Jon Michaelsen's Blog: Ramblings, Excerpts, WIPs, etc., page 9

February 2, 2019

Commentary, Exclusive Excerpt & Giveaway! Drama Castle (Nicky and Noah Mysteries Book 7) by Joe Cosentino

WRITING A GAY COZY MYSTERY SERIES

Nicky and Noah Mysteries Book Seven: Drama Castle

by Joe Cosentino

As
a teenager suffering from insomnia, I spent many late nights on my passion
(It’s not what you think)—reading cozy mystery novels. I loved the quirky
characters, plot twists and turns, clues, red herrings, captivating
investigations, romance, humor, and of course the surprise yet justified
endings. Even at that young age, I suspected Sherlock Holmes and John Watson
were more than companions. They seemed to understand each other as only a
couple could, and their devotion to one another was heartwarming. Hercule
Poirot and Arthur Hastings seemed to share the same level of commitment. C.
Auguste Dupin and his nameless companion, Lord Peter Wimsey and his valet Meryn
Bunter, and Inspector Morse and Detective Sergeant Robbie Lewis exhibited
similar close connections. It didn’t take me long to question why there were no
openly gay characters in my favorite mystery series. So, I created my own.
Since I am a college theatre professor, I decided to explore that wacky and
wonderful world. (Try saying that three times fast with a tongue ring.)

For
those of you who haven’t yet been baptized in Nicky and Noah land, the Nicky
and Noah mysteries is a gay cozy mystery comedy series, meaning the setting is
warm and cozy, the clues and murders (and laughs) come fast and furious, and
there are enough plot twists and turns and a surprise ending to keep the pages
turning faster than a priest going to altar boy orientation (as Nicky would
say). At the center is the touching relationship between Associate Professor of
Directing Nicky Abbondanza and Assistant Professor of Acting Noah Oliver. We
watch them go from courting to marrying to adopting a child, all the while head
over heels in love with each other (as we fall in love with them). Reviewers
called the series hysterically funny farce, Murder
She Wrote meets Hart to Hart
meets The Hardy Boys, and captivating
whodunits. One reviewer wrote they are the funniest books she’s ever read!
(Love her!)

In
Drama Queen (Divine Magazine’s
Readers’ Choice Award for Favorite LGBT Mystery, Humorous, and Contemporary
Novel of the Year) Nicky directs the school play at Treemeadow College—which is
named after its gay founders, Tree and Meadow. Theatre professors drops like
stage curtains, and Nicky and Noah have to use their theatre skills, including
impersonating other people, to figure out whodunit. In Drama Muscle (Rainbow Award Honorable Mention) Nicky and Noah don
their gay Holmes and Watson personas again to find out why bodybuilding
students and professors in Nicky’s bodybuilding competition at Treemeadow are
dropping faster than barbells. In Drama
Cruise it is summer on a ten-day cruise from San Francisco to Alaska and
back. Nicky and Noah must figure out why college theatre professors are
dropping like life rafts as Nicky directs a murder mystery dinner theatre show
onboard ship starring Noah and other college theatre professors from across the
US. Complicating matters are their both sets of wacky parents who want to
embark on all the activities on and off the boat with the handsome couple. In Drama Luau, Nicky is directing the luau
show at the Maui Mist Resort and he and Noah need to figure out why muscular
Hawaiian hula dancers are dropping like grass skirts. Their department
head/best friend and his husband, Martin and Ruben, are along for the bumpy
tropical ride. In Drama Detective,
Nicky is directing and ultimately co-starring with his husband Noah as Holmes
and Watson in a new musical Sherlock Holmes play at Treemeadow College prior to
Broadway. Martin and Ruben, their sassy office assistant Shayla, Nicky’s
brother Tony, and Nicky and Noah’s son Taavi are also in the cast. Of course
dead bodies begin falling over like hammy actors at a curtain call. Once again
Nicky and Noah use their drama skills to figure out who is lowering the street
lamps on the actors before the handsome couple get half-baked on Baker Street.
In Drama Fraternity, Nicky is
directing Tight End Scream Queen, a
slasher movie filmed at Treemeadow College’s football fraternity house,
co-starring Noah, Taavi, and Martin. Rounding out the cast are members of
Treemeadow’s Christian football players’ fraternity along with two hunky screen
stars. When the jammer, wide receiver, and more begin fading out with their
scenes, Nicky and Noah once again need to use their drama skills to figure out
who is sending young hunky actors to the cutting room floor before Nicky and
Noah hit the final reel.

My spouse and I had vacationed in Alaska and
Hawaii. Hence the settings of books three and four. Since we recently stayed in
a real Scottish Castle, I knew book seven would take place there. So, in Drama Castle, Nicky is directing a
historical film co-starring Noah and Taavi at Conall Castle in Scotland: When the Wind Blows Up Your Kilt It’s Time
for A Scotch. Rounding out the cast are members of the mysterious Conall
family who own the castle. When hunky men in kilts topple off the drawbridge
and into the moat, it’s up to Nicky and Noah to use their acting skills to
figure out whodunit before Nicky and Noah land in the dungeon. Nicky and Noah
are joined by their best friends and fan favorites Martin and Ruben, and by Noah’s
eccentric parents. Book seven adds a number of captivating new characters like Brody
Naughton, the hunky head of Housekeeping with a red beard and roving eye for
the oldest Conall brother, Barclay, and for Donal Blair a waiter in the
castle’s Great Hall dining room. Each of the three hunky Conall brothers
(Barclay, Magnus, and Fergus) have a surprising secret, and Noah makes a
shocking revelation.

I am joyous and honored to join the other
wonderful writers who post in this group as we share our gay mystery stories. So
take your seat. The curtain is going up on steep cliffs, ancient turrets,
stormy seas, misty moors, malfunctioning kilts, and murder!

