the word stuck in his throat. For once, his hesitance to acknowledge his relationship with Nico had nothing to do with how he felt about Somers. “—about my apartment?”

“It’s not yours.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m just saying, it’s not. It’s Nico’s.”

“You’re a real piece of work.”

“I mean, I get it. You’re living here now. But it’s not like that’s going to last forever.”

The last words struck home hard. Hazard dropped into a seat at the table, head in his hands.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Ree, I was just teasing. Well, mostly. I mean, this place is a mess, but I’m not trying to—come on. What’s going on?”

The pounding in Hazard’s head had gotten worse. He needed one of those pills, but he couldn’t drag himself out of the chair. Not yet. Just a minute, he just needed a minute.

“All right,” Somers said. “Your hair is all loose and wild and sexy barbarian, which means you either just finished banging one out with Nico or you haven’t showered yet. You’re wearing a shirt that’s about eighteen sizes too small, and those gym shorts—well, you’re going commando, buddy. So again: either you just nailed Nico the wall, or you’re—” Somers whistled. “You’re hungover.”

“I’m not hungover.”

“You are. You had a fight with Nico. You got plastered. You’re wrecked.”

“You don’t have to sound so goddamn happy about it.”

Neither man spoke for a moment. Then Somers touched the back of Hazard’s neck, and Hazard flinched.

“He hit you? That motherfucking piece of shit put a hand on you?”

“What? God. No.”

“You’ve got a bruise about a mile long back here. Doesn’t he have any fucking brains? Didn’t he even think about the fact that you’re still healing, that you shouldn’t even bump your head, let alone—and the little bitch hit you from behind, didn’t he? Where is he?” Somers hadn’t moved, hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t so much as lifted his fingers from Hazard’s neck. But it was like someone else had come into the room. It put a shiver down Hazard’s back. And deep in his brain, at the surface of conscious thought, he realized he liked it. “Where is he?” Somers asked again. “That’s all you have to say, just tell me where.”

“You’re acting crazy.”

“All right. All right. You don’t say anything. You don’t have to say anything.”

“You’re out of your damn mind. Will you stop acting like this?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll find him myself.”

“John-Henry, will you sit down and listen to me?”

Somers fell back into his seat. They sat that way for a moment, neither of them speaking, both watching the other as though seeing something new. Hazard had grown up in Wahredua. He had grown up hounded, persecuted, tormented by the man who sat in front of him. He had come back to this place, to this town he hated above all else, unwillingly, and he had found himself partnered with a man he had hated for most of his life—hated and, even worse, been attracted to. And instead of the bully, instead of the thug, instead of the cocky football star, he’d found an intelligent, funny, skilled detective who had wanted to make the past right. It hadn’t hurt that Somers had grown up to be the kind of hot that, in a cartoon, would have made the mercury in a thermometer shoot up so fast the glass exploded. Somers’s hand was still on the back of Hazard’s neck. His fingers felt good there. They raised a strip of goosebumps down Hazard’s chest.

“I’m listening.”

So Hazard told him.

“He’s just not that kind of guy,” Somers said with a shrug.

“What kind? And don’t say something asshole-ish. Don’t say he’s not the kind that’s mature or something like that.”

“Me? I meant he’s not the kind that likes jealousy.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You beat up a guy for kissing your boyfriend.”

“I didn’t beat him up. You make it sound like I’m in eighth grade.”

“In eighth grade, you were so scrawny you could barely hold a pencil.” Somers smirked. “Well, I guess you were definitely strong enough to hold your pencil, if you get what I—”

“I get it.”

“I meant your dick. That’s what I meant by pencil.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Not everybody likes jealousy. Some people get off on it. Some don’t mind—they might appreciate it, but they aren’t looking for it. And some people don’t like it. Hate it, even.”

“I’m not jealous.”

Somers fixed him with a look.

“All right, I shouldn’t have hit that guy.”

Somers waited.

“I definitely shouldn’t have thrown him.”

Somers shrugged.

“And I should have let Nico handle it.”

“Yeah, well, you definitely shouldn’t have done that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“What did you mean?”

“I’m an idiot, all right? Stuff just comes out of my mouth sometimes.”

“You meant something. You—” Before Hazard could finish, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, and a message from Nico showed on the screen. I’m staying at Marcus’s place for a few more days. Can you tell me a time you’ll be out of the apartment so I can pick up a few things?

“What?” Somers said.

Hazard dropped the phone on the table. Picking it up, Somers read the message. His eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t say anything.

“Don’t.”

Somers put the phone back on the table.

“Don’t fucking say you’re sorry. Don’t act like you’re not thrilled. Don’t act like this isn’t what you wanted.”

It took a moment before Somers answered, and when he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

And it sounded so pathetic, like such an absolute, flat-out lie, that Hazard was blushing as soon as it was out of his mouth, and he was grateful Somers didn’t even acknowledge the words.

“Let’s eat. You’re hungover. Your head hurts. You need food.” Somers unpacked the clamshell containers of takeout from Big Biscuit, and then he touched the back of Hazard’s neck again. “You’ve got to eat something. And you need a drink. Water, I mean. Lots of it. And those pills for your head, have you taken any today? Christ, of course you haven’t.”

Hazard knew he should get up. He could grab plates and forks. He could pour a glass of water. He could clean the rest of this shit, Nico’s shit, so there’s was actually a decent space to eat. He didn’t, though. He barely had the energy to turn the phone face-down so he didn’t have to see that damn message any longer.

“Here.”

Hazard swallowed the pills dry, and then a cool glass was pressed into his hand.

“Drink.”

He drank, and when he’d finished, Somers opened the clamshells. Steam wafted off home fries, eggs over easy, and biscuits the size of dinner plates. Buttery, flakey, pillowy biscuits. Hazard waited for the smell to turn his stomach, but he was surprised that instead, he was hungry.

They ate, and as they ate and as the pills took effect, the worst of the pain—both emotional and physical—started to pass. It wasn’t gone. It wasn’t even close to gone. But it got better, and the world didn’t seem like one big turd waiting for the flush. At least, not completely. Not—

—with Somers there—

—while the biscuits lasted.

It wasn’t until Hazard had dragged the last home fry through a smear of ketchup that he noticed the third clamshell. Reaching over, he popped it open, and three delicate slices of strawberry french toast met his eyes.

“Are you shooting for three hundred?” Somers asked as Hazard speared the french toast and dragged it towards him.

“Screw you.”

“You’re not going to fit into your pants.” A smile crinkled Somers’s face, and it was so boyish, so genuine, that for a moment Hazard forgot about Nico and forgot about his cracked head and forgot, even, about the french toast dripping strawberries down his wrist. “You can barely fit into your shirt as it is.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot who made you smile.”

“I didn’t smile.”

Somers’s grin got bigger.

“All right,” the blond man finally said, shoving away the rest of his food. “We’ve got to think strategically.” Hazard barely heard him; a half-eaten biscuit was staring back at Hazard. Half. Half of one of those perfect, heavenly creations. Half just tossed aside, like Somers was going to throw it in the trash. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” Somers said, knocking the styrofoam container towards Hazard. “Just eat it before you choke on your own spit.”

