Jon Michaelsen's Blog: Ramblings, Excerpts, WIPs, etc., page 4

Exclusive Excerpt: Beautiful Corpse: A Marshall James Thriller (Marshall James Thrillers) by Mark McNease

Excerpt:

REMISSION

TODAY DOESN’T FEEL LIKE A milestone. It
feels like any other Tuesday, better than some, not as good as others. The
sun’s out and the stink of a New York City summer has passed, giving way to the
cool of autumn. This is the time of year when I fall in love with the city
again. The surge of color on the trees in Central Park; the morning chill that
has me staying under the comforter with my husband while our cat, Critter,
purrs between us. The kind of morning that makes me want another, and another,
just like it. In my position that’s not guaranteed, but an October morning
teases me and gives me hope, something I’ve been wary of my entire life.

I have my
scheduled walking tour to give this afternoon—the Haunted Greenwich Village
Tour, complete with single-page maps with little Xs on them where famous people
croaked from murder, suicide or heroin. It’s a seasonal tour we do for
Halloween. Other than that, it’s just the day I’m supposed to celebrate being
cancer-free for five years. I’m told it’s a big deal, the top of some hill from
where I announce to the small world I inhabit that I’m cured for the most part.
It’s a hesitant celebration—ask all those people who thought they were in the
clear and got blindsided by another round with the Grim Reaper. He always wins
anyway. Maybe not five years ago when I was first told those little reds spots
on the Kleenex I coughed into were blood, or a month later when half a lung was
removed, or six months later when I was bedridden and thinking the cancer
couldn’t possibly have been worse than the chemo. But he’s a patient sonofabitch,
and every single one of us is set for a cage match that’s already been decided.
The crowd knows who gets the trophy, and it ain’t us.

I was supposed to
be dead and turned into a box of ashes a long time ago. If not from the lung
cancer, then from AIDS in my twenties, or bourbon in my forties, or at the
hands of one of several sadistic killers—but I’ll get to that. Let’s focus on
the positive, as my oncologist, Dr. Lydia Carmello, would say. She’s been as
surprised as anyone that I’m still around, although she’d never express it.
She’s still in the ‘cautiously optimistic’ stage after five years. She’s seen
too many hearts broken, too much grief, to take victory laps. It’s not her
style, and it’s not mine.

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I have a lot to be
grateful for, even though I can’t say who I’m grateful to. God and I haven’t
been on speaking terms since I was sixteen years old, a gay kid in an Indiana
town asking him why he wouldn’t make me attracted to girls, or why he wouldn’t
get my father sober, or why he killed my mother and left us to take care of
ourselves while the old man slept off another binge. By the time I was living
in Los Angeles some years later and watching my friends fall like weeds ripped
out of a garden, I’d decided God didn’t talk back to me because he wasn’t there
and never had been. So my gratitude is the kind you feel when you smell
flowers, or when you get hit with a cool breeze on a really hot day. It’s not a
‘thank you’ to anyone, just an acknowledgment that it feels good.

I’m alive, healthy
in a relative way, still working, and now a married man. That last one still
surprises me more than outliving a grave prognosis. My boyfriend Boo, short for
Buford, convinced me two years ago that it was time for us to live together,
and since we were going to live together we might as well make it official with
a trip to City Hall. And that’s all we did, too. No fancy wedding, no
reception, no gift registries. Just me, Buford, and two friends as witnesses
for the second trip downtown. There’s a twenty-four hour waiting period in New
York, instigated years ago by some do-gooder who thought too many people were
getting plastered on their trips to the Big Apple and capping it off with
marriages they regretted when the booze wore off. So you have to get your
license one day, and either go back and have it officiated, or set up your
wedding with someone else who’s qualified to sign the thing. For us, we just
got on the subway with our pals, stood in line again, and did the deed. And you
know what? I like being married. I like calling Boo my husband, a word that
first felt as strange coming out of my mouth as it did falling on the ears of
so many people who still react like it’s an odd thing for two men to call each
other. I don’t care. I’m turning sixty this year—what’s with all these
milestones?—and if I want to call the man I wake up with every day my husband,
you can bet your ass that’s what I’m going to do.

Despite all the
changes, some of the basics are the same. I live in the same Hell’s Kitchen
building I’ve been in for many years. We got a deal on a one-bedroom because
I’m a reliable tenant in a building full of not-so-reliable ones. It was a step
up from the studio I’d been living in with its view of the Port Authority bus
terminal and the sounds of Ninth Avenue as a kind of toxic white noise. Boo
made the move from Brooklyn and we fixed the place up nicely. We share it with
Critter, who I inherited from a dead prostitute named Justine. He outlived her
after the building super found her deceased with a syringe in her arm. The
neighbors had been complaining of a terrible smell coming from her apartment,
and it wasn’t the cat.

The terminal is
still across the street, but we’re not on the side anymore that faces all the
buses coming in from New Jersey spewing their fumes up into the windows.  I still give walking tours for a living,
having been a guide at one time or another for all the ones the company offers:
the Gay New York Tour, the Music Icons Tour, and the haunted tour I’m doing
today. There’s also the Famous Bars Tour, where I walk groups of people around
and we stop at a half-dozen saloons where they can have a shot or a glass of
wine where some celebrity passed out the night before. It’s fitting since I
don’t drink, and, frankly, even the cheapest of these places is nicer than the
bars I patronized at the end of my long, long drinking career. If people
weren’t falling off ratty barstools and the place didn’t smell like puke and
Pine-Sol, it was too classy for me. That included the Paisley Parrot, or maybe
that’s where it really started. I told you about that dump in the first of
these little confessions. 1983, Los Angeles, a mobbed-up, lowlife paradise
where I became intimately acquainted with murder and the kinds of people who
commit it.

I may be in the
clear from cancer for now, but I’m not in the clear with my conscience. I
didn’t kill anyone—don’t get me wrong—but I’ve always thought a few people
might still be alive if they’d never met me, so I’m getting it out there now.
And boy, is there more to get out.

It was 1984. Prince ruled the airways. The Los Angeles Olympics had come and gone, taking with it a spotlight that had shone harshly on the city’s night crawlers and left them thankful for the shadows. AIDS was spreading its dark, black, wings over us all, and I was a happy guy. At least I thought I was, until things took a sudden turn for the deadly.

CHAPTER One

David Bowie’s song 1984 was everywhere that year for obvious reasons: the song, like
the George Orwell book that had inspired it, had taken on new urgency once it
actually was 1984. Much like a
save-the-date for the end of world, however, it proved to be less than
prescient. Economies did not crumble, we had not yet been taken over by double
speaking bureaucrats who called up down and in out—that would come later with
the arrival of a new century.

Prince was also
ubiquitous. His Purple Rain album and
movie had stormed the gates of entertainment and made themselves inescapable.
You couldn’t turn on a radio without hearing one of his songs, and among the
fevered debates that year was who deserved the king’s crown: Prince or Michael
Jackson. For some people it was a toss up, for me it was Prince.

Los Angeles had
been transformed by the arrival and departure of the Olympics. The authorities
had wanted the city to look respectable, so for months before that summer the
police had been sweeping the hustlers, hookers and drug dealers off Santa
Monica Boulevard. Prior to that, it was common to take a drive along Santa
Monica and see one young man after another standing on the curb or in the
street with his thumb out. I knew because I’d been one of them when I’d first
arrived in L.A. seven years earlier. I was later saved from a life—or in many
cases a death—on the streets by my friend Butch Reardon, who I’d met one night
at the baths. The good news was that Butch was still alive, surviving what we
later called a plague. The bad news was that many others were not. Eighty-four
wasn’t the worst of the AIDS years by a long shot, but the death toll was high
enough for us to know the bottom was a lot farther down. Every gay man I knew
expected his life to be shortened by several decades. Each cough, each
unexplained blemish, had us getting our things in order and dreading the awful
emaciation we’d all become familiar with. Reed-thin friends gasping for breath
in hospital rooms marked “Contagious.” Desperate questions without answers.
Death was a guest at the party, moving so quickly among us that we could never
quite identify what he looked like or which part of the room he was in at any
moment.

The only thing we
were sure of—that we had to believe for sanity’s sake—was that monogamy was the
best way to ride out the storm. Find someone safe, someone healthy, and close ranks, hold on for dear life. That’s not why I
was with Mac. It was just timing. We’d met under the strangest, most gruesome
circumstances. We’d fallen into love, and as if by instinct, we’d stayed there.
The virus had just been identified that year and there was no test for it yet.
But we knew it was spread through sex, so the less sex you had, with the fewest
people, the greater your chances of survival. You can’t catch what no one can
give you, so some of us either swore off sex altogether, or we set up house and
locked the door. That was Mac and me, moving in together to cement that sticky
thing called love. He was still a cop, I was still a bartender. Aside from
everyone living under the darkest, cruelest storm we would ever encounter,
things were looking pretty good. It was October, my favorite month … until
that night.

*
* *

Mac McElroy was my hero, my savior, and
my lover. He was an openly gay cop when you could count them on one hand. And
not just a cop, he was a detective. My very first encounter with him had shown
me his compassionate side, something you don’t expect in a detective who
rightly considers you a possible suspect. He had to think of me that way, it
was his job, but he’d been kind to me at precisely the moment I’d needed it
most. I’m not a fool, I knew what the general population, let alone the police,
thought of gay men back then. A lot of them still do. But Mac saw the
frightened young man I was, vomiting outside the bar’s back door after seeing
the obviously murdered body of a friend, and he was gentle with me. Not
condescending, not fake-nice, as if he could get a confession out of me by
being understanding. It had been just him, me, and some surly beat cops who’d
already made up their minds I’d killed another fairy and put him in a dumpster.

Then all hell
broke loose. More murders, more suspicion on me, even as I tried to beat the
clock and find out who the killer really was. When I did and it almost cost my
life, Mac was the one leading the charge through Richard Montagano’s door and
stopping him from strangling me to death. If it hadn’t been love at first
sight, it was then. Within a few months we were an item. Within a year we were
living together and I was sober after years of drinking like bourbon was my
only form of hydration and cigarettes were my oxygen tank. Mac never smoked and
rarely drank, but love gives differences like that a chance to work themselves
out.

We moved in
together to celebrate our one year anniversary. He’d been living in Glendale
and I’d been living in Hollywood. Deciding it was best to start fresh, we
settled on a two-bedroom apartment in Silverlake, the upper half of a duplex.
It was far enough from the past and close enough to the future to make it the
perfect choice for us.

Another choice I’d
made was to leave the Paisley Parrot and everything it represented. I wasn’t
ready to stop bartending since it was the only real profession I had, so I took
my skills to West Hollywood. I’d been slinging drinks at the hottest bar in
town, a place called Zenith, several blocks west of the French Quarter on Santa
Monica, a popular gay restaurant where people sat outside being seen while they
ate fried zucchini sticks and Reuben sandwiches. West Hollywood was a mecca to
us then, the gayest little city in America. It was also Ground Zero for AIDS in
Los Angeles, and every week, walking past the French Quarter, one of the things
you noticed was who was not there,
which tables were empty where a friend or acquaintance had been just days
before. Still, the worst hadn’t hit us yet, and the area remained as vibrant as
a street party before the cleanup. Zenith was part of that, the white-hot
center of a trendy neighborhood where hope and promise would soon collide with
despair.

There were clouds in the sky, but the sun still shone. There were signs of hard times to come, but days of joy in the meantime. I was twenty-six years old. Whatever I knew at that age, it wasn’t nearly as much as I was about to learn.

CHAPTER Two

IT HAD TAKEN MONTHS TO convince Mac we
should live together. He’d counseled patience, and I’d believed it was going to
happen eventually, as long as we stayed together. He was right to be cautious.
New relationships are fragile. Mac and I knew it could go either way: we could
make it to the one year mark and have a serious discussion about our future, or
we could come apart at the seams. Waiting a year was a good move. It also made
it difficult for him to say no when I started showing him ads for apartments.

“You work in West
Hollywood,” he’d said. “Maybe we should look there.”

Mac had lived in
Glendale for several years while working at LAPD’s Hollywood Station. The drive
wasn’t much of a commute, given the distances people in L.A. travel on a daily
basis.