DRAMA CASTLE (the seventh Nicky and Noah mystery)

a comedy/mystery/romance novel by JOE COSENTINO

http://mybook.to/DramaCastle

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/910555

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1129964877?ean=2940155897439

Blurb:

Theatre professor Nicky Abbondanza is directing a historical film at a castle in Scotland, co-starring his spouse, theatre professor Noah Oliver, and their son Taavi. When historical accuracy disappears along with hunky men in kilts, Nicky and Noah will once again need to use their drama skills to figure out who is pitching residents of Conall Castle off the drawbridge and into the moat, before Nicky and Noah land in the dungeon. You will be applauding and shouting Bravo for Joe Cosentino’s fast-paced, side-splittingly funny, edge-of-your-seat entertaining seventh novel in this delightful series. Take your seats. The curtain is going up on steep cliffs, ancient turrets, stormy seas, misty moors, malfunctioning kilts, and murder!

Exclusive Excerpt:

Wearing a canary
polo shirt that highlighted his olive-colored skin and black hair, Taavi looked
adorable with his legs dangling off the high bed. “Grandma and I explored the
castle.” His dimples appeared. “I found a secret passageway.”

“A sleuth, like
your dads,” Dad said.

“And like your
grandfather,” Mom added.

Taavi wiped his palms on his sky-blue shorts.
“I can’t wait to shoot my scenes.”

Noah smiled. “Will
you steal them from me?”

“That’s the plan.”
Taavi offered his father a hang loose sign and a huge grin.

Mom said, “Judy
was very impressed with our little Taavi’s acting in that slasher film you all
did last year.”

“As she should
be,” Dad said as if he were Taavi’s agent.

“Judy said that
little Dung’s chocolate coloring would show up well on film.”

“Too bad Tommy and
Timmy aren’t in the movie business like our Nicky and Noah,” Dad said.

Mom and Dad
laughed together triumphantly.

I noticed a gold
necklace around Dad’s neck as it danced over his flabby chest. “I’ve never seen
that before, Dad.”

He stuck out his
already protruding stomach. “What, my sexy physique?” Dad winked at Noah. “I
may be giving you a run for your money tonight, Noah.”

Noah’s scarlet
cheeks turned crimson.

I walked over to
Dad. “I mean your necklace.”

“He’s worn that
thing around his neck since I met him,” Mom said.

Taking it in my
hand, I admired the fine craftsmanship of the gold two-leaf clover.

“It’s really a
four-leaf clover,” Dad explained, “but the other two leaves broke off.”

“Where did you get
it?”

“In a little shop
on a glen in a valley in the highlands of Scotland. A year before I met Mom, I
visited the land of my ancestors to find my roots.”

“While I was covering up mine with peroxide,”
Mom said with a smile.

“But my ancestors
didn’t come from a place like this.” Dad explained, “They were sheepherders.”
The dairy farmer added, “Milking is in my blood.”

“So is high
cholesterol from all the cheese he eats,” Mom said as if speaking about a death
row criminal.

Dad patted his
stomach. “I like food.”

“Me too, Grandpa.”
Taavi patted his stomach too.

“Did you all eat
dinner?” Noah asked with concern showing on his handsome face.

Mom nodded. “A
sweet young waiter named Donal served us in the dining room.” She giggled like
a young girl. “He paid extra attention to me.”

“Were you
jealous?” I asked Dad.

He waved me away
like a color guard on speed. “Donal was a nice-looking guy. But he reminded me
of you and Noah, if you know what I mean.”

My father-in-law developed gaydar?

Taavi’s dark eyes
glistened in delight. “We ate cock-a-doodle-doo soup, blood pudding, green
fish, and bread for short people.”

As if a United
Nations translator, Mom said, “Taavi means cock-a-leekie soup—”

Okay, it’s not
what you’re thinking. It’s a soup with chicken, bacon, leeks, and spices.

Mom continued,
“—black pudding—”

Get ready to be
grossed out. It’s pork fat, pork blood, oatmeal, and oat and barley groats.

“—scallops with
cabbage and green apple sauce, and shortbread.”

“I texted all my
friends from school. I can’t believe we’re living in a real castle!”

Giveaway: Post a comment below
about why you love men in kilts. The one that raises our kilt the most will win
an Audible code for the Drama Queen
audiobook, the first Nicky and Noah mystery, by Joe Cosentino, performed by
Michael Gilboe.

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

“This delightfully sudsy,
colorful cast of characters would rival that of any daytime soap opera, and the
character exchanges are rife with sass, wit and cagey sarcasm….As the pages
turn quickly, the author keeps us hanging until the startling end.” 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

Bestselling author 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; the Dreamspinner Press novellas: In My Heart/An
Infatuation & A Shooting Star, 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 was voted 2nd
Place Favorite LGBT Author of the Year in Divine Magazine’s Readers’ Choice
Awards, and his 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

GIVEAWAY: Post a comment below about why you love men in kilts. The one that raises our kilt the most will win an Audible code for the Drama Queen audiobook, the first Nicky and Noah mystery, by Joe Cosentino, performed by Michael Gilboe.

**Winner must have an active Audible.com account to receive**

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Published on February 02, 2019 05:23

January 26, 2019

Exclusive Excerpt: Southern Most Murder by C.S. Poe

Blurb:

Aubrey Grant lives in the tropical paradise of Old Town, Key West, has a cute cottage, a sweet moped, and a great job managing the historical property of a former sea captain. With his soon-to-be-boyfriend, hotshot FBI agent Jun Tanaka, visiting for a little R&R, not even Aubrey’s narcolepsy can put a damper on their vacation plans.