Hazard did.

“They’ll have to order one of those shipping containers to bury you.”

“I’m recovering. I need to build up my strength.”

Rolling his eyes, Somers said, “Here’s what we’re going to do: you’re going to take a shower. I’m going to make some phone calls. Then we’re going to do it.”

The biscuit went sideways in Hazard’s throat, and he began to choke. When he’d managed to clear his windpipe, he said, “What?”

A rakish grin peeled back the corners of Somers’s mouth.

“You did that on purpose,” Hazard grumbled. “Going to do what?”

“Get Nico back.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. “No.”

“Come on.”

“No. Whatever this is,” he gestured at the phone, “however it works out, it’ll be fine. I don’t need you—”

“Do you want him to break up with you?”

Hazard hesitated. Yesterday, at the Pretty Pretty, he would have said yes. But now—now things were different. Facing into the loneliness, facing into the abyss, Hazard found himself unsure. Things were good with Nico. Things had been really good. So they’d had a fight. So they’d had one little fight. All they had to do was work it out, figure where things went wrong, and things would be good again.

A little voice in his head, though, asked if that were true, then why hadn’t he answered Somers yet?

“That’s what I thought,” Somers said. “So we’ll take it from the top: flowers, a card, reservations at Moulin Vert. I bet if I ask, Cora will call him and get him to meet you there. She’s good with people, she really is. And we’ll have you dressed to the nines, and that poor boy won’t know what hit him.” Somers’s grin tightened. “You’re Emery fucking Hazard. He doesn’t have any idea how lucky he is, but we’re going to change that.”

Hazard suppressed a grimace at the mention of Cora, Somers’s estranged wife. “Look, this isn’t—”

But Hazard never finished the objection. Somers’s phone rang, and he glanced at the screen and answered it. His questions were short, sharp, and familiar.

When Somers ended the call, he shrugged and stood. “No time for a shower, I’m afraid, but you’ll probably want to change out of the shirt. It’s a little cold for that.”

Hazard ignored the jab. “What is it?”

“Shooting.”

“This isn’t one of those fake shootings, is it? This isn’t Batsy Ferrell calling because she’s upset about the gun range at Windsor?”

“No. This is the real deal. Looks like a murder.”

“Any ID on the victim?”

Somers blew out a breath. His eyes were very bright. They were bright like the sun flat on top of tropical water. But some of the color had left his face. “Oh yeah, plenty of ID. Just about everybody there ID’d him.”

“Well?”

“The sheriff.”

Blurb: 

Everything in Emery Hazard’s life is finally going well: his boyfriend, Nico, is crazy about him; he has a loyal partner at work; and he has successfully closed a series of difficult murders. By all accounts, he should be happy. What he can’t figure out, then, is why he’s so damn miserable.

After a fight with Nico, Hazard needs work to take his mind off his relationship. And someone in town is happy to oblige by murdering the sheriff. The job won’t be easy; the sheriff had enemies, lots of them, and narrowing down the list of suspects will be difficult. Difficult, but routine.

The arrival of a special prosecutor, however, throws the case into turmoil, and Hazard and Somers find themselves sidelined. With an agenda of his own, the prosecutor forces the case toward his favorite suspect, while Hazard and Somers scramble to find the real killer. As the people they care about are drawn into the chaos, Hazard and Somers have to fight to keep what they love–and to keep each other. To find the killer, they will have to reveal what each has kept buried for years: their feelings for each other.

And for Hazard, that’s a hell of a lot scarier than murder.

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Find our more about Hazard and Somerset mystery-series by author, Gregory Ashe at his website by clicking on his image.

Haven’t discovered the Hazard and Somerset mystery series yet? Click on the cover below to read the blurbs of each novel – and purchase

Read the interview I did with author, Gregory Ashe here: http://www.jonmichaelsen.net/?p=3146

 

Exclusive Excerpt & Giveaway – Object of Desire by Dal MacLean

EXCERPT

The smell hit him first, a thick, cloying blend of expensive perfume and corrupt, metallic fruit.

He saw Nick, hunched against a far wall, body shaking with silent grief, eyes closed.

Then he took in the rest.

An all-white bedroom—glamorous and totally impractical, designed like something from a magazine, so that every dot of color looked shocking. A painted wooden desk stood by the window, holding a silver laptop; the signature, light-green-blue of a Tiffany box; a stack of envelopes tied with a red cord; five little, glass, medical bottles lined up, with matching purple bars on their labels. A familiar light-blue dress lay draped over the arm of a padded armchair, a tiny tangle of lacy pink underwear on top.

White walls, furniture, carpet, bedding. Everything was absurdly neat and clean, save the most demanding splash of color—the huge stain which covered the fluffy duvet like crimson dye. A palette of shades of red, in fact, as if the pool had dried gradually from the outside, into the dark and clotted center.

Catriona lay on her side on top of it, in the middle of the wide bed, facing the doorway. She was naked but utterly sexless, her skin like bleached ash against the wet, red cloth. Her beautiful, blank profile, eyes decently shut at least, rested on the purity of her pillow.

Tom saw the guilty kitchen knife lying on the blood-pool beside the upturned palm of her right hand; the mangled, meaty churn of her inner wrists. Then, the dark hole, visible through black-blood-clotted ash-blonde hair, where her ear had been.  The shockingly recognizable auricle resting near her fingertips.

One of the paramedics called sharply, “Hey! You shouldn’t be in here, mate!” just as the uniformed police constable materialized behind Tom, to pull him, unresisting, back into the hallway and then, down the stairs. At the bottom, Tom slurred out his name and address, and the reason he was there. He didn’t sound like himself at all, he thought distantly, but the officer noted it all down.

Finally, she left him to perch on the pristine linen sofa in Catriona’s airy sitting room. And he found himself stupidly anxious not to crease the fabric or mark its snowy perfection.

He’d never been in this room before. In fact, he’d never been inside the house.

The door into the hallway lay wide open, allowing Tom to see the bustle of comings and goings in the hallway, as the procedures surrounding an unexpected death snapped into place. All things he’d heard recounted before, but never—actually—witnessed.

The first-response officer, out of his eyeline, was speaking to her radio. Someone—a man—shouted instructions from upstairs as one of the paramedics barreled past the open door and out of Tom’s vision, as if his urgency still had some point.

Movement, back and fore. Voices outside. Inside.  Tom forced desperate focus — made himself identify what was happening.  Who was who, as they passed.

First onto Tom’s little stage — a man he suspected to be the divisional pathologist, followed by a group of SOCO officers, silent and eerie in hooded white suits, ready to pick over the scene for evidence of anything that might turn out to be suspicious.

Then, less than a minute after they disappeared, two men, clearly plain-clothed police officers. They stood in front of the open sitting room doorway, pulling on those same white forensic suits and overshoes, and Tom was almost certain they’d be the advance Homicide Assessment Team, from whichever murder investigation unit happened to be on call. Tom didn’t recognize either of them—a dull, distant relief.