We were sitting at
his kitchen table. I’d taken to spending most of my nights with him by then,
driving over from my apartment on Franklin Avenue in Hollywood. I’ll admit
there was something exciting about sleeping in a cop’s bed, with his service
gun in the nightstand next to him. I guess it made me feel manly, or maybe just
protected. We were wearing nothing but briefs, our usual early morning attire.
He would head off to work soon, and I’d go back to bed and sleep before my
night shift at Zenith. At least one of us was working days.

“It’s too
expensive in West Hollywood,” I replied. “Besides, I’ve always liked diversity,
and it’s kind of gay-homogenous there. Not really my thing.”

“How about the
Valley?”

“God, no. And
think of the drive.”

He leaned over to
scan the ads with me. That’s when we saw it: a two-bedroom, one-and-a-half bath
duplex in Silverlake. We both lived in apartment buildings, and the idea of a
duplex was appealing—you only had one neighbor, above you or below you,
depending on which unit was available.

“That looks
interesting,” he said, resting his hand on my bare leg. It wasn’t as exciting
as it sounds; we’d already had sex for breakfast.

“Should I call?” I
asked.

“Sure.”

And that’s how we
found our home. A together home. A place of our own, with the emphasis on
‘our.’ Mac McElroy and Marshall James were officially a couple, with all the
ups and downs that come with commitment. The ups were fantastic, and the downs
survivable, until one night when we both said things we shouldn’t have, a door
got slammed, and our lives were upended like a table someone threw over in a
fit of rage. All for a moment of petty jealousy. Maybe I had it coming.

*
* *

“Where were you?” I asked.

That’s how it
started. Cheap, angry, stupid.

It was a Sunday
night. Mac worked weekends, and I’d spent the day with a walk in Griffith Park
and a drive to the Beverly Center looking for a new answering machine. I’d
brought dinner back from one of our favorite Mexican restaurants and planned to
heat it up after the initial kiss hello and maybe some time in the sheets. But
one hour passed, then another, and Mac had not come through the door with his
usual swagger. You need a certain bearing to be a detective, maybe more so if
you’re a gay one and everybody knows it. They’re looking for weakness, any sign
you might not be as masculine as the job requires. Mac had it in spades: the
bearing, the look, the sense that this is a man who does not back down. He
didn’t need it so much for investigating murders, but he’d honed it as a beat
cop in his early career and it’s the kind of thing that stays with you.

By the time the
nightly news was over and he still hadn’t come home, I was slightly annoyed.
Then I watched 60 Minutes, followed
by Hardcastle and McCormick. My
annoyance had progressed to serious irritation. We didn’t have cell phones and
I’d refrained from calling the station to see if he was working late. Nobody
needs an upset boyfriend calling and asking to talk to the detective in charge.
Just as I was reaching the alarmed stage he walked in the door, slightly but
clearly inebriated.

I forwent the
usual greeting kiss, stopping him in the entryway.

“Where have you
been?” I demanded, already suspicious. Smelling booze on him, I added, “Or
maybe I should ask where you’ve been drinking?”

Mac seldom drank.
For him to come home late with whiskey on his breath was a first.

“Relax,” he said.
“I was out with an old friend. And I didn’t drive home, don’t worry. Barry
brought me back. I’ll get my car in the morning.”

Barry? I’d never
heard of anyone named Barry. How could he be an old friend of Mac’s if I’d
never heard of him?

“You’re drunk.”

He cocked his
head, staring at me as if I’d just said the most ridiculous thing.

“I’m not drunk. It
doesn’t take much for me, Marshall. I’ve had maybe three drinks. We were
getting caught up, that’s all, I forgot the time.”

We were gay men.
It was 1984. Assumptions were made.

“Is that what you
were doing? And who is this old friend, Barry?”

He walked past me,
tossing his keys on the dining room table. “We were in the Academy together. He
got assigned to Rampart. I hadn’t seen him in five or six years, it just
happened.”

My temper flared.
“What is ‘it,’ Mac? Did you fuck him?”

I’d crossed a
line, as quickly and irreversibly as if I’d slapped him. He went from being
pleasantly buzzed to frighteningly sober. He turned to me and said, “What is wrong
with you? He’s married. He has two kids. We were close.”

“It sounds like
you still are.”

By then I realized
my foolishness, but I was young and unable to stop myself.

“I brought dinner
home. I ate it. Yours is cold, in the refrigerator.”

I started to leave
the room, to storm into the bedroom and wait for an apology.

“Don’t walk away
from me.”

It was the way he
said it. We’d been many things—detective and suspect, victim and lifesaver,
lover and lover—but unequal had never been one of them. We were partners. Today
we’d be husbands, but then, in that moment, we were accuser and denier. His
tone was commanding, as if he was instructing me to stop in my tracks.

I don’t know what
came over me. Pride? Stubbornness? A refusal to admit I was making something huge
out of something minor? He should have called me, yes. He should have paged me.
But he’d been with an old friend and the time had gotten away from him. It
happens. I wish it hadn’t that night, but it did, and instead of letting it go,
of making amends on the spot and acting like the adult I was, I kept walking
away from him. I went into the bedroom, got my wallet and keys from the dresser
drawer, and marched back past him.

“I’m going out,” I
said.

Three words that
ended up having as much impact as when we’d first said, “I love you.”

“Wait,” he said,
knowing I wouldn’t.

He reached out,
trying to grab my arm as I hurried by him. I shook his hand off. I’d been shown
up, revealed as the petty, jealous, self-pitying lover I was at that moment.

The last sound we
both heard was the door slamming behind me.

Some things you can’t take back.

CHAPTER Three

THE SUNSET BATHS WERE SECOND in
popularity only to the Hollywood Spa. Located on Fountain Avenue near Gower,
they were named after a street they weren’t on. They also had the unfortunate
distinction of a name that matched the times, as the men who patronized
bathhouses began to enter the abbreviated sunset of their lives. AIDS was
gaining momentum, spread by sex, although we still didn’t know what kind. The
baths were a place to seek comfort, and to indulge in anonymous pleasure for a
few hours while Rome slowly caught fire around us.

It’s important to
understand that places like the Sunset Baths were more than mazes of glory
holes and stained sheets in which to lose ourselves for a few hours. They were
also gathering spots where gay men of all ages could feel safe. Things like
marriage equality and anti-discrimination laws were as distant in concept as
WiFi and handheld computers. The world we lived in was still a very hostile
place. We were outlaws,
pre-assimilation quasi-criminals with our own amorphous culture. It was still
acceptable to fire us from jobs, disdain us as fairies, and make very public
jokes about us even as we died. Spaces provided by the baths, the bars and the
community centers were vital. You could spend a night at the baths playing
pool, drinking and smoking, and feeling protected from the indignities of a
world that considered it open season on you. You could also have lots of sex, which
is not why I went there that night. I wanted to cool off,  and hopefully to interact with a friend or
two I hadn’t seen since I’d become a taken man. I was in the wrong place for
the right reasons, or so I thought. By the time I’d settled into a room with my
clothes hung on a door hook, wearing underwear beneath my towel as an added
layer of protection against my own impulses, I’d already begun to realize my
folly. Mac had not been cheating on me. He was honest enough to admit it if he
had been. I’d overreacted all the way to the baths, but once I was there I
decided to stay awhile. Not long, maybe an hour or two. Then I would go home
and apologize for being an asshole. Mac would exhibit the patience of a saint,
and all would be well again.

I locked my door
behind me, slipped the key on its elastic band over my wrist, and made the
familiar rounds, avoiding the hallways where a hand might reach out to size me
up. There was nothing to measure that night. I wasn’t there for that. I’d have
a soda or two at the bar, chat with someone I knew or strike up a conversation
with someone I didn’t know, and head home before midnight.

I’d been sober for
six months at the time. It might sound odd for a bartender not to drink, but
there are plenty of us. Just like there are servers in restaurants who don’t
eat the food, and bank tellers who would never think of slipping a twenty into
their pocket. It’s a job, and I’d
been able to perform it without more than an occasional desire to join my
customers in a shot. Mac was proud of me, not to mention the wonders it did for
our relationship. I knew he wouldn’t be proud of me that night, slinking off to
a place I shouldn’t have been.

Sitting at the
bar, enjoying a Diet Coke, I decided not to tell him where I’d gone. I would
say I’d taken a drive, which was true. I’d tell him I had needed to clear my
head and admit my ridiculous jealousy, which was also true. I would just leave
out the part about the Sunset Baths. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him,
while telling him the truth just might. I’d even resolved to leave sooner,
after I finished my soda.

“Hello,” a voice
said.

I turned and saw a
familiar stranger leaning on the bar next to me. It sounds like an oxymoron: familiar stranger. But that’s what he
was. I didn’t know him. I’d never spoken to him. But something about him was
not new to me. I’d seen him, though I
wasn’t sure where.

He looked to be in
his thirties, older than I was at the time. He was lean and muscular, revealing
most of his body with just a white towel wrapped around his waist. He had the
short chest hair of someone who used an electric razor to trim it. His eyes,
even in the dim light, were the startling blue of a watercolor. His brown hair
was on the long side, brushed back behind his ears, and he smiled with the
brightness of a teeth whitener.

“You look lonely,”
he said.

I wasn’t going to
let this enter dangerous territory, and quickly replied, “I’m not lonely at
all. My boyfriend’s at home. I’m just getting out for awhile.”

He smiled. “At the
baths.”

“I’m not here for
that.”

“And what is it
you’re not here for?”

“That,” I said, glancing down at his
erection pressing up on his towel.

“It’s
involuntary.” Looking around at the other men there, he said, “It comes with
the territory. But don’t worry, I respect boundaries. Now can I buy you another
drink?”

The things we do
when we think we’re not doing them. I would not get physical with this man, of
that I was sure. But a little harmless flirting? A little wordplay?

“Sure,” I said.
“It’s a Diet Coke. I don’t drink.”

“Oh, good,” he
said. “Neither do I.”

I slipped off the
barstool. “I’m happy to have a drink and chat, but just one, then I’m going
home. In the meantime, I need to pee.”

“You do that …”

“Marshall.”

“Marshall. I’m
Steven, by the way.”

We shook hands.
His grip was firm and I felt something stirring I would have to un-stir
immediately. “Pleased to meet you,” I said, before heading off to the bathroom.

When I came back he was still there. A new Diet Coke was waiting for me. I hopped back on the barstool, took a long sip of my drink, and started an innocent conversation I would barely remember in the morning.

CHAPTER Four

IT TOOK ME A MINUTE after opening my
eyes to realize where I was. I’d somehow gotten back to a room I assumed was
the one I’d rented—there was no reason to think otherwise. My body felt stiff,
my muscles and stomach tightly knotted. I was facing the wall, and as I turned
slowly onto my back I realized I was not alone.

My first impulse
upon touching his flesh was a need to vomit. How had this happened? I hadn’t
gone there for sex, and I certainly hadn’t gone there to drink. But had I done
both? Had the stranger, Steven, charmed away my defenses? Had I failed myself
and my best intentions? Had I failed Mac?

“I have to leave,”
I said, turning to the side of the bed before realizing I could not get out
that way. The bed was flush against the wall—the only way out was over the man
next to me.

He didn’t say
anything, and I thought he must be sleeping. I kept talking anyway.

“This was a
mistake, nothing happened. Tell me nothing happened.”

He didn’t respond.
Just as well, I thought. What I couldn’t remember was better left
forgotten. 

I starting
crawling over him, skin brushing against skin, when I noticed how cold he was.

“Steven,” I said.
“Are you okay?”

I was straddling
him, trying to get to the other side, the side that would let me off the bed
and out of the room, when he rolled toward me, my weight turning him on his
back. And I saw it, clearly and horrifyingly. It was not Steven.

A young man stared
up at me, his eyes open and dead. I knew what a corpse’s eyes looked like, I’d
seen them before. Whoever he was, however beautiful he’d been in life, he was
now deceased. I allowed myself just a moment to gaze at him. He was very
attractive, no more than twenty, I guessed, with green eyes gone dull and
lifeless. His hair was short and artificially blond, fanning back from his
face. His lips, once pink and full, pouting when they’d been able to speak,
were now blue and silent. I was on top of a man who’d left this life, and from
the looks of the deep ligature marks on his neck, he’d had help.