But a skeleton in a closet of the Smith Family Historical Home throws a wrench into the works. Despite Aubrey and Jun’s attempts to enjoy some time together, the skeleton’s identity drags them into a mystery with origins over a century in the past. They uncover a tale of long-lost treasure, the pirate king it belonged to, and a modern-day murderer who will stop at nothing to find the hidden riches. If a killer on the loose isn’t enough to keep Aubrey out of the mess, it seems even the restless spirit of Captain Smith is warning him away.

The unlikely partnership of a special agent and historian may be exactly what it takes to crack this mystery wide-open and finally put an old Key West tragedy to rest. But while Aubrey tracks down the X that marks the spot, one wrong move could be his last.

click image to purcase

Excerpt:

Burt Tillman was
not too tickled to see Jun. Or me. In fact, he probably could have gone the
whole day without even thinking of either of us.

“Agent Tanaka,” he
said, offering a stiff handshake. “I am
in the middle of a homicide. I hope you understand my time is precious.”

“I’ve no intention
of taking you away from your case,” Jun replied. “It so happens that Mr. Grant
and I ran into a few of Cassidy’s friends this morning and gathered a bit of
information that might be of value to you.”

Tillman eyed Jun,
glared at me, then nodded and turned to lead us down a hallway. We entered a
large room that had several desks with plain-clothed officers sitting at them.
Each had towering piles of papers spread across their workspace, and a phone
seemed to always be ringing from somewhere. Tillman walked toward the back,
grabbed two plastic chairs, and hauled them up in front of what I presumed was
his desk before he sat behind it.

Jun and I both
took a seat.

“So?” Tillman
asked.

Jun took over this
part, and I was only more than happy to let him. Keep this between lawmen, you
know?

“We spoke with a
few people down at Barnacles today. Curtis Leon, Peg Hart, and Josh Moore.”

Tillman nodded,
rolling a pen between his thumb and index finger.

“Seems that Curtis
was already aware of Cassidy’s death.”

“Yes, he was
having breakfast with Glen Porter, Cassidy’s employer, when I went down to
speak with Glen.”

“Were you aware
they are amateur treasure hunters?”

“I vaguely knew,”
Tillman replied. “I know Peg—she owns her own boat. I’ve heard a few stories
about the four of them going out to search for sunken treasure.”

Jun leaned back in
his chair, crossing his long legs and seeming completely at ease. “Peg
mentioned a diary that Cassidy had, about Captain Rogers.”

Tillman narrowed
his eyes. “I’m not familiar with this man.”

“He was captain of
a merchant vessel from 1854 to 1871,” I piped up.

Tillman looked at
me. “Let me guess. The skeleton is Rogers and he killed Cassidy?”

“I think the
skeleton might actually be Smith,” I corrected. “Thanks, though.”

Jun cleared his
throat.

I didn’t roll my
eyes, but man, I came close to it. “Cassidy got the diary because it mentions
Smith and One-Eyed Jack supposedly being one and the same, and I told you
yesterday how hell-bent he was about proving me wrong. The point is, that diary
was stolen a year ago from a museum in St. Augustine.”

“I suspect a man
that’s stolen from at least one museum, with the intent of perhaps stealing
from Aubrey’s,” Jun began, “likely has more than one hot item in his
possession.”

Tillman looked
down at his mass of paperwork, thoughtful. “We’ve been to his apartment.
Nothing like an old diary was found.”

“I know an Agent
Dixon in Miami who works with the Art Crime Team,” Jun stated. “I’m sure she
would be more than happy to assist.”

Tillman sat back
in his chair. “This St. Augustine museum would first need their local law
enforcement to submit an entry to NSAF.”

Tillman knew more
about FBI policies than I did. Check.

Jun smiled. “Of
course. But I’m sure with a few phone calls, I can get the ball rolling,
considering the situation down here. What do you say, Detective?”

Ha, ha, ha, checkmate.

Tillman frowned.

“I’m not looking
to take over or interfere with your case,” Jun stated. “I’m only here for a
week and half, and when I leave Aubrey, I want to sleep at night knowing that
he’s not being harassed or in danger at his place of business. That’s all.”

Tillman looked
between the two of us.

I nodded and
offered a smile.

After a beat,
Tillman let out a heavy sigh and shifted some of his papers around. He picked
up a small evidence baggie that held a key fob. It was bright orange and seemed
to have some sort of room number on it. “We found this in Cassidy’s apartment.
It belongs to a unit at Store Yourself in New Town.” He offered it and Jun
accepted.

“What’s the chance
of getting a search warrant?” Jun asked, turning the fob around absently.

Tillman smiled
this time and held up a form. “Just got it, twenty minutes ago. Cassidy has a
record of theft. Appears he’s been obsessed with this pirate Jack guy most of
his life.” He stood. “As a courtesy to you, Agent Tanaka, and because I’m not
well versed in the diaries of merchant sailors from the 1800s… I’ll extend the
offer of you being present while I serve this. Unofficially, of course.”

“Of course.” Jun
stood, and they shook hands again. “I suppose we’ll bump into each other there.
It just so happens that Aubrey is qualified to offer assistance regarding
anything you might find in the unit.”

Tillman looked at
me. “That he is,” he said tersely.

We’d followed
Tillman from Stock Island to New Town and parked outside of Store Yourself
about thirty minutes later. Jun turned the car off, leaned over me to unlock
the glove compartment, and revealed a gun and holster.

“Whoa, you came to
Florida packing?”

Jun looked at me
briefly before grabbing it. “I don’t go anywhere without a service weapon.”

“Even on
vacation?” Because I found that sort of… sad.

Jun didn’t
respond, just put the shoulder holster on. He opened the door and said, “Would
you grab the suit coat in the back seat?”

I partially
climbed over the console to reach the folded G-man coat before getting out of
the car. “You came prepared.”

Jun adjusted his
weapon as he came toward me, took the coat, and hid the gun as he slid it over
his shoulders.

“You think there’s
something dangerous inside the unit?” I asked, looking up.