Part of him was riveted, because after having heard it described so often, casually and not, it felt unreal seeing everything actually happen, like a dramatic performance put on, specially for him. But as the two HAT officers moved out of Tom’s vision, another white-clad figure came in behind them, and as he passed the open sitting room door, he glanced in and caught sight of Tom.

The man stopped and blinked.

For a moment, Tom felt an audience’s shock at having been acknowledged, and he shifted self-consciously under the man’s startled stare. Then, as that stare turned to wide-eyed disbelief, Tom felt suddenly, horribly aware of how incongruous he must look. His golden tan, his glossy, pale-blond shoulder-length hair; his long body, clad in an on-trend brown suede shirt and perfectly-cut jeans; his obsessively precise grooming. A peacock, sitting at the edge of a tragedy.

It took whole seconds for Tom to understand that the man’s reaction wasn’t puzzlement; it was recognition. And finally, even under that disorientating, tightly drawn white hood, Tom recognized him in turn.

Each man stared at the other as if a monstrous apparition had manifested in front of them.

Des fucking Salt.

Through surging panic, Tom took in the man’s once-familiar, sharp features; his densely freckled skin, almost as white as the forensic hood concealing his wiry red hair. How the fuck hadn’t he recognized him? Was it just the oddness of that hood, framing Salt’s narrow face like a nun’s coif?

The relief Tom had felt just minutes before sneered at him now. Because…yes, Tom had known there was a small chance they’d be involved—of course he had—but how unlucky did he have to be?

His face felt scalding hot, his guts skittering with a kind of death-row anticipation. And, inevitably his gaze shot to the hallway behind Salt.

Because always, with DC Des Salt, came DI Will Foster.

Tom’s eyes fixed on that empty space like a mouse in front of a stoat. But nothing happened.

He snapped his attention back to Salt, but Salt had turned away and walked out of Tom’s field of vision.  But he could hear hushed voices, as Salt presumably asked the uniformed PC by thr staircase what the fuck Tom was doing there.

When Salt appeared again in the doorway, his expression had fixed into professional neutrality. He extracted a notebook from inside the opening of his forensic suit, pulled down his hood and walked in the room,

“Mr. Gray,” he said. It was stupidly shocking to hear his voice. Perhaps Tom had hoped it was all a lurid dream.

Then he registered, Mr. Gray. They were going to pretend they didn’t know each other, then. Fine by him. But he couldn’t help looking compulsively again toward the open doorway before he focused again on Salt.

“I’m DS Salt with Southwark and Peckham Murder Investigation Team.”

Southwark and Peckham. That was new at least. And so was the rank. He’d made Sergeant. Salt’s Northern Irish accent sounded as strong as it ever had, but Tom unwillingly noted tiny changes in him. New, fine lines between his ginger brows. His unfortunate moustache had gone, as had that shy, awkward niceness he’d exuded once, so out of place on a policeman.

“Don’t be alarmed, sir,” Salt went on blandly. “This is all routine procedure in a case like this.”

Of course it was. With all that blood.

Tom involuntarily squeezed closed his eyes, and the image was starkly there, like a high-res photograph dropping in behind his lids. He thought he would never stop seeing it.

His eyes sprang open.

That was what mattered. What lay upstairs. Not some soap opera from his past.

Sick with himself, he forced his attention back to Salt.

“I know,” he said.

Salt raised an eyebrow. “You told the officer that you’re here because Mr. Haining—Mr. Dominic Haining—requested you come to support him. When he found the body of his wife. Catriona Haining.”

Tom nodded, then said, “Yes.” Aloud, as if he were being recorded.

“And, what’s your relationship to Mr. and Mrs. Haining?” There was no one here to witness any recognition between them, but still, Salt’s tone remained that of a stranger.

“I—Mr…and Mrs. Haining own one of the modeling agencies I work with. Echo…it’s called.”

“This is Mrs. Haining’s home. Mr. Haining no longer lives here, is that correct?”

Tom tightened his jaw. “Yes.”

“You must be a…close friend as well as a client?” Salt began to write in his notebook. “For Mr. Haining to have called you here at a time like this.”

Tom’s mind darted around the question of how much total honesty could complicate things for Nick, but in the end all he said was, “Yes.”

Salt glanced up, brown eyes narrowed. And Tom was sure Salt must be making those damning connections in his head.

Tom and Nick Haining. Nick and Tom.

Nick—whose wife had just killed herself. Of all people to judge him, it had to be Des.

Blurb:

“Tom Gray is one of the world’s top models – an effortless object of desire. Self-contained, elusive and always in control, he’s accustomed to living life entirely on his own terms. But when Tom is implicated in the circumstances surrounding the gory death of his lover’s ex-wife, his world begins to spiral into chaos. Someone’s framing him. Someone’s stalking him. Will Foster is the only man Tom trusts to help him. But Tom brutally burned all bridges between them two years before, and Will paid a bitter price. As shocking secrets come to light, and more people begin to die, Tom desperately seeks answers among old crimes. But he finds his adversary always one step ahead. Somehow, Tom must persuade Will to help him find out who’s invading his life. Before all he values is taken from him.”

5-Year Gay Mystery-Thriller-Suspense –  Anniversary Giveaway:
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Author Dal MacLean has graciously offered to provide one of our members a FREE, e-book in your choice of either: mobi, pub or pdf!

To enter the FREE drawing, please leave at least a one-word comment via Gay Mystery-Thriller-Suspense Facebook group via the Excerpt link for Object of Desire.

The Winner will be announced on Wednesday, June 13th, 2018 @ 8pm EDT. Good luck!

 

Learn more about author Dal MacLean, and  check out her interview below.
click on image to go to Dal MacLean’s website
Q&A: OBJECT OF DESIRE BY DAL MACLEAN

Goodreads  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15408926.Dal_Maclean

Twitter: @MacleanDal – Dal Maclean

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/people/Dal-Maclean/100010371585020

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Guest Blog and Exclusive Excerpt: Always (Roger & Steve Teen Mystery Book 3) by Mark Zubro

Absolutely nuts.

One of the pieces of advice I give to aspiring writers is to read. Everything. But especially to read the kind of books you want to write. To learn. To observe. To understand. I’ve read mysteries since grade school. Thank you, Freddy the Detective. I write them, as well as young adult books, and a few other things. So I’ve read tons of young adult books. For example, each year, Publishers Weekly puts out a list of young adult books to which they have given starred reviews during that year. I go through them. Check for ones I might be interested in, especially those starred books that feature LGBTQ young adult characters. And I watch young adult shows and/or movies for as long as I can stand them. Usually not long. Spoiler alert. Spoilers coming.

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On Netflix, I recently binged on season two of Thirteen Reasons Why and on the first half of season two of Riverdale. What do all the characters, teens and adults, heroes or villains, in both series, have in common? If I had to pick one phrase, I’d say, they’re stupid. Another phrase? They make incredibly poor choices. And secrets! If they all just told the truth the first time around, the shows wouldn’t get past the first commercial break. In my books, I do my best to have logic rule. Not in these things. But my most huge gripe here is with Riverdale. Again, as I said; spoiler alert.