* * * * *

Now available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and Apple Books

About Author, Mark McNease:



Click for website

Mark McNease is the author of nine novels, six produced plays and dozens of short stories. Two of his Kyle Callahan Mysteries were best sellers on Kindle, and his short story ‘Stop the Car’ was selected as a Kindle Single. He won an Emmy and Telly as a co-creator and writer for the children’s program ‘Into the Outdoors’ and currently lives with his husband and two cats in rural New Jersey. You can find him at MarkMcNease.com

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Exclusive Excerpt: Some Kind of Love (Jas Anderson Thriller Book 3) by Jack Dickson

Excerpt:

He frowned. Small talk wasn’t like Mhairi. She was working up to something. He wondered if it was the same something. 

‘It’ll be two years in September, since wee Paul died. Weird the way things work oot, eh Big Man?’ 

It was … 

‘Neil lost somethin’ special, in the Bar-L, an’ you an’ Stevie found somethin’.’

… and it wasn’t. Jas leant back on the sofa, flexing his arm. Through the window, the evening sky was clouding over. 

Neil. Neil Johnstone. 

Serving life for the murder of another prisoner. Briefly the lover of Mhairi McGhee’s brother Paul, serving eighteen months for possession of Ecstasy. And responsible by proxy for the scar on Mhairi’s face. 

Their thoughts moved along parallel lines. ‘Ah visit, when ah can.’ 

Not so much losing an enemy as gaining a … brother-in-law? ‘Neil still in the Bar-L?’ 

‘Aye.’ 

‘Wi’ Jimmy?’ 

‘Jimmy wis moved tae Carstairs, last November.’ 

He tapped the end of his cigarette against the edge of a smoked-glass ashtray. ‘Here endeth the history-lesson.’ A smile twitched his lips. 

‘Whit?’ 

‘Nothin’ …’ Jas drew the last millimetres of cigarette deep into his lungs, then stubbed the remnants into the ashtray. Maybe the something was better not talked about. Like abracadabra, maybe saying the words would give someone, somewhere, power. ‘Well, cheers fur shovin’ some business ma way.’ He hauled himself upright. His right arm refused to move, so he used his left. ‘Ah’ll gie Mrs Monaghan a ring, the night.’ 

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‘Make it efter nine. Maggie’s holding the meetin’ at hur hoose, this week. Eyeways lays oan a guid spread, tae – ah think she likes the bakin’ as much as the company.’ 

‘Okay.’ Jas removed the receiver from the crook of his neck, holding it in his left hand while trying to flex the fingers of his right. He waited for her closure. 

It came after another pause. ‘Luck efter yersel’, Big Man. Say hello to Stevie, fur me?’ 

‘Aye …’ He severed the connection. 

Victim Support. Insurance. Joseph. The voice on the answerphone had sounded mid-fifties. Husband? Brother? 

Jas played back the tape, wrote down the number and returned the phone-call. 

Son.

Just after nine-thirty pm, the large living room of the second-floor flat in Rutherglen still bore traces of Mhairi’s recently departed Support Group … 

‘Thanks for comin’, Mr Anderson. Sorry aboot the mess.’ Wearing the sort of pinny his grandmother had rarely taken off, Margaret Monaghan deftly placed a variety of cups and plates on an already laden tray. 

… and testament to another, less-accepted departure. Jas pulled his eyes from the illuminated, framed photograph which sat on top of a well-polished sideboard. ‘Lemme give ye a hand.’ 

‘You sit doon, Mr Anderson – ah’ll just be a minute. Ye’ll take a cuppa tea, won’t ye?’ 

He knew better than to refuse. ‘That’ll be great.’ Jas sat on a worn but solid armchair. He didn’t usually do home visits – for obvious reasons – but Margaret Monaghan suffered from arthritis and seldom left her flat. As her ample, shuffling form disappeared through a doorway, Jas craned his neck to take in more of the makeshift altar. 

A photograph. A large photograph in an ornate frame. Looked like a detail blown-up from a holiday snap. A football scarf curled around the base of the frame, a green-and-white guardian snake. 

Draped across one corner, a small gold cross on a chain. On the wall above the photograph, a larger, gilt crucifix. Above that, a bleeding Sacred Heart. 

The whole scene was lit by two, obviously new, desk-spots. And a small votive candle which flickered in front of a bevy of Mass cards. 

Jas stared at the face in the photograph. Head-and-shoulders shot. 

Mid-teens. Sandy hair cut into a bowl-shape, skimming pink ears. Green eyes. Which were smiling at someone just out of sight. ‘That was taken at his cousin Fiona’s wedding. Last spring.’

Jas turned his head towards the voice. For a big, arthritic woman, Margaret Monaghan moved silently. 

She placed cup, saucer, milk and sugar containers on a small table to his right. ‘Joseph said it made him look like a wee boy, but ah eyeways liked him in it.’ 

He knew better than to comment: listening was part of his job. 

‘Would have been eighteen, next week, Mr Anderson.’ She sat down in the armchair opposite him. And the shrine. The pinnywas gone, exposing blouse, cardigan and pleated skirt. Broad fingers smoothed the fabric, picking at invisible threads. ‘His whole life ahead o’ him.’ Eyes fixed on the spotlit scene. 

‘You mind?’ Jas removed the small device from his pocket. He sat the voice-activated tape-recorder beside the cup and saucer, nodded to it. 

She barely heard. For the next thirty minutes, tiny wheels turnedand he watched her talking to Joseph Monaghan. He turned the tape when she paused: 

‘Mhairi said you could maybe … find oot how the police urgettin’ oan wi’ things.’ 

Jas kept his face impassive. ‘It’s an ongoing enquiry, MrsMonaghan. The police will be doin’ everything they can.’ 

She nodded. ‘Aye, ongoin’ – that’s whit ah keep gettin’ told.’ She was picking at the imaginary threads again. ‘Ongoin’ fur nearly a year, noo.’ No resentment in the voice. Just a little disappointment. 

Jas didn’t tell her the official stats on detection-rates. 

He didn’t tell her that, after a year, unsolved cases were put on the unofficial back-burner, and left there to dry out. She probably knew. Private Investigators were often straws to be clutched at. 

‘Mhairi said ye wurney cheap.’ With some effort, she got out of her chair and walked to the altar. 

Jas smiled at the bluntness and didn’t offer to help. 

Margaret Monaghan pulled open a drawer in the highly polished sideboard. ‘Ma sister keeps fellin’ me ah should use this tae get a new hip.’ She turned. 

Jas stared at the thick sheaf of notes. 

‘But ah’d sleep easier, if ah kent everything that could be done wis bein’ done tae catch the animals who murdered ma Joseph.’ She shuffled towards him, dumping at least ten thousand in crisp pink notes into his lap. 

He was intending to tell her the police were unlikely to co-operate with the private sector, full stop, if an investigation was ongoing. 

Instead, he counted the money, gave her a receipt for his five hundred pound retainer and advised her to keep the rest somewhere more secure. Then he switched off the tape recorder, put it back in his pocket and told her he’d be in touch.

Bl urb:

Jas Anderson, now working as a private investigator, is hired by a victim’s mother to get answers from a police force that seems unable to help. He finds a clue that the police may have missed then washes his hands of the case. At home, he shares his apartment with “Stevie” McStay, Anderson’s former cellmate and new boyfriend, as well as Stevie’s often-visiting two young children. Out of the blue, a voice from Jas’ past asks for help with a personal matter and a police investigation. He soon finds himself stirring an explosive cocktail of police corruption, football fanaticism, sectarianism, and murder, while … house hunting. Then the gay bashings begin again and suspicion falls close to home.

ReQueered Tales



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Exclusive Excerpt: Transactional Dynamics (Hazard and Somerset: A Union of Swords Book 3) By Gregory Ashe

Excerpt:

CHAPTER EIGHT

FEBRUARY 12

TUESDAY

5:19 PM

HAZARD WAS TRYING TO FIND Evie’s ballet slippers when he heard the front door open.

“Evie’s got dance,” he shouted down the stairs.

Somers said something back; he sounded tired.

“Can you check the potatoes?”

This time, nothing.

“If they’re really brown on top, just take them out.”

Silence.

“Daddy!” Evie squealed.

“Go say hi,” Hazard told her

Instead, she ran to her dresser and began pulling out drawers, grabbing shirts and dresses, inspecting them, and tossing them to the floor.

“Evie, stop. Put those away.”

She babbled something, and at the end, Hazard understoodtwo words: “Snow dress.”

“No, we’re not getting your snow dress. Go say hi to Daddy. And ask him where he put your ballet slippers.”

More gabbling. Repeated exclamations about the Snow Dress. And, the whole time, she was pulling out clothes and dumping them on the floor.

“Evie. Evie! Stop, sweetheart.”

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Hazard had finished digging through the toy chest; no sign of the ballet slippers. He’d already searched the closet, but now he went back. Lots of Evie’s junk accumulated at the bottom of the closet, and Hazard shifted it to the bedroom as he searched.

“Swimmies!” Evie shrieked.

“God damn it,” Hazard growled, turning around just in time to see Evie dive into the pile of summer clothes he had just moved out of the closet. Sure enough, she had found several swimsuits and was trying to pull them on all at once.

“No, Evie. Put those down. Stop! We’re not putting on swimsuits right now. We—no! No, your head doesn’t go there. Just put it down, please. We’re going to ballet. We’re going to eat dinner and we’re going to ballet.”

By the time he’d finished explaining the clear, orderly plan for their evening, she was tangled in three swimsuits, reminding Hazard of marine life that got caught in the plastic rings from six-packs.

“John,” Hazard shouted. “I could use some help.”

The answer that came back was faint and sounded suspiciously like, “In a minute.”

“Right now,” Hazard shouted.

Nothing.

Then, slow footsteps. Painfully slow. Grudgingly slow. So fucking slow that Hazard wanted to go out there, wanted to say something like, Are your legs fucking broken?

When Somers came into the room, he was carrying a Bud Light, and he’d already stripped down to his undershirt, trousers, and socks—a striped pair that Hazard recognized.

“I thought we threw those away,” Hazard said.

“Huh?”

“The socks.”

Somers wiggled his toes. “Oh, no. I still like them.

“Yeah? Because your heel is sticking out.”

“It’s my heel, and they’re my socks.” Before Hazard could reply, he stepped over to Evie grabbing one of the tangled swimsuits and trying to turn her out of it. “How’d she get all wrapped up in these?”

“Have you seen her ballet slippers?”

“Why’s all this stuff out of the closet? Evie, no. Your arm. Pull your arm through—there you go. Come on, this room is a mess.”

“You took her to ballet last week. Do you remember where you put the slippers?”

“What?” Somers was struggling with the next swimsuit. “Her slippers?”

“Her ballet slippers.”

“They’re downstairs. She kicked them off by the garage door, and I put them on the shoe rack.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re shoes,” Somers said. The last swimsuit came off, and Evie tumbled and caught herself against the dresser. “All right, miss, come here and get your tights on.”

“No tights,” Evie shrieked, darting out of the room, her voice trailing after her.

“God damn it,” Hazard said. “Can you grab her? We’re going to be late.”

“She’s fine. Let her run around a little bit; she’s still got way too much energy.”

“We don’t have time for her to run around a little bit. We’re going to be late.”

“Ok,” Somers said, grabbing the beer and tipping it back.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. I mean, it’s ballet for a three-year-old. Late’s not exactly the end of the world.”

“Late is late.”

“Right.”

In the middle of transferring another stack of out-of-season clothes, Hazard suddenly stopped caring about neat piles and organization. He shoved the mess into the closet, compressing it with one foot until he could shut the door.

“What’s your deal?” Somers asked, eyeing him over the brown glass.

Hazard made himself count to ten; in their silence, Evie was still screaming, “No tights!”

“My deal?”

“You’ve been pissy since I walked in the door.”

“Since you walked in the door, got a beer, and sat down to watch TV.”

Somers made a face.

“Do you want to say something?”

“No. I don’t want to fight.”

“Great. So, next time you come home and I ask for help, you’re going to, what? Take a nap first?”

“Jesus, you really want this, don’t you?”

“And her ballet slippers go in her room, in the closet, right in front. Where they always go.”

“They don’t always go there.”

“Yes. They do.”

Somers flashed a smile. “Not this time. So, technically, not always.”

Hazard knew exactly what he was going to say to that, except then the smoke alarm beeped downstairs.

“Did you check the potatoes?” Hazard asked.

Somers had the decency to look guilty as he drained the beer.