“I’d rather not
take any chances. Stay behind and out of the way, okay?”

Tillman climbed
out of his car beside us and removed the folded warrant from an inner pocket
before leading the way.

“Regarding Josh
Moore,” Jun said, the scuff of his shoes on the pavement echoing over his
words. “Aubrey hired him to paint the first floor of the Smith Home. He finished
that two weeks ago.”

“Is that so.”

“It might account
for the broken window in the parlor,” Jun continued.

Tillman stopped
and turned to face Jun.

“He’s similar in
appearance to the description Aubrey gave of the second intruder.”

Watching Jun work Tillman
was pretty awesome. I think his good-cop thing was making it difficult for
Tillman to even be properly annoyed, since Jun was technically helping. Just,
you know, sort of passive-aggressively.

“I don’t suppose
he shared yesterday’s whereabouts with you?” Tillman asked.

“He did not.”

Tillman looked at
me briefly before nodding and walking toward the business once more. “I’ll look
into it.” He opened the front door, held it for us, then approached the
counter. He flashed his badge at a disinterested woman.

“I’ve a search
warrant, ma’am,” he said, sliding the form over. “Unit 513, belonging to a Lou
Cassidy.”

She chewed her gum
loudly, popping a bubble while glancing over the legal form—like anyone
actually read that mumbo jumbo. “Fine with me,” she stated after a moment.
“He’s a week late on payment. Will the police be paying that?”

Tillman just
smiled. “Do you have bolt cutters?”

She sighed and got
to her feet. “Yup. Head on through that door,” she said, indicating a door to
our right. “Unit 513 is down the middle aisle on the left side. I’ll be there
in a moment.”

“Appreciate it,”
Tillman said, and I swore if he had a hat on, he would have tipped it.

Jerk never used
his hat-tipping voice on me.

Then again, I had
been sort of a sassy smartass with him the last few—er, all the meetings we’d
had so far.

Jun opened the
door leading to the units, holding it for Tillman and me before bringing up the
rear. “I must admit,” he said quietly. “Curiosity is getting the best of me.”

“You and me both,”
Tillman called. “Man’s apartment is a shrine to all things nautical. I can only
guess as to what’ll be in here.” He stopped outside an orange door about four
by four feet. He looked at me and Jun. “I’ll be disappointed if it’s Christmas
decorations.”

The office door
opened behind us and echoed loudly as it slammed shut. The woman from the
counter was walking toward us with a hefty pair of bolt cutters. “Here you are,
gentlemen,” she said, handing the tool over to Tillman. “Please don’t make a
mess. I’ll be in the office if you need anything.”

Tillman thanked
her and waited until she’d slammed the door again. He took the clippers to the
combo lock on the door, quickly snapping it. He slipped it free and pocketed
the lock pieces before setting the cutters down on the floor.

Jun took my arm
and gently maneuvered me to stand behind him. He removed his gun and took a
readied stance as Tillman yanked the door open.

The missing skeleton from yesterday came tumbling out, breaking as it
smashed into the linoleum floor.

More about author C.S. Poe

C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and EPIC award finalist author of gay mystery, romance, and paranormal books.
She is a reluctant mover and has called many places home in her lifetime. C.S. has lived in New York City, Key West, and Ibaraki, Japan, to name a few. She misses the cleanliness, convenience, and limited-edition gachapon of Japan, but she was never very good at riding bikes to get around.
She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best on a daily basis to sidetrack her from work.
C.S. is a member of the International Thriller Writers organization.
Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published by DSP Publications, 2016.

Contacts for C.S. Poe

DREAMSPINNER PRESS: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/AuthorArcade/cs-poe
WEBSITE: http://www.cspoe.com
TUMBLR: http://cspoe.tumblr.com
BLOG: http://authorcspoe.blogspot.com
NEWSLETTER: https://www.subscribepage.com/cspoelanding

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Published on January 26, 2019 08:07

January 19, 2019

Exclusive Excerpt: The Cuban Who Paid Dearly (Daytona Beach Book 3) by Frank W. Butterfield

Blurb:

It’s Thursday morning, the 2nd of October in 1947, and Ronnie Grisham and his pal, Tom Jarrell, are now married… To women, of course…

And, for appearance’s sake and to get a much-needed break from work, Ronnie figures they really should go on a honeymoon.

So, the two couples board the southbound Champion for Miami. It’s all aboard for romance! But not in the way their fellow passengers would imagine, no doubt.

Once there, they get a chance to see Miss Doris Day, who is touring with Les Brown and his Band of Renown. And a good time is had by all!

But all good things must come to an end and, after dropping the gals off at the airport, the guys rent a car and hit the Overseas Highway to head down into the Florida Keys.

Just when it looks like Tom and Ronnie will finally get some time to themselves, a friend of theirs comes across a dead Cuban and is found holding the gun. He says he didn’t do it, but the State’s Attorney isn’t convinced…

Looks like it’s back to work for Daytona Beach’s most infamous lawyer and his private dick!

Click here to purchase

Excerpt:

The Blue Parrot was at the end of a little alley off Fleming Street. The only indication of the place was a blue electric light bulb over a white door with a blue parrot painted on the front. Ronnie was only able to find it because Tom had run into the jail and asked Claud where it was and then ran out with the address. Turned out that it was only a couple of blocks away.

Ronnie pulled open the door and was greeted with the sound of Perry Como singing, “When You Were Sweet Sixteen,” a song that Ronnie had mixed feelings about. He liked the man’s voice and liked to listen to his singing on The Chesterfield Supper Club program on the radio. His voice was smooth and could, at times, get him in the mood. But the song reminded Ronnie of his first meeting Tom because Tom was 16 at the time they met. That had always been a melancholy memory. But, as he moved into the dimly lit bar, he grinned as he realized it wasn’t melancholy anymore. There was no doubt the two were in love with each other and Ronnie was more in love with Tom than ever.