It is revealed that years ago, the killer’s family were all murdered. And that members of the town came to that kid back then, and the kid identified the killer. And so the townspeople went and killed the murderer. Except the kid identified the wrong person. So now all these years latter, the kid, now an adult, puts the characters in the show through all kinds of hell, for no apparent reason. Or if reasons are given, they make no sense. The teens didn’t kill the wrong guy. Adults did. Years ago. To summarize: the kid picked out the wrong guy. They killed the wrong guy. And now, the kid as an adult is killing all of them for killing the wrong guy. Which he caused because he screwed up.

This makes no sense to me. What does this remind me to do in/for my books? That there must be logic.That I can’t rely on non-sensical secret keeping as a plot device. That I need to make my teens and adults realistic people that follow the dictates of logic. Sure things can go wrong, but they’ve got to be in ways that make sense. I hope I’ve done this all along, but certainly these two shows brought home the lesson even more starkly.

 

Exclusive Excerpt: 
Always

By Mark Zubro

Chapter One

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Friday 6:15 P.M.

For the fourth time, Steve pulled up the zipper on his tuxedo pants. I stroked the soft mound of fabric covering his dick and balls with my fingers. I sighed.

We were dressing for the prom in my upstairs room.

Well, trying to get dressed.

I couldn’t keep my hands off him. When he slid on his black boxer briefs, I ran my hands over his thighs, his pelvis, his ass, felt the front of his underwear, touching and caressing his dick and balls where they gathered snugly together. I had done the whole thing when he’d put his pants on the first time. And then again. And again.

That’s why he was on his fourth zip up. While I kneaded his crotch, he had one hand cupping and squeezing my ass. His other was on the front of my pants outlining my hardon.

I shifted to bring our bodies even closer, opened my legs wide to give his hands the best possible access.

He’s always hot in my eyes, but this was blistering wild heat, and so different from our usual jeans and T-shirts.

For the prom, my parents had insisted we get tailor-made tuxes. Especially my mom. She’s like that. Rented were not to be borne. In this case, I agreed. My tux was perfect, broad in the shoulders and narrow at the hips. Steve’s encased his figure like a second skin. As skinny as he is, he can be hard to fit. This outfit had his shoulders well defined, but it was especially those pants, tight in his crotch, taut across his ass, legs like skinny jeans. Ultimate hotness on top of more ultimate hotness.

In the middle of all this intimacy, we were trying to be as quiet as possible. Kind of added an extra bit of spice.

Steve had been living in our renovated garage for months now. His mom, out on bail after being charged with murdering her husband, still lived in their house. That she even got bail was nuts. That wasn’t my fight though.

Besides murder and conspiracy charges against her and her co-defendants, other legal crap continued. Lawsuits and counter lawsuits among all kinds of people had been filed. We weren’t involved in a majority of them.

At that moment in my room, I was super turned on. I was leaking so much pre-cum, I had to change my underwear twice. It didn’t help that Steve didn’t bother to keep his hands and mouth from the covered mounds my dick and balls made. He insisted I wear the slider shorts that I wore with my baseball uniform. He loved the taut whiteness. He said I didn’t need the cup that came with the shorts since I bulged plenty enough without it.

Finally, sufficiently drained and dressed, we pinned on each other’s white orchid boutonnières. I suppose we could have managed ourselves, but I enjoyed the fussing and touching he and I did as we performed this simple intimacy.

The scent of the orchid filled the air and was great, but he smelled better. I love inhaling his aroma whether he’s drenched in sweat or freshly showered, with or without deodorant.

We stood together, holding hands and gazing into the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. Steve’s suit coat hung far enough down on his hips to cover the damp spot from his leaking pre-cum. I thought we were total studs. Then again, we were in love, and could possibly be forgiven for some sappiness about prom night and bias toward each other about our looks.

Steve even smiled. He doesn’t do that often. It’s dazzling with his black hair and deep brown eyes.

He caressed my ass, put his arm around me. I slipped my arms around his shoulders. We pulled each other close.

I said, “I love you. You’re beautiful.”

He nuzzled into me and said, “I love you, Roger.”

I texted my parents that we’d be arriving at the top of the stairs. We’d promised to run the gauntlet of parental gushing and picture taking with equanimity and good grace. In this instance, I didn’t find feeding my parents’ pride a huge burden.

Cameras started clicking as we exited the bedroom door. At the top of the stairs, we turned and swayed for them as directed. The familial entourage was at the bottom of the stairs. Even my grandmother had shown up, unannounced so as not to drive my mom nuts.

My parents, grandmother, and my twin kid sisters all had their phones out taking videos, pictures, or both. We had to walk down the stairs three times so each of them could record all they wanted. Then pictures in the living room followed by us moving outside and then more scenes: on the lawn, in front of the limo, with us seated in the limo with the window down, and with us waving to them from inside the limo.

All in all, annoying in a good way.

The only hitch to the happiness motif was the pause in the picture taking for a meeting with our security contingent. They looked sort-of youngish, like just-graduated linebackers from division two colleges. We’d met with them before tonight along with the Riverside police, representatives from the FBI, and school officials including the principal and the head of security for the school.

We said hello to them then turned to our parents. Mom hugged me and whispered, “You do what the guards say.”

I said, “Mom, we’ve discussed this a thousand times.”

My dad leaned close. “Angela, the boys know what to do.”

We’d had death threats, bomb threats and so many anonymous vicious phone calls that’d we’d had to get new cell phone numbers. My parents got rid of the landline altogether, which I’d been campaigning for anyway.

Yeah, LGBT couples go to proms. And LGBT kids still get beat up. The school had hired extra security.

Steve and I had managed to piss off a whole lot of right wing zealots in Southern California, and for all we knew around the world. Lately, even a few classmates had upped their level of handing us religious tracts as we entered the school.

We could laugh off that last one pretty easily. The rest of the adult-level threats, not so much.

A few prejudiced parents had protested our attending the prom. A few people from each group had variously suggested we cancel the prom, or that Steve and I should forego attending, and other nonsense. My parents, the administration, and the civil authorities had all agreed the dance would go on as scheduled with us a part of it.

The school had assured everyone that all precautions were being taken.

We ignored all the extra fuss as best we could.

Our notion? Rampant homophobia should not be a reason to skip the prom. Hell, even the Supreme Court had agreed that ‘how other students might react,’ didn’t justify us or other gay kids being excluded. And that was in 1980. Steve and I were learning all this legal shit as we went along. Shouldn’t have to, I suppose, but trying to live your life on shouldn’ts is kind of a waste of time as far as I can see.

We stepped outside. With the sun setting, the record heat of the day had finally begun to abate. The slight breeze brought warmth not relief.

So security guards in place, last second familial hugs hugged, and we were ready to go. At the last instant, I reached into the limo and came out with special corsages for my twin sisters, my mom, and grandma. The girls squealed with delight at the specially made orchid corsages for their wrists. My mom and grandma gave us each another hug. Then Steve got out a special boutonniere for my dad. Finally, another last round of hugs completed, we piled in. Then the us-waving-as-we-drove-way pictures. We turned the corner and eased back in the seats.