“Jesus Christ,” Hazard said, pushing past him and jogging down the stairs and to the kitchen. Smoke leaked out around the oven door, coiling up to the ceiling. Hazard grabbed hot pads, opened the door, and grabbed the dish of scalloped potatoes. He transferred them to the cooling rack. Behind him, the beeping cut off.

Somers stood on tiptoes, finagling the battery out of the smoke detector. In one arm, he held Evie who was wide eyed and covering her ears. She pointed at the smoking casserole and whispered, “Hot.”

“Ok,” Somers said. “That was my fault.”

“It was one thing.” Hazard opened the window over the sink, fanning the air with the hot pads. “I asked you to do one thing.”

“Can we not have a fight in front of Evie?”

“Yeah.”

“I hungry,” Evie announced.

“There’s some mac and cheese—” Somers began.

“No,” Evie screamed. A string of other words followed.

Somers stared at her helplessly. “You love mac and cheese. We’ve got a box of the princess mac and cheese, and—”

She interrupted him with another shriek.

“You’re going to have mac and cheese, Evie. That’s what’s for dinner tonight. I don’t know what you’re saying. Calm down and—stop screaming, ok? Just tell me what you want.”

Hazard touched his shoulder, and Somers flinched.

“I told her she could have those organic spaghetti rings. That’s what she’s trying to say.”

“Well why can’t—” Whatever Somers might have asked, he stopped himself. Then, to Evie, “Ok, that’s fine. Come on. You don’t need to cry. We’ll get the spaghetti rings. I didn’t know Dee Dee had told you that.”

Evie’s distraught tears were changing to sniffles; she latched on to Somers, burying her face in his shoulder while he stroked her dark hair. He shuffled to the pantry and tried to rummage through the chaos, pushing aside the canned corn and patting her back.

“Here,” Hazard said.

“I can do it,” Somers said, turning away slightly. “I screwed up everything else, so I can do this part at least.”

Hazard touched his shoulder, and this time, Somers didn’t jolt.

“This,” Hazard said, drawing a line between the two of them, “isn’t helping. I’ll get her calmed down and dressed for ballet; you warm up the spaghetti rings.”

Some part of Somers that had been pushed too far wanted to keep fighting about it; Hazard could see it in his face. But then, with a sigh, Somers nodded and passed Evie over. Hazard tucked her against his chest, rubbing a circle on her back as he walked toward the stairs. She gabbled into his shirt.

“No, he was not being mean,” Hazard said, breaking in on her flow of words. “He didn’t know.”

The doorbell rang.

“If that’s Billy,” Somers said from the kitchen, “I’m going to shoot him. I cannot handle a toddler meltdown over spaghetti rings and that jerk in the same night.”

“Go on,” Hazard said. “I’ll get it.”

When he answered the door, he froze.

“No,” he said. “Whatever it is, go away.”

“I wish,” North said.

North McKinney was blond, tall, stacked in a way that meant hard work and not weights in front of a mirror. He had on a heavy-duty Carhartt jacket, his hands buried in the pockets. Hazard had known him from his time in St. Louis, where Northworked as a private detective. And, if Hazard weren’t currently experiencing a category-5 personal shitstorm, he might have even bought the asshole a drink. North had, after all, helped Hazard start his own agency.

Another day, Hazard was going to say. Another time. Whatever you’re here for, we don’t want any.

But before Hazard could say anything, a guy with a cloud of frizzy, reddish-brown hair squeezed past North and then past Hazard, slipping into the house with a distracted grin. “Mind if I come in?” he asked when he was already halfway through the foyer.

“Shaw,” North said, “hold on.”

“Yes,” Hazard said. “I mind a whole hell of a lot. Get back—”

“North,” Shaw said, turning excitedly and pointing toward the hall. “I figured out why he’s such an asshole. The feng shui in this house is totally off.”

Blurb:

Emery Hazard is ready for Valentine’s Day. He’s made reservations months in advance, he’s ordered flowers, and he’s got a boyfriend he wants to treat right—even if John-Henry Somerset occasionally lets the dishes sit in the sink a little too long. They even have an extra reason to celebrate this year: Somers has received a special commendation for his police work.

Everything begins to go wrong, though, when Hazard’s ex-boyfriend shows up on their doorstep. Billy claims he just needs help getting away from an abusive partner, but Somers believes Billy has other motives, including designs on Hazard. 

When men who have been hired to track Billy show up in Wahredua, Hazard agrees to help his ex elude them. But as Hazard prepares to sneak Billy out of town, a woman is murdered behind the local gay bar, and Somers’s investigation leads him towards Hazard’s ex.

As Hazard and Somers find themselves working together to find the killer, they both must confront a hard truth: everything comes at a cost—career success, healthy relationships, and even justice. The only question is if they’re willing to pay the price.

More About Author Gregory Ashe:

Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.

Gregory Ashe

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The Crooked Colonel (The Adventures of Nick & Carter Book 1) by Frank W. Butterfield

Excerpt:

“I can’t believe we didn’t bring any food with us. I’m hungry.” That was me.

Carter and I were sitting on the ground in a thick stand of trees. We were leaning against a cold wall of rock and were positioned so that we could see anyone approaching, whether from the south, west, or north.

Carter pulled an old pocket knife out of his coat pocket and handed it to me.

“What good will this do?” I asked.

Out of his other coat pocket, he pulled a thick bundle wrapped in a blue and white towel. He unwrapped it and revealed the remains of the cheese and sausage we’d had for breakfast.

“Did you steal this?” I asked as I opened the knife.

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“No. Luke might be in love with you, but John is in love with me. He handed these to me right before we left.”

I sighed as I cut off a slice of sausage and offered it to Carter.

He took it and then said, “Open up the tunnel, ’cause here comes the train.”

I laughed and then opened my mouth so he could put the piece on my tongue.

“You’re going to ignore all the obvious jokes, son?”

After I swallowed, I said, “How’s this one? I’ll take your sausage anytime, fireman.”

He laughed and then said, “You bet you will.”

I rolled my eyes and leaned against him. “How are we going to do this?”

“The sun sets around 5:45 or so. Once it’s dark, we need to start hunting for a car to steal. I don’t think we’re very far from Pasaia. We need to leave here no later than 11.”

I looked at my watch. It was almost 1. “How do we get Tessier out?”

“We walk up to the jail and hand over some money.”

“That easy?”

“It’s never failed before.”

I turned and looked at him. “When did you last bribe a guard to let someone out of jail? We’ve never done that at home.”

“Spain is a poor country, son.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think it’ll work. What if they’ve figured out they’re holding a famous Frenchman who’s friends with de Gaulle? And have, I dunno, notified the authorities in Madrid?” I was suddenly steamed. “Why the fuck are we just now talking about this?” I kicked the grass with the heel of my boot.

“Because we trusted Mark to do what he promised to do.”

“If we’re ever in this kinda situation again, we are going to be in charge and we’re going to make the plans and we’re going to check and double-check. Got that?”

He snorted. “I don’t plan on doing this again. Not for France, not for Lady Liberty, not for nobody, no way, no how.”

“Me neither.”

He turned and kissed me on the forehead. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Blurb:

Thursday, January 1, 1970

After a night of revelry at their newest hotel, the Hopkins Excelsior, in Viña del Mar, Chile, Nick and Carter head up the coast for some surfing along with their nephews, Kermit and Ernie.

Once there, they meet up with two interesting characters.

The first is a sweet gal in her early 20s who shows up in the strangest places but always at the right time.

The other is a strange and very much out-of-place American military officer.

One thing leads to another, and before Nick and Carter know what’s happening, they find themselves embroiled in a conspiracy that could have serious international implications.

From the coast of Chile to a Spanish town in the hills of the Basque Country and all the way to the halls of Buckingham Palace, Nick and Carter are hot on the heels of The Crooked Colonel!

More About Frank W Butterfield

Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of over 20 books and counting in the Nick Williams Mystery series, stories about Nick & Carter, a private dick and a fireman who live and love in San Francisco.

Frank W Butterfield

To learn more about Frank W. Butterfield’s novels, Nick & Carter and their ongoing adventures, click here for his website.

Exclusive Excerpt: Infractions: A Lesbian Detective Novel (Carpenter/Harding Series Book 10) by Barbara Winkes

Excerpt:

A little after seven a.m. they sat around the big dining table for breakfast, trying to figure out what happened a few hours go, only a couple of miles away. Sheriff Watkins had made it clear that they would work with the county, and were well equipped to take care of the situation.

It seemed like there was nothing
out of the ordinary in the rooms of Hogan’s cabin, yet Ellie had left with the
nagging feeling that they’d overlooked something. Those blood smears were
haunting her. And that chair in the attic.

“We can all come up with the wildest theories,” Valerie Esposito remarked. “That doesn’t make them true. People do strange things in a traumatic situation. The chair might have been there for a long time. On the other hand, people do terrible things to one another.”

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“I think he dragged her back inside. That doesn’t mean he meant to kill her…but it’s odd. If it wasn’t him…was someone else there?”

She saw Derek and Jordan exchange
a look she wasn’t sure how to interpret.

“The sheriff and his deputy gave
me strange looks when they said where you called from. Why is that? That bar,
what did it look like?”

Another one of those looks passed
between the partners, doing nothing to reassure Ellie.

“All right. Anything you aren’t
telling me?”

“This is not our job,” Derek
said. “It’s puzzling, yes, and it certainly messed with our vacation, but they
will take care of it.”

Ellie glared at him, surprised
that it did have any effect.

“Biker hangout,” he added. “Not
the friendly kind either, but once they knew we were cops, they refrained to
verbal BS.”

“Jesus, and you’re telling me
this now?”

Jordan sighed.

“We made the call, we came back
here. There was nothing to tell.”

“I can’t believe you.” Ellie
shook her head, then got up and served herself from the coffee pot. “Sorry, I
need some caffeine. This is…I don’t even know what to say.”

“Well, we didn’t know it was that
bad, and it was the only place to get to a landline. Relax,” Jordan
implored. “It’s over.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Anyone still wants to go
fishing?” Casey asked dryly.

Ellie took a deep breath and sat
back down. She might have overreacted, but she was still disturbed by the image
of the woman who had died on that couch, all alone—and the idea that Derek and
Jordan had gone inside that place knowing it could be dangerous.

She had to admit that she could
understand Jordan much better now for acting in a way she had at times found
overprotective, bordering on overbearing. But things were different. She knew Jordan was a
tad bored on light duty, but she didn’t have to jump at an occasion like this,
did she?

“I think we’re going to drive
home after lunch,” Valerie said. “It might be outside our jurisdiction, but I’m
going to have a hard time relaxing, under the circumstances.”

Kate looked sad. Ellie couldn’t
come up with anything to reassure her friend.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

*
* * *

“You know I would never do
anything to harm her,” Jordan
said when they were on their way home, and Ellie had barely spoken in half an
hour. “It was just about making that call. Driving around for a few minutes, it
wasn’t bad for the baby.”

“I know.”

“It’s out of our hands now.”

“I know.”

“But?” Jordan prompted.

“I’m not sure,” Ellie admitted.
“I might be getting a little paranoid. You’re the one who’s pregnant, but it
seems like my emotions are all over the place, and I don’t know why. You’ve
done so great.”

Jordan seemed just as startled as
she was to realize she was close to tears.

“Well, the toughest part is yet
to come. Besides, you’ve been great too, working a full time job and being
there for me every step of the way. I’m not taking that for granted. I’ll never
take you for granted.”

“I know that. I’m sorry. Wow.”
Ellie took a deep breath. So much for her decision not to share any of her own
fears. “That was so unexpected. If it was an accident like he said, he just
lost the love of his life. If he intended it…was she in an abusive
relationship, or did he trick her into coming up here somehow? No matter how
you look at it, it’s a terrible story.”

“Yeah, I get you. The fact that
there are so many unanswered questions doesn’t make it any easier. Damn, what a
world. Makes me wonder if we should home-school our daughter and while we’re at
it, never let her out until she’s thirty or so.”

Jordan cracked up laughing at
Ellie’s expression.

“I guess we’ll find other ways,
then.”

“I’m sure she’d prefer that.”

“Yeah. We haven’t even settled on
a name yet.”

“The subject came up briefly
while you were playing pool,” Jordan
remembered. “We thought about this before, naming her after our moms? Meredith
Pauline?”

“You’d be okay with that?”

At this moment, Ellie was certain
she was experiencing sympathetic pregnancy syndrome. Whatever the reason for
her being this emotional, she was glad not to be driving.