Grinning like a goddam fool, Ronnie walked up to the bar. Looking around, he realized he was only one of four people in the place. A couple, two gals, were sitting in the back at a booth, side by side, and seemed to be whispering sweet nothings to each other.

The other person was the man behind the bar. He was about 5’9″ or so and had a head full of thick graying blond hair that was slicked back with a heavy dose of pomade. He had a friendly expression and bright blue eyes. Wearing a starched white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, open at the neck, and under a bright blue apron, the man walked over. “Are you one of us?” asked the man as he looked up at Ronnie.

With a grin, Ronnie replied, “If you’re wonderin’ whether I prefer Joes over Janes, I do.”

“Welcome, then. What’ll you have?”

“Jax.”

“Comin’ right up.” The man’s voice had a slight Irish accent to it.

Ronnie parked himself at the bar and looked around. It was a small place but friendly, clean, and inviting. He’d been to a similar kind of spot a few weeks earlier in West Palm Beach, but it wasn’t nearly as clean or as welcoming. It had been more like a spot to be ashamed of.

The man placed a bottle of Jax in front of him along with a bowl of peanuts. “Where you in from?”

“Daytona Beach,” replied Ronnie as he took a drink of the cold brew.

“Nice place up there. Love that flat beach where you can have a nice stroll. Dodging the cars can be a little tricky, though,” he added with a smile.

“I drive up and down there all the time, but I try to keep my eyes out for any tourists who don’t realize the beach is a road.”

“Good man. What brings you to Key West?”

“Well,” said Ronnie as he picked up a couple of peanuts, “I’m down here with my guy.”

“Lucky man, he is.”

“I don’t know about that.” He popped the peanuts in his mouth and then asked, “Are you Johnny Donahue?”

“The one and the only.”

Ronnie extended his hand across the bar. “My name is Ronnie Grisham.”

“Call me Johnny,” said the man as he shook with a wink.

“And I’m Ronnie.” He leaned in. “Claud Wallace asked me to come over and talk to you about Benny Ibanez.”

Johnny’s smile faded. “I see.”

“What can you tell me about Benny?”

Screwing up his mouth, Johnny looked hard at Ronnie. “And what might your interest be in the matter?”

“I’m trying to find whoever it was who really killed Benny.”

Author Frank W. Butterfield:

Frank W Butterfield

Frank W. 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.

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

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Published on January 19, 2019 08:31

January 12, 2019

Exclusive Excerpt: The Ornamental Hermit by Olivier Bosman

A D.S. Billings Victorian Mystery – Book 1

“Ah, Doctor Smith,” the shopkeeper
said as Billings walked tentatively into the dimly lit shop. “How are you? So
nice to see you again.”

“I am well, thank you.” Billings’
face was tense and his hands were trembling. He clenched his fist behind his back
and gritted his teeth. He instantly regretted entering the shop. “I believe you
have a new series in,” he asked.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1512360260

“I do indeed, I do indeed. I have
it right here.” The shopkeeper crouched down and took a large brown paper
envelope from beneath the counter. He was a short corpulent man with dark, oily
skin. Of Arab descent, perhaps. Or maybe Greek. He called himself Al Bull, but
Billings knew that that wasn’t his real name. He smiled sleazily, almost
mockingly, as he pulled a series of cabinet cards out of the envelope and
displayed them one by one on the counter. They were albumen photographs of
young, nude men, practising various sports in a forest meadow. There was one of
a naked discus thrower looking like a Greek statue. There was one of two men
wrestling by a river, and one of a naked man leaning against a tree holding a
javelin. Billings could feel the blood rush to his face as he looked at the
photographs.

“They’re from a German sports
camp,” the shopkeeper said. “They have the young men exercise in the nude, in
keeping with the custom of the original Greek Olympics.”

Billings
looked away, desperate to conceal his blushing. “These will do. Thank you,” he
said, swallowing.

“I thought they would.” The
shopkeeper smiled as he collected the pictures and pushed them back into the
envelope. “Are the anatomical classes going well, Doctor Smith?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“I’m sure these photographs will
be of great benefit to your students.”

“I’m sure they will. How much are
they, please?”

“Seven and sixpence, please.”

Billings
ruffled in his pockets for the money.

“I also have a series of
photographs from the South Seas,” the shopkeeper continued, “of very young boys
in provocative poses. Would that perhaps be of interest to your anatomy
students?”

“No, thank you. Just these will
do.” Billings lay the money on the counter and picked up the envelope. He tried
sticking it into the inside pocket of his great coat, but it wouldn’t fit. He
folded the envelope and tried again, but still it was too big.

The
shopkeeper watched with an amused glint in his eye as a flustered and harried
Billings continued to struggle with the envelope. “You’ll damage the pictures
like that,” he said.

Billings
didn’t reply and tried one more fold.

“Is it just muscle structures your
students are interested in?” the shopkeeper asked after Billings finally
succeeded in putting the envelope away. “Or do they like young, lithe physiques
as well? Because if so, I have some pictures in the back room which might
interest you.”

“No, thank you, Mr Bull. I’m in a
hurry.”

“Oh, it won’t take long, Doctor
Smith. My assistant Charlie will gladly show you. You haven’t met Charlie yet,
have you? He is a very pleasant young man. I am sure you’ll like him –
Charlie!”

A
young man pulled open the black curtains which divided the shop from the
storage room and moved to stand behind the counter next to the shopkeeper. He
had a gleeful and cocksure expression in his hazel-green eyes. His thick, dark
blond hair was ragged and uncombed (it was so thick, it was practically
uncombable). His shirt was only half-tucked into his trousers and the top
buttons were undone, revealing pale flesh and a few curly chest hairs.
Billings, who had been desperate to turn his back on the shopkeeper and rush
out of the shop, raised his head to look at him and was instantly infatuated.
Everything about the young man displayed confidence and carelessness, the exact
qualities Billings never possessed, and he was fascinated.