As we held hands and the car gained speed, Steve said, “Your mom and dad are so normal.” He sighed. “They almost make me forget the craziness of all this security shit.”

Neither of us mentioned that our limo driver also doubled as a security guard. Our two guards sat up front near him. We’d been determined to face our fears and discuss them. That didn’t make it easier or make them go away, but at least we had each other to share them with.

Were we really scared that violence might occur against us or against the kids at the prom? A bomb placed in a flower pot?

Steve and I had decided that living in a permanent state of paralysis was pointless. We’d have no lives at all. We’d taken every possible precaution as had the conglomeration of security personnel. And in this day and age, other than being specifically aware of threats to us, really, there wasn’t much difference in the level of dealing with normal security threats. It’s the world we live in.

In the final hug before being whisked away, my dad had whispered, “Be careful. Be safe. We love you.”

In the car, we both sat musing for a few moments. “I could get used to that normal shit,” Steve said.

“Yeah.”

“That’s as close as we’re getting to a normal prom. Sometimes that’s all I’d like. To have my life be just normal. Less death, destruction, and hatred.”

I said, “We’re coming as close as we can.”

He gazed at me with his sad, doleful eyes.

We kissed.

 

 

Chapter Two

Friday 7:32 P.M.

 

We picked up our best friends Jack McVeen and Darlene Banyon and their dates, Maria and Joey.

The limo ride was fun. The prom was great.

The venue was several exits past downtown Riverside on Highway 60 at the new Riverside Plaza Extravaganza Hotel and Convention Center. Kind of sterile. More striving for desert chic than elegant. The anemic plants in the atrium clustered in ‘desert interest centers.’ The palm trees dotting the lobby were about eighteen inches tall with mostly yellow leaves. The trickling stream that meandered throughout already had rust grubbing along the seams and edges. Cages twenty feet high took up space in the atrium lobby. The cages had real live parrots that screeched and called and shit and stunk. I wondered if the interior decorator ever got another job.

But tonight, I didn’t care. Each of us as couples joined the throng strolling in, hand in hand. More pictures were taken under a canopy.

Bryce Wold and Martin Uday, our resident Pride Parade and glitter specialists, had taken charge of decorating. The ballroom looked like Lou Rawls and Lady Gaga had been given an unlimited budget and told to go nuts, sort of kinky-modern, but very dark.

I didn’t care.

Steve and I swayed and swirled around the ballroom all night. Dancing with the man I loved and hoped to marry someday was perfect. I liked the slow dances where I could feel Steve’s hard dick pressing up against mine. It was like sharing a secret love in front of everybody. If there were sneers from some of the teens, adults, or chaperones, I didn’t notice.

Even Jack danced with both of us, as did Darlene.

It was a magic night.

Until…

Exclusive Excerpt: Cloistered to Death (Jamie Brodie Mysteries Book 16) by Meg Perry

Excerpt:

Prologue

Monday, April 9, 2018

Charles E. Young Research Library, UCLA

Bad news doesn’t always come in threes. Sometimes it’s twos.

I said it out loud just as Liz Nguyen walked into my office. “Well, fuck.”

She snorted a laugh and dropped into the chair across from me. “Good morning to you, too. Fuck what? Or who?”

“Oxford University Press and major depressive disorder.”

“Uh oh. Has OUP cancelled the second book?”

Last summer I’d taken a sabbatical to write a book exploring the connection between the Bridei kings of the Pictish nation in early medieval Scotland and the Brodie family. My family. As books do, this one had veered off in a slightly different direction as I was writing it to also become the story of the younger sons of the Brodie clan chiefs and their descendants. Of which I was one. Most historical studies of clans concentrated on the chiefs. My book was unique in its focus on the younger sons.

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The book was published in January and had become, by academic publishing standards, wildly successful. Sales were closing in on 2000 copies. As a result, Oxford University Press had asked me to produce a sequel of sorts – the stories of the younger sons of the Scottish clan chiefs and lairds through the centuries. I’d agreed a month ago, under the impression that I had plenty of time.

“On the contrary.” I pointed to my screen. “Email from my editor, David Beaton.” I read the content to Liz. “‘Sorry, just received this myself. Proposal, outline and first three chapters for book are due 30 April.’ That’s three weeks from today.”

Liz made an O with her mouth. “Have you started on those yet?”

“Nope. I have ideas but nothing committed to paper.”

“All right. Three chapters, three weeks. You can do it.”

“I could, if these weren’t our busiest two weeks for instruction.” As reference and instruction librarians, we spent most of our days in the first few weeks of a new quarter in classrooms teaching research skills to students in our specialty areas. Mine were history, philosophy, and the history of science. Nearly half of my time over the next two weeks was already booked with classes. “And you’re forgetting my second fuck.”

Liz frowned. “What was that one? Depressive disorder?”

“Yup. This email is from Lola.”

Lola Mack was a colleague of Liz’s and mine, another YRL research librarian whose subject specialties were classics, linguistics, and languages. Lola and I were co-authoring a paper on the subtle differences in language employed by various Roman-era historians.

Back in January, when Lola had proposed it, the collaboration had sounded like a terrific idea. But Lola struggled with major depressive disorder and often had difficulty concentrating on research and writing. As a result, we were behind schedule and the deadline for submission to the journal in which we hoped to publish was Friday, April 20. Less than two weeks away.

And now Lola was bailing on me. I read the message to Liz. “‘Jamie, I am so sorry, but my doctor has changed my meds again and I’m going to be out of work this week. I wish I could promise to work on the paper, but I doubt I’ll be able to. You have my notes and references – if you could please complete the paper however you see fit, I’ll be eternally grateful. ETERNALLY. List yourself as first author. THANK YOU.’”

Liz grunted. “Well, fuck.”

“Exactly. I feel terrible for Lola, but… shit.”

Liz hopped to her feet. “I’m gonna get out of your hair. You have work to do.”

 

Fortunately, I had no instruction sessions scheduled for this morning. I responded to David Beaton – Thanks for the update, will do – and to Lola. No worries, my friend. Concentrate on feeling better. Then I changed my Skype status to Do Not Disturb and got busy.

I ate lunch at my desk and spent four solid hours writing and revising Lola’s and my paper. At 12:55, I went downstairs to the reference desk for my two-hour shift with Liz. She was already there, chatting with Dolores Lopes and Justin Como, who worked the 11:00-1:00 reference shift. Dolores said, “Liz was just telling us about Lola.”

“Yeah. I hope they can find the right drug this time.”

Dolores was the mother hen of the librarians, worrying about all of us when we had troubles. We called her Mama Dolores. She said, “Oh, I hope so, too. Poor Lola has been through so much.”

We murmured agreement and took our seats at the desk. Liz said, “You concentrate on writing. I’ll handle patrons, unless we have two at once.”

“Awesome. I owe you a drink. Or two.”

She grinned. “Forget drinks. Next paper you write is gonna be with me.”

“You have a topic in mind?”

“Something about the history of elections.” Liz was our political science subject specialist.

“Huh. Intriguing. But let me get these two projects behind me first.”