“Of course. Meredith Pauline
Carpenter Harding.” Jordan
chuckled. “Is she going to hate us?”

“How about we shorten it to Meri?
And I won’t feel left out if it’s just Carpenter. You’re doing the hard part.”

At the next red light, Jordan took her hand, and just like that, they had a plan. Ellie could breathe a lot easier.

Blurb:

Some bridges have to be built…Others have to be burned.

Jordan and Ellie’s weekend getaway with friends is harshly interrupted when a desperate man asks for help after his girlfriend is hurt. He soon gives them reason to doubt his story, leaving them to question whether the woman’s death is really a tragic accident or the result of a crime. Working with the local sheriff, they try to unravel the events.

Meanwhile, Ellie and Derek team up to investigate the murder of an exotic dancer. What they uncover could have detrimental consequences for one of their own…

Jordan and Ellie get ready to welcome an addition to their family.

More about author Barbara Winkes :



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Barbara Winkes writes suspense and romance with lesbian characters at the center. She has always loved stories in which women persevere and lift each other up. Expect high drama and happy endings. Women loving women always take the lead.

Exclusive Sneak-Peek: Murder and Mayhem: An Annotated Bibliography of Gay and Queer Males in Mystery, 1909-2018 by Matthew Lubbers-Moore

From the introduction:

This bibliography can follow the acceptance of
gay and queer men in mysteries from when they first appeared to the present day
and not all authors wrote about gay or queer men in a positive light. Therefore
some of the comments below the titles explain how the author may have been
homophobic or written their main character to be homophobic/transphobic.



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Mystery Genre Definitions:

Amateur Sleuth: The amateur sleuth tries to
solve the murder of someone close. Either the police have tried and failed or
misread the murder as an accident/suicide. Both the loss and need for a
solution is personal. -Definition provided by Stephen D. Rogers. Bibliomystery: Mystery stories set in the world
of books; libraries, bookstores, or those who deal with books; authors, book
collectors, book sellers, editors, or publishers.BDSM: Sexual activity involving such practices
as the use of physical restraints, the granting and relinquishing of control,
and the infliction of pain –Definition provided by Merriam Webster. BDSM is not
a genre of mysteries but I include it as a warning to those who may not want to
read sexually explicit and sexually 13 violent titles (MLM). Caper: A caper is a comic crime story. Instead
of suave and calculating, the caper chronicles the efforts of the lovable
bungler who either thinks big or ridiculously small. -Definition provided by
Stephen D. Rogers. Classics: Classics are often written by authors
in the late 19th and early 20th century, i.e. Agatha Christie, Rex Stout,
Raymond Chandler, Daphne du Maurier, Dashiell Hammett, Wilkie Collins, Edgar
Allan Poe, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. These are the authors that all mystery
is built on.Coming of Age: when a person reaches an
important stage of development, growing into adulthood, becoming a mature adult.
–Definition provided by Collins Dictionary. Courtroom Drama/Legal Thriller: Lawyers make
effective protagonists since they seem to exist on a plane far above the rest
of us. Although popular, these tales are usually penned by actual lawyers due
to the demands of the information presented. – Definition provided by Stephen
D. Rogers. Cozies: The cozy, typified by Agatha Christie,
contains a bloodless crime and a victim who won’t be missed. The solution can
be determined using emotional or logical reasoning. There is no sex or
swearing, and the detective is traditionally heterosexual or asexual.
-Definition provided by Stephen D. Rogers.

Modern Cozies: Unlike classic cozies, modern cozies include some
swearing, discussions of sex, and can have a homosexual detective.

Crime Drama: Suspense in the crime story comes
from wondering whether the plan will work. We’re rooting for the bad guys
because they are smart, organized, and daring. -Definition provided by Stephen
D. Rogers.

* *
*

The
book contains the complete story The Man with the Watches by Arthur Conan
Doyle.  From the history:

The
debate over whether or not Sherlock Holmes was gay and had an attachment to
Watson can be and probably will be argued over for as long as the characters
are popular enough to be debated over. However, the two characters in this
story obviously have feelings for each other …

THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES

by Arthur Conan Doyle

THERE ARE MANY WHO WILL still bear in mind the singular
circumstances which, under the heading of the Rugby Mystery, filled many
columns of the daily Press in the spring of the year 1892. Coming as it did at
a period of exceptional dullness, it attracted perhaps rather more attention
than it deserved, but it offered to the public that mixture of the whimsical
and the tragic which is most stimulating to the popular imagination. Interest
dropped, however, when, after weeks of fruitless investigation, it was found
that no final explanation of the facts was forthcoming, and the tragedy seemed
from that time to the present to have finally taken its place in the dark
catalogue of inexplicable and unexpiated crimes.

* * *

Sample entries:

624. Colton, James, Known Homosexual, Brandon
House, 1968. (Pulp) Scorned by his family, defeated by society, Steve was at a
major crossroads in his life. His marriage had gone sour, his hopes as a
playwright dashed. Confused and friendless, Steve turned to pretty boy Coy
Randol for love and support. But then Coy was found brutally murdered and there
was only one person the police suspected: Steve. –republished as Stranger to
Himself in 1977 by Major Books under [Joseph] Hansen’s own name, the only
Colton book to be reclaimed. It was heavily edited as it removed much of the
sex scenes. It was then republished as Pretty Boy Dead in 1984 by Gay Sunshine
Press. The book is edited to reintroduce some of the items Hansen cut out in
Stranger to Himself but still left out much of the sex scenes. Steve is an
early version of Cecil from Hansen’s later Brandstetter books (MLM). 3/3

* * *

1981. Michaelsen, Jon, Pretty Boy Dead, Wilde
City Press, 2013. Kendall Parker #1 of 2. (Police Procedural) A murdered male
stripper. A missing go-go dancer. A city councilman on the hook. Can Atlanta
homicide detective Sergeant Kendall Parker solve the vicious crime while
remaining safely hidden behind the closet door? –book two in the Kendall Parker
series, Deadwood Murders, is set to be published late in 2019 (MLM). 3/3

* * *

2145. Paretsky, Sara, Burn Marks, Delacorte,
1990. V. I. Warshawski #6 of 21. (Hardboiled) Someone knocking on the door at 3
A.M. is never good news. For V.I. Warshawski, the bad news arrives in the form
of her wacky, unwelcome aunt Elena. The fire that has just burned down a sleazy
SRO hotel has brought Elena to V.I.’s doorstep. Uncovering an arsonist – and
the secrets hidden behind Elena’s boozy smile – will send V.I. into the seedy
world of Chicago’s homeless… into the Windy City’s backroom deals and bedroom
politics, where new 628 schemers and old cronies team up to get V.I. off the
case – by hook, by crook, or by homicide. –the gay yuppie neighbor and his
laid-back boyfriend appear slightly (MLM). 1/3

* * *

2478.
Sanders, J. B., Glen and Tyler’s Honeymoon Adventures, Lulu,
2011. Glen and Tyler #1 of 5. (Caper) Tyler can’t inherit unless he gets
married … and when Glen proposes, hijinks ensue. Follow the guys on their
world-spanning adventure as they defeat mobsters, an evil step-mother, a rakish
brother-inlaw and pirates. No, really – pirates! Plus, there’s an underground
super-base. And hockey. Come for the romance, stay for the hockey. –two
bisexual guys take the plunge after decades of friendship (MM). 3/3

* *
*

2991.
Woody, Michelle, The Scarecrow’s Kiss, iUniverse, 2004. (Fantasy)
In 1980, serial killer Joseph Parrish was killed in a raid by local authorities
and his bizarre world uncovered. Now, Russell Kenyon has come to do a segment
on Parrish for his show, Spooky History, hoping the report will be his show’s
saving grace. With a new victim missing, talk of Parrish’s curse has spread
through town. 3/3

Blurb:

Librarian and scholar Matt Lubbers-Moore collects and examines every mystery novel to include a gay or queer male in the English language starting with the 1909 Arthur Conan Doyle short story “The Man with the Watches,” which is included in its entirety. Authors, titles, dates published, publishers, book series, short blurbs, and a description of how involved the gay or queer male character is with the mystery are all included for a full bibliographic background.

Murder and Mayhem will prove invaluable for mystery collectors, researchers, libraries, general readers, aficionados, bookstores, and devotees of LGBTQ studies. The bibliography is laid out in alphabetical order by author for the ease of the reader to find what they are looking for and be able to read the blurb and author notes to determine if the book is what they are looking for whether a hard boiled private eye, an amateur cozy, a suspenseful romance, or a police procedural. All subgenres within the mystery field are included within including fantasy, science fiction, espionage, political intrigue, crime dramas, courtroom thrillers, and more with a definition guide of the subgenres for a better understanding of the genre as a whole.

A ReQueered Tales Original publication, this 2020 edition contains a bonus story by Arthur Conan Doyle.

Purchase e-book:

Purchase print:

About Matthew Lubbers-Moore

“One of the founders of ReQueered Tales, Matt served as a judge for the Lambda Literary Awards for Best Gay Mystery in 2017 and 2018. Matt is over educated with 3 associate degrees, a bachelor’s degree in history with a minor in Human Rights, as well as working on his second master’s degree in history after finishing his master’s in library and information science in 2019. He lives in a converted creamery in Grand Rapids, Michigan with his farmer and truck driving husband, Doug. Other than ReQueered Tales, Matt works at a bookstore, a comic book store, and an academic library. His traveling bookstore appears at comic cons, gay pride events, book fairs, and flea markets. He is also kept busy as one of the administrators of the Gay Mystery-Suspense-Thriller FB page. He has four hobbies; collecting gay mysteries, collecting Dr. Doom comic book appearances, going to used bookstores and pizza restaurants, usually right after the other, and traveling the country via train.”

Lion’s Head Revisited: A Dan Sharp Mystery by Jeffrey Round

Excerpt:

Chapter Five: CRYSTAL LULLABYE

Sarah Nealon looked surprisingly
well-put-together for a meth addict. Safely enrolled in a government-sponsored
rehab program, she was one of the lucky ones who hadn’t ended up on the streets
or working as a hooker. Instead, she lived in a bright public-housing unit and
was well-dressed, with her hair done and fingernails painted. Dan sat watching
her butterfly-like movements as she toyed with a tea set in a slow-motion
parody of a homemaker’s routine: put tea in the pot then smile at your guest;
pour water from the kettle then smile at your guest; offer your guest his cup
then smile again. Everything seemed designed to reassure him that all was well
and she was fully in control of her situation, despite the unnatural sheen in
her eyes.

A sun-catcher dangled over the table. She
reached up with spidery fingers to spin it. The coppery faces reflected light
haphazardly throughout the room, random acts of beauty in a harsh and
unpredictable world. It tinkled softly, dispelling gloom while keeping the
world and its demons at bay.

Dan was familiar with meth users. Most of
them wanted a good time, not a self-destructive ride to hell. Unfortunately,
the latter was more often what they got — a never-ending trip that ensnared
everyone around them, the people who watched in disbelief as a wonderful
friend/co-worker/brother/sister/son/daughter/spouse turned into an abusive
monster/liar/thief who needed desperately to support a habit that had started
out as just an escape from the humdrum routine of life. Why do nine-to-five
when you could get five-to-ten instead? But Sarah Nealon was lucky, in a manner
of speaking. Her addiction meant she could exist on a disability pension that
would extend her life of purgatory and pay for her habit for as long as she
wanted.

click to purchase

“Do you mind if I ask where you were over
the weekend?” Dan said.

“When Jeremy disappeared?”

“Yes.”

She smiled again, her movements light as a
feather, as though she were trying to avoid making contact with anything more
tangible than the air surrounding her.

“Oh, I was here,” she said, brushing the
hair from her forehead and cradling her tea. “I’m always here.”

Watching her, Dan doubted whether she would
have been capable of plotting and pulling off an abduction on her own even if
she’d wanted to. Then again, addicts were surprisingly tenacious.

“I’m not supposed to leave.” She showed him
her ankle monitor. “They always know where I am. It’s part of my probation
agreement.”

“I understand you got off surprisingly
easy.”

“It’s because of the pregnancy.” Her face
twitched at some memory reaching through the fog of her brain. She
unconsciously patted her swollen abdomen. “When the judge heard I was pregnant,
she took pity on me, I think.”