“Charlie, this is Doctor Smith,”
the shopkeeper said. “Doctor Smith is an expert in anatomy. Doctor Smith, this
is Charlie,” he now pointed to his assistant, “who, as you can see, has a very
lovely anatomy.” He laughed. And Charlie laughed along with him. But Billings
was not amused and looked away embarrassed. “Go on, Doctor Smith,” the
shopkeeper continued. “Let Charlie show you what he’s got. It won’t take long,
but I’m sure it’ll be to your satisfaction. Ain’t that right, Charlie?”

“That’s right, Mr Bull,” Charlie
answered with that nasal Cockney twang which Billings always found so ugly, but
which now sounded so lovely coming from Charlie’s lips.

There
is an intricate link between delusion and depravity, Billings thought
afterwards. The one always precedes the other. He’d had a deluded notion that
it was better to love and lose than never to love at all; that a man needed to
be touched and held regularly in order to function properly; that all men were
entitled to some carnal satisfaction, regardless of their preference or
inclination. These deluded notions had passed through his mind shortly before
committing the act of depravity which was to follow.

He
followed Charlie into the back room. The room was packed with crates and boxes.
Billings stood in the middle of the room rigidly, pale and nervous, while
Charlie closed the black curtain and turned around to face him.

“Well then, Doctor Smith,” he
said, looking at Billings with that cheeky smile. “What do you want to do?”

“Do?” Billings was trembling and
sweating. “I thought you were going to show me some more pictures?”

“Pictures?” he laughed. “What do
you wanna see pictures for, if you can have the real thing? It’s a bob for a
rub, a shilling and sixpence for a bagpipe, and a half crown if you want the
full story. But we’d have to do that somewhere more discreet. Mr Bull has a
room with a bed available upstairs which you can rent for a shilling. So what
will it be, then?”

“I… um…”

“You’re in a hurry, ain’t ya? So
I’ll give you a bagpipe. It won’t take long. You got the money on ya?”

Billings
rummaged in his pocket and took out some coins to show Charlie.

“You can pay Mr Bull on your way
out. Now, come and stand by the light.” Charlie walked towards the wall opposite
the window and turned the key on the gas lamp. Billings remained standing on
the spot, unsurely, putting the coins back in his pocket. Charlie looked back
at him and frowned. “Well, come on then.”

“I… um… I think I’d rather look at
the pictures,” Billings said.

Charlie
laughed. “Will you stop going on about the pictures. Can’t you see I’m offering
you the real thing? Now come here.”

Billings
approached him reluctantly. Charlie grabbed the lapels of Billings’s greatcoat
and pulled him towards him, then proceeded to cover his face and neck with
kisses. Billings felt his heart pound as Charlie’s hands reached into his
greatcoat and grabbed hold of his chest. He closed his eyes and clenched his
fists as Charlie proceeded to slide his hand down towards his crotch.
Goosebumps rose all over his body and shudders rushed through him like electric
current when Charlie knelt down before him and started unbuttoning his
trousers. He took a deep breath and flung his head back when suddenly, through
his closed eyelids, he saw a flash of light which woke him from his erotic
trance.

“What was that?” he said, pushing
Charlie’s fumbling fingers away from his trouser buttons.

Charlie
looked up and frowned. “What?”

“There was a flash of light.”

“I didn’t see nothing.”

Billings’s
heart was still pounding, but this time with alarm, rather than titillation.
“There was a light,” he said as he rushed towards the window and opened the
shutter. “I clearly saw a light.”

“It was probably lightning.”
Charlie was still on his knees by the gas lamp.

“It can’t have been lightning.
It’s not raining.”

Billings
stuck his head out of the window and looked up and down the narrow alleyway
which led from the shop’s back entrance to Praed Street. There was nothing
there other than a few empty crates which had been stacked against the wall.

“It must’ve been dry lightning,
Doctor Smith. Nothing to worry about. Now, come over here and let me finish
giving you your bagpipe. I ain’t even started yet.”

Billings
turned to look back at Charlie, kneeling on the cold brick floor. The gaslight
flooded his head and Billings could see the dirt on the back of his neck and
his shirt collar. He also saw black specks crawling through his unruly hair.
Was it lice? Charlie suddenly didn’t look so appealing anymore. That cheeky,
cocksure smile was replaced by a bored and impatient frown and Billings felt
dirty and sleazy. The thought of that dirty boy’s hands all over him suddenly
made his whole body itch. How could he have allowed himself to sink to this?

“I had better go,” he said,
buttoning up his trousers and tucking in his shirt.

“Ain’t you gonna let me finish
giving you your bagpipe?”

“I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“You are still gonna pay me ain’t
ya?”

Billings
dug into his pocket and took out some coins. “I have two shillings,” he said
and held out the coins to Charlie.

“You gotta pay Mr Bull at the
counter.”

“Why don’t you take them off me?”

“I don’t know, Doctor Smith,”
Charlie said hesitantly. “I ain’t supposed to. You gotta pay Mr Bull at the
counter.”

Billings
approached him, grabbed his hand and placed the two shillings in it. “Keep the
money for yourself.” He closed Charlie’s fingers over the coins. “I’ll tell Mr
Bull that I changed my mind and that nothing happened. Which is the truth.” He
then turned his back on Charlie, cut through the black drapes and walked back
into the shop.

“Finished already?” the shopkeeper
asked, confused.

“I have to go, Mr Bull.”

Billings rushed passed him and out of the
shop. As he crossed the corner into Edgware Road, he bumped into a man carrying
a heavy black leather case over his shoulder, knocking the man’s hat off his
head.

“Oh, I do apologise,” Billings
said while the man crouched down to pick up his hat.