I started to write again. As promised, Liz dealt with patrons. Thirty minutes later, Clinton Kenneally appeared.

Clinton was a patron turned friend, a former monk who visited us daily with a word of the day. He’d first appeared on Liz’s initial day at YRL, nearly nine years ago and had barely missed a day since. He always arrived at 1:30 on the dot.

I paused my hands on the keyboard. Liz said, “Hi, Clinton.”

“Good afternoon.” Clinton studied me. “Today’s word must be frazzled, as Jamie seems to be suffering from that condition.”

I said, “As always, you are correct.” I told him about my deadlines.

Clinton tapped his chin, thinking. “You should avail yourself of a writing retreat.”

Liz applauded. “Oooo. That’s brilliant.”

It was an intriguing idea, but… “Where would I go? If I stay home, I’ll never accomplish anything. If I go to my dad’s, then my family will expect interaction. If I go to New Mexico, I’ll be distracted by everything that needs to be done in the house.” My husband, Pete Ferguson, and I owned a recently-built vacation home in Alamogordo.

Clinton said, “A monastery would suit your purposes. You wouldn’t be bothered.”

Liz said, “How cool. You could write about medieval Scottish clans to the sound of Gregorian chant.”

I said, “I could go to a hotel…”

Liz said, “You’d have to go out for food. And you’d be interrupted by housekeeping every day. I think a monastery is a fantastic idea.”

Clinton added, “The monks will provide your meals at set times. Other than that, you will be free to do as you please.”

I was intrigued. There was a Benedictine monastery in my hometown of Oceanside not far from my brother Jeff’s farm. I’d always found it fascinating and wondered what went on there. “Do you have a recommendation?”

Something flickered in Clinton’s eyes for a second, then was gone. “There is a Benedictine monastery nearby at the end of Mandeville Canyon Road. It is surrounded by wilderness. They welcome guests during the week.”

I located the website. “The Abbey of St. Chad of Mercia. How about that? Mercia was an Anglo-Saxon kingdom.”

“Yes. St. Chad is credited with the Christianization of Mercia.”

Liz said, “Pete could drop you off and pick you up. You can’t get more convenient than that.”

Pete loathed all things Catholic. He’d hate the idea. “Are there any Buddhist monasteries nearby?”

“Nope. Closest one is up in the San Gabriels.” Liz poked me in the arm. “Come on, you can’t turn down a monastery named after a medieval British kingdom.”

“I guess not.” I clicked on the Retreats link on the monastery website. “Here’s the booking form.”

Liz leaned over so she could see my screen. “What do they have available?”

 

So I booked a retreat and scheduled a week of vacation leave from the library. When I told Pete that evening what I’d done, he stared at me, aghast. “You’ve done WHAT??”

“I have to get this proposal sent out. I need four uninterrupted days to work on it.”

“You could do that here.”

“No, I couldn’t. I’d be interrupted by the dog, by you, by my phone… The retreat will allow me to accomplish a ton of work.”

“You could go to New Mexico.”

“I’d end up painting the bedrooms and working in the garden instead of writing.”

“You could stay at a hotel.”

“Then I’d have to arrange for my own meals. I’d be interrupted by the maid service every day.”

Pete jumped to his feet from the loveseat and began to pace. “I’m not comfortable with this.”

“Why?”

He stopped and glared at me. “You know why.”

Pete had been sexually abused as a teenager by his parish priest. Naturally, the experience had turned him into an implacable enemy of the church. “Pete. These guys are monks, not priests.” Although I suspected it didn’t matter. “And I won’t be interacting with them at all. I won’t be there for indoctrination, I’ll be there to work. Alone. And Clinton recommended it, so it has to be okay.”

“There must be an alternative.”

“If you can present me with one, I’m open to it.”

 

Two weeks later…

 

Monday, April 23, 2018

 

TWO DAYS TO SOLVE

Los Angeles, California

5:15 am

 

Voiceover: Homicide. The ultimate crime. When a murder is committed in Los Angeles, the LAPD’s homicide detectives have two days to solve the crime before the trail begins to go cold.

Tonight, a murder was committed. Tonight, we ride with two of LAPD’s finest, the homicide detectives of the West Los Angeles Division, as they hunt a killer.

 

Detective Brodie (in the passenger seat, speaking to the camera): Our victim is a male, found in front of an empty house that’s for sale. A neighbor was outside with his dog and heard the gunshot. He didn’t see anything but he called it in.

Detective Kevin Brodie has been with the Los Angeles Police Department for sixteen years, ten of them with West LA homicide.

Brodie: We have far fewer homicides in West LA than in most of the other divisions.

Detective Eckhoff (driving): We may not have as many, but the motives aren’t that different.

His partner, Detective Jonathan Eckhoff, has been with LAPD for fourteen years, seven as a homicide detective.

Eckhoff: Drugs and money. There are a lot of drugs in them thar hills. Lots of money, too.

Brodie: We get a fair number of body dumps up in the canyons this side of Mulholland. Someone’s dog discovers a victim, and we have no idea where the crime scene is.

Eckhoff: This time, we know.

The unmarked car is waved through a checkpoint and pulls up to the curb in front of a large house. Uniformed police and crime scene personnel swarm the site. There is a For Sale sign at the end of the driveway.

Brodie (to a uniformed officer): Hey, Ben, what’ve we got?

Officer: White male, shot in the chest at close range.

Brodie and Eckhoff approach the house, where the victim lies just outside the front door in a pool of blood. The victim is wearing jeans and a t-shirt and is barefoot.

Brodie: You’re not kidding, close range. (He leans in to study the wound.) Shooter must have been less than three feet away.

Eckhoff: Someone he trusted. (He scans the scene.) Oh, shit. His shoes are missing. Is this a copycat?

Brodie: No way. (To the camera) About six months ago, Harbor Division arrested a guy who’d been stabbing homeless people and stealing their shoes. He’s in jail.

Officer: This guy doesn’t look homeless. Or stabbed.

Brodie (glances down the driveway): It’s gotta be coincidence, but we’ll keep it in mind. How did he get here? (To coroner’s investigator) He doesn’t have ID?

CI: Not yet. There’s nothing in his pockets. Not even a quarter.

Brodie (still studying the body): He’s got a defensive wound.

Eckhoff (demonstrates to the camera): Someone knows he’s about to get shot, he’s likely to throw up his hands. Doesn’t help, the bullet goes right through, but it’s a reflex reaction.

Coroner’s investigator (kneeling by the body): Chest wound isn’t a through and through, so we’ll get the bullet.

Eckhoff (looks up at the house): This is an odd place for a robbery.

Brodie: I don’t think this started off as a robbery.

Crime scene personnel are taking multiple pictures.

Brodie: He looks vaguely familiar, kinda like a guy I played ball with in college.

Eckhoff (in some disbelief): You know him?

CI: He looks older than you.

Eckhoff: Detective Brodie’s regimen of clean living has preserved his youthful countenance.

Brodie (rolls his eyes at Eckhoff): Ha ha. If it’s the same guy, he was a couple of years older than me. He was a utility infielder. What the hell was his name?