“Three months is a very light sentence,”
Dan agreed.

“Oh, but there’s still my probation,” she
said, as though he might be considering that the judge had been too lenient.
“It’s for another two years. After that, we’ll see.”

Dan wondered whether her probation would be
rescinded if the judge learned she was using meth again. Then again, with the
city’s restricted budgets most felons were self-reporting under the new rules.
And so the system failed them again.

“I’m also not allowed to have credit cards
or enter a bank without supervision.” She watched his every movement, her eyes
focused on him as she sipped from her cup.

“It’s probably for the best,” he said.

“Oh! I wouldn’t do it again. I know better
now.” She gave a light laugh. “I really believed I was on a mission to end
world hunger and poverty. I was convinced God sent me to that bank to ask for
funding.” She smiled. “Isn’t that crazy?”

“It’s a nice thought,” Dan said. “If all
the banks around the world put their resources together they probably could do
just that.”

“I know — that’s the crazy thing. My
thinking wasn’t that far off. It was just …”

She reached up. The sun-catcher tinkled
again. She smiled at it as if it were a friend calling her name.

“Your method of going about it?” Dan asked.

“Yes! I thought I was asking for a
contribution to help end world hunger, but they thought I was robbing the bank.”
Her expression darkened. “Though I guess that’s what I was doing, really, when
you think about it.”

“Sadly, yes,” Dan said.

She turned back to him. “Why are you here
again?”

“I came to ask you about Jeremy Bentham.
He’s been abducted.”

“That’s terrible. I didn’t know.” She
paused. “Or did I? I don’t remember. It seems to me I did know it, but then I
forgot.”

“Do you remember asking his mother, Janice,
for money after Jeremy’s birth?”

“I do remember that. She was very nice. She
gave me money when I explained that giving birth to Jeremy made me turn to …”
She frowned and shook her head. “The fertility clinic fired me. After that I
went away and promised not to ask her for more.”

“And did you stop asking?”

“I …” She looked away for a moment. “Janice
was very nice to me. She promised to help.” She smiled sadly. “I’m getting
better.”

“That’s good.” Dan considered. “Do you know
of anyone who might want to harm Jeremy or take him from his mother?”

“No! Why would anyone harm a child? Did
someone tell you I did?”

“No. No one told me that.”

“Good, because I would never.” Tears formed
in her eyes. “There was an accident once, though. It was terrible.”

“With Jeremy?”

“Oh, no. Not with him.” She shook her head.
“Something terrible happened to a boy I knew.”

“One of the children you were carrying for
someone else?”

“Oh, no.” She looked relieved. “Another
boy. It was very sad. But I don’t really remember it now.”

“How did you learn where Jeremy lived?”

“I wasn’t supposed to know!” She suddenly
looked mischievous, a child who had done something naughty but clever. “It was
at the clinic. When they told me my services were no longer required, the
doctor was distracted for a moment. I looked down at my file and saw the
address. I still remember it!”

“And when you went to ask Janice and Ashley
for money, did you think you were helping end world hunger again?”

She stared at him for a moment then stood.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. Marjorie is coming soon. She’s my social
worker. I have to get ready for her.”

Dan stood. “Thank you for seeing me.”

She saw him to the door.

“I hope they find Jeremy.” She
unconsciously reached down to feel her stomach. “I love children. I’d hate to
see any of them hurt. I’m going to have my own soon. My mother is very happy
she’s going to have a grandchild of her own.”

Dan nodded, wondering how long a drug
addict and convicted felon would be allowed to keep a child. The door closed
behind him. A young woman was coming along the sidewalk toward him. Her clothes
were prim, her look officious. The social worker.

“Are you Marjorie?” he asked.

“Yes.” She looked at him uncertainly. “Who
are you?”

“My name is Dan Sharp. I’m a private
investigator.”

She gave him a shrewd look. “About the
missing boy, Jeremy, I suppose?”

“That’s right.”

“I doubt I can tell you anything, but ask
me whatever you like.”

Dan shook his head. “No, I wasn’t going to
ask you anything. I’ve just had a visit with Sarah.”

“The police were already here.”

“Yes, I know.” Dan hesitated.

“What is it?”

“I just wondered if you knew that Sarah is
getting high while pregnant.”

For a second, Dan thought he detected a
smirk on Marjorie’s face.

“She’s not.”

“She’s definitely high,” Dan said.

Her expression softened. “No, I meant she’s
not pregnant. She uses a pillow to make it look as though she is.” She gave a
rueful little smile. “But yes, she very likely is high. That’s a given, sad to
say.”

She opened the door and disappeared inside.

Blurb:

A case brings PI Dan Sharp to the northern Ontario wilderness, where he has to face his own dark past.

When a four-year-old autistic boy disappears on a camping trip, his mother is reluctant to involve the police. Instead, she calls in private investigator Dan Sharp after a ransom demand arrives.

On investigating, Dan learns there are plenty of people who might be responsible for the kidnapping. Among them are an ex-husband who wrongly believed the boy was his son; the boy’s surrogate mother, now a drug addict; the boy’s grandmother, who has been denied access to her grandson; and a mysterious woman who unnerves everyone with her unexpected appearances.

A trip to Lion’s Head in the Bruce Peninsula, where the boy disappeared, brings Dan unexpectedly into contact with his own brutal upbringing. But when a suspected kidnapper is found dead, Dan suddenly finds himself chasing the ghosts of the present as well as the past.

Find out more about author, Jeffrey Round



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I am the author of fifteen published books. These include seven volumes of my Lambda Award-winning Dan Sharp mystery series and four volumes of the comic Bradford Fairfax series. I am also an award-winning filmmaker, television producer and song-writer.



My most recent book is Lion’s Head Revisited (February 2020.) Seventh in the Dan Sharp series from Dundurn Books, it tells of Dan’s efforts to rescue an autistic boy kidnapped on the Bruce Peninsula.Its predecessor, Shadow Puppet (2019), is a fictional recreation of the real-life serial killings that took place in Toronto’s gay community from 2010 through 2017. The Globe and Mail‘s Margaret Cannon wrote, “…this is as good a whoddunit as we will see this year.” Endgame, a stand-alone mystery, was called a “brilliant recreation” of Agatha Christie’s best-selling And Then There Were None, giving the original what one critic called a “punk-rock reboot.” It became my publisher’s best-selling ebook in the US in 2016.

Exclusive Excerpt: In The Game (Virginia Kelly Mystery Book 1) by Nikki Baker

Excerpt:

When I got back to my room, the message light was flashing
on my phone. The desk said I was supposed to meet a friend at noon in front of
the columns at Quincy Market. That was all there was to the message and I
figured it had to be from Mary Tally.

I tried again to call Bev but she was out. I left another
message on her machine and then I looked at my watch. It said eleven o’clock. I
decided to walk it.

Quincy Market is on Congress Street. The man at the desk
told me I couldn’t miss it. He was right. Quincy Market looks like Boston’s
answer to Pier 39 or Ghiradelli Square. It is a low-rise watertower if you use
Chicago as a point of reference, with jugglers and puppet shows and guys with
long hair playing “Leaving on a Jet Plane” on their guitars for spare change.

It is wall-to-wall people at noon on Saturday and I could understand why someone who didn’t want to be found might agree to meet there; it was a perfect place to get lost in a crowd. I had no idea how she would find me but I leaned on a gray concrete column and waited. A guy with a life-sized hand puppet, “Pirate Jack,” shouted friendly witticisms at people in the crowd. It was a pretty good puppet show and I didn’t mind the wait.

Click to purchase

At exactly noon, someone tapped me on the shoulder. She wore
a black leather mini with a zipper up the front, a lace camisole and a biker
jacket. She had that honey-brown hair a la Tina Turner that seems to be
enjoying a resurgence on black women. It was tied up in a cloth band. I thought
that this was not the outfit I would pick if I were incognito, but then I
noticed at least five other women around in roughly the same costume.

“You Beverly Johnson?” she said.

“Yeah.” I hadn’t figured out what I was going to do yet.
“Are you Mary Tally?” I asked.

She put her hand on her hip. “Maybe,” she said. “Let’s walk,
okay?”

“All right,” I said.

We walked. Mary Tally had a walk that could stop traffic on
the turnpike.

“How old are you?” I said. She looked fifteen.

She smiled. “Old enough. Twenty-three. How old are you?”

 “I’m twenty-seven,” I
said.

“You don’t look it.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Sure. So what have you got for me?”

“Are you Mary Tally?” I asked her again.

“Yeah,” she said. “What have you got?”

“How can I be sure?” I asked. “Show me something to prove
it.”

She hesitated for a minute then pulled a wallet from the
pocket of her jacket. She took a driver’s license out and handed it to me.
There was a picture of her in a Boston University sweatshirt and a headband.
The name on the license was Mary E. Tally. I handed it back to her and she put
it in her wallet. “Satisfied?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yeah.” I was satisfied. “Did you go to BU?”

“I dropped out,” she said. “So what you got for me?”

I took an envelope from my purse. It was a prop; there was
nothing in it.

Mary Tally reached for it.

“Not here,” I said. “Someplace more private.”

She shrugged and pointed to a restaurant off the square.
“Let’s eat then. You pay.”

We got a table upstairs. It wasn’t the best one they had and
I didn’t know if it was because we were two women or two blacks, but I wasn’t
in the mood to make waves. Mary had demanded the smoking section before I could
stop her. When we sat down she lit up with a lot of attitude. Mary smoked
menthols. She offered me one.

“No thanks,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”

“Good for you,” she said. “I’m trying to quit. I got
asthma.”

The restaurant was nearly empty and the waitress paid us a
lot of attention. She looked like a poster child for the Seven Sisters. Mary
ordered dessert and a decaf espresso. I had lunch, a hamburger and some beer.

Mary sat across from me with one leg tucked up under the
other and her cigarette tucked in the corner of her mouth like the tough girl I
didn’t really take her for. Her cigarette bobbed up and down as she moved her
lips.

“Now, what have you got for me?” she asked again.

I handed her the envelope. She was noticeably pissed when
there was nothing in it.

“What the fuck is this?” she said.

“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry. I’m not Beverly Johnson, but I’m
a friend.” It must have sounded lame.

Mary Tally may have looked like she’d been born yesterday,
but she wasn’t. “What exactly do you want?” she said. I could see she was
checking out her exit strategies.

“I want to find out who killed Kelsey,” I told Mary. “Seems
to me, the way you loved her, you’d want to find that out too.”

Mary Tally relaxed. Something I had said struck her really
funny. She put her cigarette down and threw her head back so she could laugh
better. She laughed from her chest which was round and firm. I would have found
the laugh engaging if she hadn’t been laughing at me. “Whoever you are, you’re
misinformed, but clearly you’re harmless and you’re surely not the police.” She
took a drink of her coffee and grimaced. “I don’t know whether to set you
straight or let you stay this stupid.”

“Why don’t you set me straight.” Mary was starting to piss
me off.

“All right,” she said. She had sized me up from my Cole Haan
loafers to my college signet ring. She had a chip on her shoulder for people
like me and she wanted to make sure I knew she was at least as smart as I was,
even if she didn’t have a diploma. “What do you want to know?”

I had about a million questions and they started with why
Kelsey was so broke if she was embezzling all that cash and ended with who had
killed Kelsey. In between, I wanted to know about her partners and where Bev
came in.

Mary ordered another espresso. “Kelsey taught me how to
drink these,” she remarked in a way that made me think that Kelsey might not
have been so bad. “Let me tell you a story.”

She put out her cigarette and took her time.

Blurb:

When businesswoman Virginia Kelly meets her old college chum Bev Johnson for drinks late one night, Bev confides that her lover, Kelsey, is seeing another woman. Ginny had picked up that gossip months ago, but she is shocked when the next morning’s papers report that Kelsey was found murdered behind the very bar where Ginny and Bev had met. Worried that her friend could be implicated, Ginny decides to track down Kelsey’s killer and contacts a lawyer, Susan Coogan. Susan takes an immediate, intense liking to Ginny, complicating Ginny’s relationship with her live-in lover. Meanwhile Ginny’s inquiries heat up when she learns the Feds suspected Kelsey of embezzling from her employer.

Nikki Baker is the first African-American author in the lesbian mystery genre and her protagonist, Virginia Kelly is the first African-American lesbian detective in the genre. Interwoven into the narrative are observations on the intersectionality of being a woman, an African-American, and a lesbian in a “man’s” world of finance and life in general.