The
man lifted his head and looked at him. Then a broad smile appeared on his face.
“You again!” It was Jeremiah Rook. “What a coincidence!”

Billings
looked at him suspiciously. Was it really a coincidence that he should bump
into the reporter twice on the same day, in two different towns?

“You should watch where you’re
going, Mr Billings,” the reporter continued. “You nearly made me drop my
equipment.”

Billings
looked at the leather case hanging from the reporter’s shoulder and wondered
what it contained.

“’Ere, you’re not shadowing me, are
ya?” the reporter asked with a cheeky smile.

“I might ask you the same
question?” Billings replied tersely.

“Why would I shadow you? Have you been doing
something you shouldn’t have?” There was a mocking glint in the reporter’s eyes
as he asked this, and Billings’s attention was again drawn to the suspicious
case on the reporter’s shoulder.

“I expect it’s just a coincidence, then,” Billings
concluded. “We must’ve taken the same train back from
Oxford and we must both be on our way home.”

“I expect that must be the case.”

“Well, good day to you then, Mr
Rook.” Billings tipped his hat at him.
“I’d best be on my way.”

“Good day to you, Mr Billings.”

When
he got back home, Billings rushed straight to his room, took the envelope out
of his pocket, grabbed a box of matches from the windowsill, crouched down
before the fireplace and set fire to it and its contents. Watching the cindered
remains disappearing down the roster, he decided he’d take a generous dose of
morphine that night. He was determined to sleep soundly. He’d sleep so soundly
that, when he’d wake up the following morning, it would be as if this whole day
had never occurred. As if the day had just been a bad dream. Like one of those
morphine-induced nightmares he sometimes had. He hadn’t given in to temptation.
He hadn’t soiled his consciousness. He hadn’t plotted to maltreat another
fellow human being. He hadn’t risked jeopardizing his career. It had all been a
bad dream, that’s all. A bad, disturbing dream, the likes of which he’d had
many times before.

Blurb:

‘The Ornamental Hermit’ is a thrilling mystery which leads the reader on a colourful journey into Victorian England.’

The year is 1890. Detective Sergeant John Billings is a Quaker. He sees God in everyone and takes other people’s suffering to heart. He is an honest and hard working man who has risen swiftly through the ranks to become one of Scotland Yard’s youngest detectives. But in his private life he struggles with the demons of loneliness, morphine addiction and homosexuality.

More about author Olivier Bosman:

http://www.olivierbosman.com

Born to Dutch parents and raised in Colombia and England, I am a rootless wanderer with itchy feet. I’ve spent the last few years living and working in The Netherlands, Czech Republic, Sudan and Bulgaria, but I have now finally settled down among the olive groves of Andalucia.

For updates on my latest projects and the occasional freebie, please join my mailing list.

www.olivierbosman.com

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Published on January 12, 2019 08:20

January 5, 2019

Excerpt & FREE Giveaway: Pretty Boy Dead by Jon Michaelsen

Excerpt: Pretty Boy Dead (a Kendall Parker Mystery)

The call came through Sergeant Kendall Parker’s cell during his regular morning coffee run to the Landmark diner on Cheshire Bridge Road. Moments later, the detective slapped a blue light on the roof of his silver-blue cruiser and sped through the Morningside neighborhood, an overpriced in-town section on the northern fringes of the city. He turned off Cheshire Bridge Road to Piedmont and punched the accelerator after maneuvering around a few startled drivers. The traffic proved thicker than he’d expected this morning, forcing him to jockey along Piedmont Avenue and zigzag through the southbound lanes. The call had directed him to Piedmont Park, a popular one hundred and sixty-eight-acre triangle of land in the heart of Midtown, originally named for its crop-producing milieu connecting downtown and the tony Buckhead community lying northeast of the city. A body found in a runoff ditch at the park’s southernmost corner revealed no identification or apparent cause of death. The male victim had likely washed downstream during last night’s heavy spring ran.

https://tinyurl.com/Pretty-Boy-Dead-purchase-link

Turning east on Monroe, Parker spotted a pair of blue and whites angled on 10th Street across from Grady High School’s new football and track field. Early rising joggers sprinkled the gravel running track that circled the perimeter of the field, several gawking at the flashing lights invading their area.

The Criminal Investigation Division dispatched
at least three investigators to the scene of every death in the city: two from
Homicide and another from either Sex Crimes or the Robbery unit. CID personnel received
their orders from the homicide detective on call even though the homicide
sergeant ultimately ran the investigation. Sgt. Kendall Parker led the charge
today. Most referred to him by last name only. Parker was a major-crimes
investigator for the department, CID, his rank Master Sergeant, a ten-year
veteran with APD, the last six with the Homicide Squad.

Parker ran two wheels of his car over the curb
and killed the motor, extricating his linebacker frame from the vehicle and
striding across the grassy plane toward the dark blue uniform standing at the
perimeter of a paved walking trail. He flashed his shield to a beat cop
standing guard at the scene, who pointed him in the direction of the body
without introduction.

Head down to protect his face from the assault
of thorns, he trudged through a thicket of overgrowth and underbrush, the
branches snatching at his trousers and poking through the fabric, nicking his
flesh. He emerged at the crest of a wide drainage ditch. Looking out, he
noticed that the storm basin sliced through the southeastern edge of the park
and vanished through a giant steel cylinder set beneath 10th Street.
He came upon a second cop sitting on the angled concrete about thirty yards
from the body, and revealed his badge again.

“Anyone touched the body?”

“No sir,” the man called, shielding his eyes
from the bright sun with an upraised arm and stood to meet the sergeant. “Ain’t
let nobody down there, sir,” he said, jutting his chin toward the corpse below.
“Waitin’ for the MPO.” He followed along, but became alarmed when Parker did
not stop. “Hey, you can’t go down there.”