Eckhoff (trying to help Brodie remember): Was it a common name?

Brodie: No. His first name was a last name. Wait… Bartlett. Like the president on West Wing. That was his first name. Everyone called him Bart. (He snaps his fingers.) Bart Hightower.

CI: How sure are you this is him?

Brodie: Not sure at all.

CI: We’ll print him, see if he’s in the system.

The coroner removes the body. Crime scene investigators scour the scene.

Brodie: Let’s talk to the neighbor.

Brodie and Eckhoff meet a man in pajamas and a bathrobe standing at the end of the driveway with several uniformed officers.

Eckhoff: Thank you for speaking with us, sir. Can you tell us what happened this morning?

Neighbor: I’m not typically outside this early but my dog has had – um – intestinal issues. She woke me up, in a hurry to go out. We used the front door because it’s closer. I was waiting for the dog when I heard the shot from this direction.

Eckhoff: What did you do?

Neighbor: I can’t see over or through the fence. I took Princess – the dog – inside then went down my driveway and around to this gate. It was open, which it shouldn’t be, and I could see the man lying there. I called 911 right then.

Brodie: How long has this house been for sale?

Neighbor: At least six months. The owners moved to Switzerland.

Eckhoff: Did you see or hear anything else?

Neighbor: I might have heard a car start while I was getting Princess back in the house. But it didn’t pass my driveway so it must have gone up the hill.

Brodie: Has anyone been over here, other than realtors?

Neighbor: Not that I know of. But it’s an extremely private neighborhood. I wouldn’t necessarily have seen anyone.

Eckhoff: You said the gate was supposed to be closed?

Neighbor: Yes. The realtor has the code that opens it.

Brodie: What about the neighbor on the other side?

Neighbor: Oh, that house is unoccupied at the moment, too. It belongs to an actor who’s appearing on Broadway right now. He’s been in New York for about six weeks.

Eckhoff (hands the neighbor a card): We appreciate your cooperation, sir. If you remember anything else that might be helpful, please give us a call.

Neighbor: I will.

Brodie and Eckhoff walk back toward the crime scene. Eckhoff examines the fence between the properties, which is overgrown with vines.

Eckhoff: He’s right, you can’t see through this at all.

Brodie: These people moved to Switzerland.

Eckhoff (grins): Sixteen years in West LA and you’re still not accustomed to the lifestyles of the rich and famous.

Brodie (to camera): This is why Detective Eckhoff always initiates the interviews of witnesses and suspects in this part of town. He grew up with people like this. He knows how to handle them.

Eckhoff: It’s a gift.

A uniformed officer approaches the detectives.

Officer: Kevin, Jon, take a look at this.

The officer points to the base of the gate at the end of the driveway.

Brodie (squats down to see): Black duct tape over the sensor… so the gate wouldn’t close?

Eckhoff: But then the killer left it there? If the gate had closed and the neighbor hadn’t heard the shot, the victim might have lain there for a while before anyone saw him.

Brodie: The killer was in a hurry to leave.

Eckhoff: And lucky for us, the neighbor did hear.

Brodie: Thank God for doggie diarrhea.

 

8:22 am

 

Back at the station, Detective Eckhoff gets a phone call.

Eckhoff: Eckhoff. Hey, tell me something good. Seriously? Fantastic. Thank you. (He hangs up and turns to Detective Brodie.) We got a fingerprint match. It’s your guy.

The victim is identified as Bartlett Corcoran Hightower IV, age 41.

Brodie: He’s in the system?

Eckhoff: Yeah. A couple of busts for possession several years ago. Would Pete remember him?

Detective Brodie calls his brother-in-law, who might know the victim.

Brodie (on the phone): Hey. Gotta question for you. Yeah. Remember a guy from college ball named Bart Hightower? A couple of years ahead of me, so a couple of years behind you. Right. You remember much about him? No kidding. Yeah, I’ll call him. See ya. (He hangs up.) He remembers him. Said he got suspended from the team for drugs once.

Eckhoff: Is your coach still around?

Brodie: Yeah, he’s retired up in Ventura County somewhere. (To camera) I went through UCLA on a baseball scholarship. Bart was a junior when I was a freshman.

Eckhoff: Was he any good?

Brodie (shrugs): Good enough for a scholarship. Not good enough for the majors. As I remember, he was a local.

Producer: Will your acquaintance with the victim cause a conflict of interest?

Brodie: Nah. We’ll check with the boss to make sure, but I haven’t seen Bart in nearly twenty years. We were never friends. It won’t be a problem.

Eckhoff (sits at a computer): Okie dokie, let’s see what we can learn about Mr. Hightower.

Brodie (sits at a different computer): I’ll call the realtor then search for next of kin.

 

Santa Monica, California

8:30 am

 

Pete spent two weeks seeking an alternate retreat location for me, but didn’t find one. Not for lack of effort. He’d scoured the internet searching for a retreat center to which a person could retreat. Most included a schedule of activities – yoga, pottery, meditation, drumming, whatever. None allowed the visitor to remain unoccupied for long stretches of the day and evening.

So I was going to St. Chad’s.

I stuffed socks into the crevices of the duffel, then turned to my toiletries bag. Pete watched for a minute, morose. “Do they even have internet there?”

“Yes. And a library. And three meals a day.”

He took a deep breath, as if he was steeling himself for something. “You know, it’s 2018. And this time you’re doing the two-year thing.”

I stopped in confusion, toothpaste in my hand. “What thing?”

“Remember? 2012, 2014, 2016? Moving in together and the conference in Oakland and Aunt Ruth’s bus tour to Scotland? This time, it’s you making the decision without consulting me.”

Yikes. This had to be handled delicately. “Okay, you have a point. But this is not exactly the same. Those times before, the decisions you made either forced me to do something I didn’t want to do or prevented me from doing something I did want to do. This time, it only affects me. At least from an active standpoint.”

He was wearing his stubborn face. “You are forcing me to do something I don’t want to do. Sit by idly while you go off to a monastery for a week.”

“Oh, Pete.” I reached out and ruffled his hair, my go-to conciliatory gesture. “You’ve hardly sat by idly. You did your best to find an alternative. There wasn’t one. And it’s not a week, it’s four days.”

He frowned at me for a minute, then sighed deeply and pushed off the bed. “Waffles for breakfast? You’ll probably be eating gruel for the rest of the week.”

I laughed. “Gruel?”

“Oatmeal. Porridge. Whatever.”

“Yes, please. Waffles sound fantastic.”

He went to the kitchen and started banging around. I went to the office to pack my computer bag and then hauled my luggage downstairs.

We sat to eat and I said, “You’ll have a distraction while I’m gone. This is the week that Kevin and Jon start filming for Two Days to Solve.”

Pete huffed a laugh. “That’s right. I’d almost forgotten.”

Two Days to Solve was a reality cop show that followed a homicide investigation from beginning to end. LAPD had only recently chosen to participate, and the top brass had designated my brother Kevin and his partner Jon Eckhoff as the lucky team of detectives to represent the department.