First published to acclaim in 1991, this new edition features a 2020 foreword by the author.

Buy link: https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-reviews/R88E1C4ORTKMF/

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Excerpt: Boystown 13: Fade Out (Boystown Mysteries) by Marshall Thornton

Excerpt:

Bert Harker bought me a sofa. Four years ago.

It was covered in a knobby, beige, fire-retardant fabric that on close inspection resembled spun plastic. The design was boxy and bland, not meant to be the focal point in anyone’s living room. It was designed to disappear under an Erté print or behind a lacquered Oriental coffee table or at very least melt away next to an expensive entertainment center.

That was the designer’s plan, but in my apartments the sofa had always been the main attraction. There was no competition from the director’s chairs or the industrial shelves that held my electronics or my dinged-up metal desk or the tiny dining table in front of my window. As far as furniture went, the sofa was the star.

I hadn’t liked it at first. Hadn’t wanted it. But I’d slowly become accustomed to it. I’d recovered from broken bones and beatings on it, I’d fucked on it, I’d grieved on it; my lover, Harker, spent time dying on it, and so did my friend Ross.

The arms had turned from beige to gray; the cushions were now stained with red wine, coffee, soup, Hawaiian Punch and in one spot blood—I have no idea from which wound or for that matter even whose blood it was. There were at least three cigarette burns and one actual tear. Most of the time, to keep from having to buy another sofa, I covered it with an old afghan.

Really, it was time to let it go, to drag it out of the building and leave it in an alley for someone to pick it up and find a new life for it. It’s time with me was done, but somehow I wasn’t ready to admit that. So it sat in my living room, dirty, dilapidated and a little smelly.

I was sitting on it when the police showed up and began banging on my door. It was early on the last day of July. My lover Joseph had left me a day or two before. My friend Ross was dying in a hospital nearby. Even though I had no idea why the police were there, it made perfect sense that they would be out in the hallway threatening to break the door down.

Without deciding to, I got up off the sofa and answered the door. A detective I didn’t know stood there with a couple of uniforms. He said, “Nick Nowak, I’m arresting you for the first-degree murder of Rita Lindquist.”

“Really? That’s interesting.”

“Interesting? You think it’s interesting?”

I shrugged. I did find it interesting that Rita was dead, that someone had gotten the upper hand on her. I mean, she’d never struck me as the victim type. The detective was a bit younger than me and either Italian or Mexican, I couldn’t tell. He recited my Miranda rights to me and asked if I understood them.

I shook my head and said, “No.”

“Don’t be a smart ass.” He pushed past me saying, “We have to search the apartment.” The uniforms followed him inside.

It crossed my mind to ask to see a search warrant, but I didn’t. Technically, they could look around to make sure I didn’t have any weapons or evidence I might destroy. I did have a Sig Sauer and a Baby Browning. I said a mental fond farewell to each. One of the uniforms grabbed me by the wrists and cuffed my hands behind my back.

Disconnected. I felt disconnected from the things that were happening. It was as though I were watching myself on TV, as though I’d just tuned in and this was all part of some show I didn’t know the name of and was just as clueless about the plot.

“Which district are you from?” I asked the detective.

“Town Hall.”

“Where’s Hamish?”

Hamish Gardner was the detective I knew there. The guy I’d dealt with from time to time. I didn’t like him much and he certainly didn’t like me. Still, at a moment like this his unfriendly face would have been appreciated.

“Detective Gardner is at your office. Where the body was found.”

“Rita’s body was found at my office?” That didn’t make sense. None of this made sense, of course, but Rita’s body being found at my office made the least sense of all.

The detective didn’t answer my question just gave me a look that said I should know the answer to that.

“And who are you?” I asked.

“Detective Tim Burke.” His name sounded a lot like timber, which I’d bet was his nickname all through grade school. I looked into his eyes. Reading my mind, he said, “You make a crack about my name and I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

“Nice to meet you, Detective Burke.”

To the uniform holding onto my arm, he said, “Take him downstairs, put him in the back of a squad.”

I was led out of my apartment and down the hallway to the elevator. A couple of neighbors were standing in their doorways watching what was happening. I had no idea there were so many people at home on a weekday morning. Glad I could entertain them.

At the elevator, the uniform pressed the down button. I glanced at his chest. His nametag said PATTON. He wasn’t that tall, had sandy brown hair and a pronounced underbite. At another point in my life I’d have been trying to figure out how to get him to suck me off in the elevator, murder charge or no murder charge.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” he demanded. Apparently, I’d been staring.

“Nothing.”

The elevator door opened and he shoved me inside. I slumped against the back wall and made a half-assed attempt to figure out what was going on. Rita Lindquist. Dead. Okay. So who killed her? And why did the police think it was me? Wait, that part was easy. She was killed in my office. That’s what Timber had said, right? So all I needed to do was figure out who wanted Rita dead and who’d think killing her in my office was a great idea. At the intersection of those two ideas would be the killer.

Unfortunately, no one came to mind. There were definitely people in the world who’d want to kill Rita. I could easily name a few of them. But I couldn’t think of anyone who would also want to do it in my office.

We reached the first floor. As we left the elevator, I asked, “How?”

“What?”

“How was Rita killed?”

“Cute. Really cute.”

“I think I have a right to know.”

“You already know. So cut the shit.”

At Two Towers, the buildings were joined by a glassed-in walkway. Halfway down were doors that opened onto the circular drive. The office was in the south building, and as Patton and I got close to the front door the manager of my building—a tall, awkward girl named Clementine—rushed over, saying, “Nick what’s happening? Where are they taking you?”

“None of you your business, ma’am,” Patton said.

“Nick, do you need me to call someone for you? A lawyer?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, right before Patton pushed me out the front door.

“Nick!”

Moments later, I was crushed into the back of a blue-and-white. The doors locked instantly, and did not have the luxury of inside handles. Patton walked away—to argue with Clementine, I think—leaving me sliding around on the vinyl seat with my hands uncomfortably cuffed behind me.

 Well, this was a pretty picture. Me in the back of a squad. Lights unnecessarily flashing. Every few minutes someone would come out of the building: An old woman walking a tiny little dog; a young banker heading down to the Loop; a scrawny old queen I’ve seen at the bars. They all stared at me and then quickly looked away.

Half of me was trying to figure out how to get more information. If I knew what happened to Rita it would be easier to make them understand I didn’t kill her. And the other half, well, that half didn’t give a shit. Lock me up, throw away the key. Fine by me.

Ten minutes later, Patton came back and got into the car. I couldn’t resist saying, “Home, James.” Like he was chauffeuring me. That went over like a lead balloon.

We drove down the Inner Drive to Addison, then turned west. Town Hall station was on the corner of Addison and Clark. An old two-story brick building that I’d been to many times, though never like this.

Patton pulled around the back, got out, and hustled me into the station though a rear entrance. He took the cuffs off and handed me over to a middle-aged man who was civilian support. He’d been sitting at an old wooden desk devoting all his attention to smoking a cigarette. He was quite good at it, and I could tell it annoyed him to be interrupted.

Reluctantly, he got out a fingerprint card and asked me a bunch of questions with about as much emotion as the default message on an answering machine.

“Name?”

“Nick Nowak.”

“Nicholas?”

“Sure.” It said Mikolaj on my birth certificate but same difference.

“Middle name?”

“Dawid.”

The guy looked up at me.

“David.”

“Address?”

I rattled it off. “3220 Lake Shore Drive apartment 1008, Chicago, 60657.”

“Employer?”

“Me.”

“Employer’s address?”

“3257 Clark, Chicago, 60657.”

“North Clark?”

“Yes.”

“Social?”

I was tempted to say, “Very,” but gave him my social security number instead.

“Date of birth?”

“April 25, 1948.”

“Place of birth?”

“Chicago.”

“Sex?”

“You’re not my type.”

He gave me another look and then put an M in that box. For good measure he put a C in the box for race. Caucasian.

“Height?”

“Six foot three.”

“Weight?”

“One ninety. After a big meal.”

He must have been getting tired of me because he gave me another glance and filled in the boxes for hair and eyes with two B’s[3] . My eyes are actually hazel, but I decided not to quibble.

That was all he needed. With a nod he let me know I should sit at the chair next to his desk and he got out an ink pad. He moved his chair over close to mine and then took my right hand. One by one, he rolled my fingers on the ink pad and then on the card.

He was close to me. Closer than I liked. He smelled of stale cigarette smoke, sweat and drugstore aftershave. I can’t say I was enjoying the intimacy of being arrested. It took an excruciatingly long time to finish rolling my fingers on the card. When he was finally done, he made me sign the card, then handed me a tissue so I could rub the ink around on my fingertips.

Then he got up and led me over to a little setup where they took mug shots. It was a lot like the DMV, except not as much fun. I just stood there and let it happen. I didn’t know what kind of face to make. I mean, should I smile, frown, look sad? I didn’t have a ‘you’ve been falsely accused of murder’ face and I couldn’t guess what it would look like anyway.

After we were done with the photo, the guy—who didn’t have a nametag and hadn’t bothered to introduce himself—led me back to his desk. He took out a big plastic bag and a receipt book. He handed me the bag.

“Shoelaces, belt, keys, wallet, anything else in your pockets. Anything else not in your pockets. I’m going to write down everything and give you a receipt to sign. Don’t try to keep anything. If they find it later on you’ll probably never see it again. This is your chance to protect your valuables. I suggest you take it.”

I began giving him my stuff. The laces to my Reeboks, I wasn’t wearing a belt, my keys, my wallet which was crammed full with a lot of stuff—none of it money—a wad of cash from my pocket, some change, my beeper, receipts I was going to expense to the job I’d finished the week before.

“Forty-three dollars, fifty-four cents,” Mr. Smiley said after he counted my money. I’m going to turn the beeper off so it doesn’t lose its charge.”

That seemed considerate until I remembered that they could probably search it and would need it to be nice and charged for that. When I was done handing him things, he held out the receipt and said, “Read it. If you agree, sign at the bottom then rip off the pink copy and put it in the bag.”

I looked it over. It seemed okay. I signed. Meanwhile, Smiley had picked up his phone and dialed an internal number.

“The package is ready.”

It was hardly a secret that I was the package and I don’t think I was being called that so I wouldn’t know what was going on. He was deliberately telling me I wasn’t human. That I was just a thing to be passed around the station. My humanity had been checked at the door.

Patton came back and led me out of that area and up a flight of stairs to the second floor. Now I was in familiar territory. There were two interview rooms in the back of the floor. I’d been in each of them at least once.

Windowless. A metal table. A couple of metal chairs. Patton pushed me in and said, “Make yourself comfortable.” As though that were even a possibility.

Blurb:

The Lambda Award-winning Boystown Mystery series comes to a close with Boystown 13: Fade Out. When a box containing a woman’s corpse shows up at his doorstep, Private Investigator Nick Nowak finds himself accused of murder. The police are convinced it’s Rita Lindquist—a woman who once shot Nick. Their case is thin, but they and the state’s attorney are determined to prosecute him. Recent events have left Nick emotionally gutted and he’s not even sure he wants to fight back. But when he’s mysteriously bailed out of jail, he can’t help by try to solve the mysteries in front of him. Who posted his bond? Why is the state’s attorney trying to railroad him? And what’s the real identity of the girl in the box?

More about award-winning author, Marshall Thornton:



click for website

Marshall Thornton writes two popular mystery series, the Boystown Mysteries and the Pinx Video Mysteries. He has won the Lambda Award for Gay Mystery twice, once for each series. His romantic comedy, Femme was also a 2016 Lambda finalist for Best Gay Romance. Other books include My Favorite Uncle, The Ghost Slept Over and Masc, the sequel to Femme. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America.

Sign-up for his newsletter at marshallthorntonauthor.com

Exclusive Excerpt: Drama Faerie, the 9th Nicky and Noah mystery by Joe Cosentino

Excerpt:

Just
like Demetrius rejecting Helena. Though I admit I prefer Shakespeare’s similes.

“Ray,
please, give me another chance. I know I’m not hot like you, but I can be
loyal.”

“How
many times do I have to say it? You and I will never happen, dude.” He pushed
Enoch away and headed offstage.

Having
witnessed the encounter from upstage, Braedon Walsh hurried to his best
friend’s side. The hunky little blond threw his Hermia wig on the stage floor
and placed a comforting arm around Enoch. “Are you all right?”

Enoch
laughed bitterly. “Obviously not, according to Ray.”

“Don’t
listen to him.”

“Why
not? Ray holds the opinion of the majority.” Tears streamed down Enoch’s face.
“Why did I think it could be any different?”

“Enoch,
don’t let Ray, or anyone, measure your self-worth.”

“Easy
for you to say. Everyone loves your self-worth, remember?”

“Enoch,
why can’t you see all you have going for you?”

Ray
appeared at Braedon’s other side. “Braedon, what are you doing after
rehearsal?”

“Getting
a quick bite to eat and then going over my scenes.”

Click to purchase

“Let’s
do it together.”

Braedon
waffled. “I don’t think—”

“I’m
really confused about this last scene. Won’t you help me, man?”

Braedon
looked up at Ray. “Well, I guess I can—”

Enoch’s
face turned the color of Braedon’s peach dress. “Are you two kidding me right
now? You’re going to hook up together—with me standing right here watching?”

Ray
groaned. “Nobody asked you to stand here and watch.”

“Enoch,
I want our show to be a success. I think I can help Ray
with—”

Ray
grabbed Braedon’s arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

Enoch
pushed Braedon away. “Go ahead, Braedon. No more pity party for me. I release
you from your duty as my best friend.” He choked out, “And I hope you two are
happy together.” Enoch stormed offstage.

“Enoch!”
Braedon started to go after him.

Ray
held him back. “Let him go. He needs a reality check, big time.”

“How
could you treat him like that?”

“No
matter what I do, I can’t get the guy off my back.”

Literally.

Braedon’s
green eyes bore into Ray. “You don’t know Enoch like I do. He’s been my best
friend since we were kids. The guy is really sensitive.”

“The
guy’s oblivious. I told him over and over again that I’m not interested.” Ray
scratched at his washboard abs. “How can I get him to understand I don’t want a
relationship with him? What am I doing wrong?”

Braedon’s
shoulders dropped. “I guess this isn’t your fault, Ray.”

“I
agree. And it’s not your fault either. People like who they like.” He
smiled. “And I happen to like you.”

Braedon
returned the smile. “That’s really sweet.”

“Totally.”
Ray wrapped his arms around Braedon. “And we’d be really sweet together.”

“I’m
flattered, but I don’t want a relationship. And I have to talk to Enoch. He
looked so desperate and despondent. I need to make sure he doesn’t do anything
stupid.”

After
Braedon headed offstage, Ray said to himself, “What’s stupid is you not jumping
at the chance to hook up with me tonight, dude.” Then Ray went backstage.

Before
Braedon could fully exit the stage, Elliot Hinton and his understudy, Graduate
Assistant Yates Aldrich, both appeared in Lysander’s chocolate-colored tunic, tights, and high boots. They surrounded Braedon, causing him
to resemble peach filling inside a chocolate bar.

Elliot
towered over Braedon. “Don’t tell anyone, but I smuggled some beer from the
dorm. Meet me outside?” He winked at Braedon. “Or after I’m a star, you’ll
regret missing the opportunity.”

The
graduate assistant’s sapphire eyes sparkled in the stage lighting. “Braedon, I
picked up some sandwiches from the deli in town—turkey and veggies with pesto
mayonnaise. I know this sounds corny, but the veggies reminded me of back home
on the farm. It made me feel warm all over, and I thought of you. Let’s head to
the Tiring House and share some lunch.”

Braedon
replied, “Thanks, guys, but I’m really worried about Enoch.”

Yates
replied, “It’s nice of you to be concerned about your friend. But I’m older
than you. I’ve had more years of schooling. And believe me, you can’t spend
your whole life feeling sorry for a dish rag.”

“Enoch’s
not a dish rag. He’s my best friend!”

“You
need to make some more mature friends.” Yates grinned.

Elliot
winked at Braedon. “And I’m the guy to show you how to do it.”

“I
appreciate the offers, guys. But I can’t.” Braedon brushed past them, calling
out, “Enoch!” And he was gone backstage.

Elliot and Yates
shrugged and followed.

A few
minutes later, the student stage manager called everyone back from break. All
the actors and understudies sat on the benches in the groundling section—except
for the five Mechanicals who took their places behind the center entrance,
waiting to come on stage. After five tries to get the lighting change, the
stage manager finally succeeded and gave the cue to begin.

Outside
his house, Peter Quince commences rehearsal for the play he wrote to be
performed at Duke Theseus’s and Queen Hippolyta’s wedding.

At the
sound of their characters’ names, Martin and Ruben applauded wildly from their
box seat.

Quince’s
play is entitled, “The Wedding of Pyramus and Thisby.” Joining Quince to
rehearse the scene, among others, are Bottom playing Pyramus the groom, and
Flute cast as Thisby the bride. After their rough rehearsal, they all execute a
flashy jazz dance, lifting Bottom in the air singing, “We All Need a Good
Bottom.” Mid-lift, Bottom comes crashing to the floor—onto his bottom.

“Stop!”

Ruben
cried out from the box, “If he’s injured, we’ll be sued.”

Martin
screeched, “I refuse to be penniless when I reach old age.”

Ruben
glared at him. “You reached old age before pennies were invented!”

Graduate
Assistant of Movement, Yates Aldrich, raced up the stairs onto the stage. He
kneeled next to Assistant Professor of Music Dante Bravo—our Bottom. Yates’s
sapphire eyes displayed fear and concern. “Dante, are you hurt?”

Dante
stood on flabby, and shaky legs. “No harm done.”

Everyone
applauded, and appropriately shouted, “Bravo!” Dante milked the attention by
bending over for a deep bow, which landed him on the stage floor bottom down
once again. He smiled. “Now if I could just get a handle on the play.”

Braedon
Walsh, our much-desired Hermia, hurried up the stairs. The compact student
helped the bear of a professor back onto his flat feet and off stage.

Behind
me, Detective Jose Manuello bragged in my ear, “During my understudy rehearsal
as Bottom, I understood every word of the play, and I was as light as a feather
on my feet—including during the lift.”

I glanced
back at Manuello’s full tunic. “I hope the other actors are insured for hernia
surgery.”

“Very
funny, Nicky.”

“I’m glad
you appreciate my fine wit, Manuello.”

“I
appreciate it like I appreciate my enlarged prostate.”

I gasped.
“Manuello, must you throw your prostate in my face?”

“My
prostate isn’t anywhere near your face.”

“And
let’s keep it that way, Manuello!”

Suddenly,
I heard a piercing scream followed by, “Demetrius!”

Glancing
around the theatre house, I noticed Ray Zhang had never come back after the
break.

“Don’t
move, Nicky.”

Ignoring
Manuello’s orders as usual, I sprung up the stage steps, ran across the stage
and through the right doorway, following the sound of the scream. I arrived in
the Hut to find our prop person, Sharon Delwab, pointing to the lifeless body
of Ray Zhang. Our Demetrius was face up on the floor with the point of a foil penetrating
his chest. Foiled!

DRAMA FAERIE (the 9th Nicky and Noah mystery)

a comedy/mystery/romance novel by JOE COSENTINO

Discount pre-order sale until Feb. 1 only!

http://mybook.to/DramaFaerie

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/993418

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/drama-faerie-joe-cosentino/1135276418?ean=2940163403288

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/drama-faerie-a-nicky-and-noah-mystery

Blurb:

It’s
summer at Treemeadow College’s new Globe Theatre, where theatre professor Nicky
Abbondanza is directing a musical production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream co-starring his spouse, theatre professor
Noah Oliver, their son Taavi, and their best friend and department head, Martin
Anderson. With an all-male, skimpily dressed cast and a love potion gone wild,
romance is in the starry night air. When hunky students and faculty in the
production drop faster than their tunics and tights, Nicky and Noah will need
to use their drama skills to figure out who is taking swordplay to the extreme
before Nicky and Noah end up foiled in the forest. You will be applauding and shouting
Bravo for Joe Cosentino’s fast-paced, side-splittingly funny, edge-of-your-seat
entertaining ninth novel in this delightful series. Take your seats. The
curtain is going up on star-crossed young lovers, a faerie queen, an ass who is
a great Bottom, and murder!

Praise for the
Nicky and Noah mysteries:

“Joe Cosentino
has a unique and fabulous gift. His writing is flawless, and his use of farce,
along with his convoluted plot-lines, will have you guessing until the very
last page, which makes his books a joy to read. His books are worth their
weight in gold, and if you haven’t discovered them yet you are in for a rare
treat.” Divine Magazine

“a combination
of Laurel and Hardy mixed with Hitchcock and Murder She Wrote…

Loaded with
puns and one-liners…Right to the end, you are kept guessing, and the conclusion
still has a surprise in store for you.” “the best modern Sherlock and Watson in
books today…I highly recommend this book and the entire series, it’s a pure
pleasure, full of fun and love, written with talent and brio…fabulous…brilliant”
Optimumm Book Reviews

“adventure,
mystery, and romance with every page….Funny, clever, and sweet….I can’t find
anything not to love about this series….This read had me laughing and falling
in love….Nicky and Noah are my favorite gay couple.” Urban Book Reviews

“For fans of
Joe Cosentino’s hilarious mysteries, this is another vintage story with more
cheeky asides and sub plots right left and centre….The story is fast paced,
funny and sassy. The writing is very witty with lots of tongue-in-cheek
humour….Highly recommended.” Boy Meets Boy Reviews

“Every entry of
the Nicky and Noah mystery series is rife with intrigue, calamity, and
hilarity…Cosentino keeps us guessing – and laughing – until the end, as well as
leaving us breathlessly anticipating the next Nicky and Noah thriller.” Edge Media
Network

“A laugh and a
murder, done in the style we have all come to love….This had me from the first
paragraph….Another wonderful story with characters you know and love!” Crystals
Many Reviewers

“These
two are so entertaining….Their tactics in finding clues and the crazy funny
interactions between characters keeps the pages turning. For most of the book
if I wasn’t laughing I was grinning.” Jo and Isa Love Books

“Superb fun from start to finish, for me
this series gets stronger with every book and that’s saying something because
the benchmark was set so very high with book 1.” Three Books Over the Rainbow

“The Nicky and
Noah Mysteries series are perfect for fans of the Cozy Mystery sub-genre. They
mix tongue-in-cheek humor, over-the-top characters, a wee bit of political
commentary, and suspense into a sweet little mystery solved by Nicky and Noah,
theatre professors for whom all the world’s a stage.” Prism Book Alliance

“This is one
hilarious series with a heart and it just keeps getting better. I highly
recommend them all, and please read them in the order they were written for
full blown laugh out loud reading pleasure!” Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words

More About Author Joe Cosentino:



Click for website

Joe
Cosentino was voted Favorite LGBT Mystery, Humorous, and Contemporary Author of
the Year by the readers of Divine
Magazine for Drama Queen. He also
wrote the other novels in the Nicky and Noah mystery series: Drama Muscle, Drama Cruise, Drama Luau,
Drama Detective, Drama Fraternity, Drama
Castle, Drama Dance, Drama Faerie; the Dreamspinner Press novellas: In My Heart/An Infatuation & A
Shooting Star, the Bobby and Paolo Holiday Stories: A Home for the Holidays/The Perfect Gift/The First Noel, The Naked Prince and Other Tales from
Fairyland with Holiday Tales from
Fairyland; the Cozzi Cove series: Cozzi
Cove: Bouncing Back, Cozzi Cove:
Moving Forward, Cozzi Cove: Stepping Out, Cozzi Cove: New Beginnings, Cozzi
Cove: Happy Endings (NineStar Press);andthe Jana Lane mysteries: Paper Doll, Porcelain Doll, Satin Doll,
China Doll, Rag Doll (The Wild Rose Press). He has appeared in principal acting
roles in film, television, and theatre, opposite stars such as Bruce Willis,
Rosie O’Donnell, Nathan Lane, Holland Taylor, and Jason Robards. Joe is
currently Chair of the Department/Professor at a college in upstate New York,
and he is happily married. Joe’s books have received numerous Favorite Book of
the Month Awards and Rainbow Award Honorable Mentions.

Web site: http://www.JoeCosentino.weebly.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/JoeCosentinoauthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/JoeCosen

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4071647.Joe_Cosentino

Amazon: Author.to/JoeCosentino