Kevin had agreed because it was a boost for Jon’s career. I knew he wouldn’t have otherwise. But Jon hoped to get promoted to Homicide Special, a section of the elite Robbery-Homicide Unit that operated from headquarters, and Kevin was willing to sacrifice his distaste.

I was digging into my second waffle when my phone rang. When I checked the screen, I was surprised to see that it was Clinton. He almost never called. I answered, “Good morning, Clinton.”

“Jamie, good morning. Are you still at home?”

“Yep, I can’t check in at the monastery until 10:00. What’s up?”

“I fear that I am stranded. I was forced to have my car towed to the Dodge dealership this morning. I was hoping…”

I said, “Say no more, Clinton. Is this the dealership on Santa Monica and Centinela?”

“Yes.”

“Hang on.” I lowered the phone and said to Pete, “Clinton needs a ride.”

“Sure, no problem.”

I returned to Clinton. “We’ll swing by and pick you up on our way to the monastery. Where should Pete drop you off?”

Clinton’s voice reflected his relief. “Oh, wonderful. If he would take me to UCLA’s campus, that would be perfect. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it. We’ll see you in…” I checked my watch. “About a half hour.”

“Thanks again, Jamie.”

“You’re welcome. See you shortly.” I hung up.

Pete said, “Funny, I never think of Clinton as having a car.”

“He has to get around somehow.”

“Obviously. I guess I thought he rode the bus everywhere.”

I laughed. “He’s a retired monk. He doesn’t have to be impoverished anymore.”

“Ha! I guess not.”

We were mopping up the remaining syrup on our plates when Pete’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “It’s Kevin.”

“It’s awfully early.”

Pete put the phone on speaker and answered. “Hey. Are you at a scene?”

I asked, “Is the camera crew with you?”

Kevin growled. “Yeah.”

Pete said, “Greaaaat. What’s up?”

“Remember a guy from college ball named Bart Hightower? A couple of years ahead of me, so a couple of years behind you.”

Pete looked surprised. “Yeah, I remember. A second-string utility infielder. Is he your victim?”

“Right. You remember much about him?”

“Only that he got suspended when he was a sophomore. He tested positive for coke.”

“No kidding.”

“I know, you can’t talk about this now. You should call Coach.”

“Yeah, I’ll call him. See ya.” He hung up.

I said, “Well, damn. Now I have to wait to see what’s up with that.”

Pete leaned back, contemplating. “Bart Hightower. I hadn’t given him a thought since I graduated.”

“Sounds like you didn’t know him very well.”

“He wasn’t a friend, that’s for sure. He wasn’t much of a player or student either. He was local and he came from money.” Pete glanced at the clock. “Time to go.”

 

Clinton was waiting at the door of the customer lounge. I exited the front passenger seat. “Here, Clinton, you take the front. Pete will drop me off first.”

He hesitated, then climbed in. “Thank you. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”

Pete said, “Not at all.”

I buckled my seatbelt. “Pete had an old Jeep Cherokee that spent a lot of time in these service bays. What do you drive?”

Clinton cleared his throat. “Er – a Dodge Neon. My sister and I took a drive in the mountains over the weekend and the brakes overheated.”

Pete and I made sounds of commiseration. I said, “It was the brakes that finally did that Cherokee in, too.”

Clinton slipped his sunglasses on; I was amused to see that they were tortoiseshell Wayfarers. Pete asked, “Will you need a ride later to pick up your car?”

“No, thank you. I have arranged with Liz to transport me after work.”

Pete turned right onto Santa Monica. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

 

Mandeville Canyon Road originated at Sunset Boulevard and wound its way north through multimillion dollar homes to its terminus a couple of thousand mostly-vertical feet shy of Mulholland Drive. About halfway up, we passed one house with an LAPD black-and-white parked across the driveway and yellow crime scene tape strung between the pillars supporting the gate.

I wondered if that was Kevin and Jon’s crime scene, then decided not to raise the subject. Pete was chatting with Clinton; he didn’t indicate that he’d noticed the patrol car, and he wouldn’t take as a positive sign a murder which just happened to occur on the same road as my monastery.

Sky Valley Road split off from Mandeville Canyon Road near its tip, dead-ending at a T intersection. At the T, an unmarked dirt road continued straight for another 500 feet. There, surrounded by a thick border of mountain scrub, eucalyptus, and aged trees, stood the Abbey of St. Chad of Mercia.

There was a tall wrought-iron fence across the front of the property. Beyond it, the driveway was paved. We stopped on the circular drive in front of the Spanish-style building, cream-colored stucco with a red tile roof.

As we pulled up, two men in black monk’s robes came out to greet us. One was a stereotypical monk in his mid-sixties, tubby, with a fringe of hair around the back of his head. A genetically endowed semi-tonsure. He approached the car, a wide smile on his face. Pete muttered, “Ugh.”

“Shhh. I’ll FaceTime you this evening.”

“Mm hm.”

I retrieved my bags from the cargo area, slammed the hatch closed, and Pete sped away. The portly monk held out his hand. “Mr. Brodie?”

“Yes, sir.” I shook his hand.

“I’m Father Gregory, abbot of St. Chad’s. Welcome! We’re so pleased to host you this week.”

“Thank you.”

He gestured to the other monk, standing two steps behind him. “Brother Martin will escort you to your room. You’ll dine with the other guests at my table this evening. I’ll see you then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Father Gregory turned, nodded curtly to Brother Martin, and disappeared into the building. Brother Martin was young, probably in his early thirties – five or six years younger than me. It was difficult to discern body type under the robes, but I had the sense that he was wiry. He had a full head of brown hair and sported an impressive black eye. I said, “That’s some shiner.”

Brother Martin’s solemn expression didn’t waver. “Yes. I was head-butted by one of our goats.”

“Ack. Goats will do that.”

“Yes.” He reached for my duffel bag. “Allow me.”

 

Blurb:

Jamie Brodie is on deadline. The proposal for his second book is due, and he desperately needs uninterrupted writing time. At the suggestion of patron, friend, and former monk Clinton Kenneally – and over the protests of Pete Ferguson, Jamie’s husband – Jamie schedules a week-long writing retreat at a local monastery. But the monastery is not exactly what Jamie expected…which might explain the flicker of disquiet in Clinton’s eyes.

Meanwhile, Kevin Brodie and Jon Eckhoff are dealing with a dead drug dealer, doggie diarrhea, and a camera crew from the reality TV show Two Days to Solve. The camera loves Jon, and vice versa. Kevin’s just trying to refrain from swearing on TV. But when the victim turns out to be someone from Kevin’s past, the case gets a whole lot more interesting.

And there’s no way it’ll be solved in two days.

click on image for Meg Perry’s website

Learn more about author Meg Perry and her Jamie Brodie Mystery series via her website:

From Meg’s website:

“I’ve been writing the Jamie Brodie Mysteries since June 2012. Hard to believe! Jamie is (like me) an academic librarian. Not like me, he’s a gay man, a Rhodes Scholar, a rugby player, a son, brother, uncle…and boyfriend (eventually, husband). Jamie’s boyfriend (eventual husband) is psychology professor Pete Ferguson, and they share a townhouse in Santa Monica, CA.”