The sergeant reached the precipice of the
concrete gully. A body lay tangled in a web of branches and debris, face up in
a flow of shallow water. The stiff wore a type of dark overcoat, raincoat, or
canvas outerwear. A strong odor, often associated with a bloated cadaver, wafted
in the breeze. Parker squatted, angled his six–foot four-inch frame to make the
steep trek into the ditch, and walked the edge of water this side of the
cadaver, careful not to contaminate the scene.

“Ignore me,” Parker called over his shoulder. “I
won’t touch a thing,” he said, cursing the cop under his breath. Damn rookie.

The officer’s face glowed red. He perched
himself in a spot above the basin, jotting the detective’s name and badge
number in his spiral notepad while, no doubt, awaiting his supervisor.

The detective pushed mirrored shades over his
head of thick, dark curls, his brown eyes sweeping the area. He withdrew a
pocket notepad—as much a part of him as the shield he wore clipped on his belt—and
noted the time, location, and weather conditions. Surveying the area, he
sketched out the scene while completing a spiral search, working his way toward
the remains. A crime scene crew would trudge the same route when they arrived
to videotape the scene, but Parker needed his own notes for later recall.

“Call came in at 6:42 a.m.,” a voice said from
behind the sergeant.

Parker scowled and glanced over his shoulder,
recognizing Timothy Brooks, an overzealous rookie detective recently assigned
to the squad.

Brooks clambered into the gully, slipping and
sliding on his backside until the heels of his big wingtips caught hold at the
bottom of the ditch but not before his right foot landed in the water.

“Watch it,” Parker pointed and snapped. “You’ll
fuck up the scene.”

“Sorry.” Brooks stepped back shaking water from
his shoe. “Homeless man spotted the body at first light.” He continued without
missing a beat and brushed the seat of his pressed khakis. “Perelli’s taking
his statement up near the toilet-house. Dispatch traced the call to the
emergency phone up there.”

Brooks sported a wide, Cheshire cat grin as he approached his new boss and stopped several feet from the body, tucking both hands in the flat-front pockets of his trousers. The beat cop resting on the embankment ventured forward.

Path victim took to Piedmont Park in Atlanta

Parker shook his head and waved his arms at
both of them. “Get the hell back.”

Brooks obliged, retracing his steps double-time
and shuffling the objecting officer back up the embankment. The cop shouted
expletives indecipherable to Parker as he turned his attention back to the
cadaver. Brooks had to learn his preference for spending a few minutes alone at
a fresh crime scene, so best start now. Parker viewed the precious time alone a
ritual of sorts, a rite of passage earned by years of long hours spent
investigating the deaths of others. He’d be chastised by his commanding officer
later.

A body commanded the heart of any homicide.
Parker’s badge required him to confront the remains, regardless of circumstance
or condition. Years of experience had taught him emotional detachment was the
key to any successful investigation and although that theory may work for some,
deep down inside he knew better. Soon, he’d relinquish a piece of his soul to
this abandoned corpse, as with every other that followed. Truth be told, he
died a little death at the beginning of every homicide investigation.

A cool breeze drifted through the basin and
eased the queasiness in his gut. He popped a handful of antacids in his mouth and slipped a pair of latex gloves on
before kneeling over the sunbaked cadaver. Clicking on the handheld recorder
that he carried in his pocket, he described the body in detail. “Male,
Caucasian, late teens-early twenties, approximately 5’10, one-hundred seventy
to eighty pounds. Dark hair trimmed close, and no obvious signs of trauma.
Clothes appear expensive and not threadbare, not the mark of a vagrant or a
street kid,” he said. He swallowed a build-up of phlegm at the back of his
throat. The stale, decaying odor skimming the surface of trickling water in the
gully was stifling. He continued moving his eyes in a grid pattern over the
discovery.

Parker avoided looking at the blanched face,
the cloudy blue eyes, and bloated skin of the body. He used a pen from his
chest pocket to probe the collar of the victim’s overcoat, lifting the damp
fabric of the shirt beneath. A thick, gold chain surrounded the puffy neck,
herringbone links wedged into the skin sparkling in the bright sunlight. In the
murkiness to his left, a large dial, chrome-banded watch clung to a swollen
wrist. The awkward angle of the arm displayed the crystal of the timepiece,
cracked and filled with water, time frozen at a quarter past one, perhaps a
clue to time of death. The right hand of the victim held a dark leather glove.

Leaning over the body for closer inspection,
Parker speculated how the kid might have ended up like this, a technique he
often used to get inside the victim’s head, sifting through pieces of the scene
and condition of the body to connect the dots. These days, nothing in his line
of work appeared simple and straightforward. Days, perhaps weeks, would pass
before he would ferret out the reason behind the young man’s death, if ever.

The smell of raw sewage tickled the hairs in
his nostrils as he studied the body. Despite the scripts churned out of
Hollywood like a carnival music machine, cops never became used to seeing such
gore, the sickly-sweet scent of rotting flesh, vicious crimes against another
human being. The carnage worked to further harden their hearts from life’s
other assaults and question the existence of faith, forcing the soul into
tolerance and acceptance. The detective displayed impenetrable tolerance, but
acceptance? Never. It came with the
territory.

Parker stared at the corpse, seeing not the man
lying before him, but the haunting image of another. The obsession was never
far from his mind, clouding his thoughts and perhaps his judgment. It was an
effigy of a young man taller and wider-shouldered than the one lying flat in
the stream of water, an imagined reflection sinking to the depths of much
deeper water no amount of scotch could erase. The urge to reach out and grasp
the phantasm in his mind’s eye passed as a prickly chill nipped the back of his
neck and reminded him that he had a job to do.

He called out for Brooks to join him.

The rookie bounded down the slope on cue.

“Have you called the M.E.?”

Brooks nodded in bobble-head speed.

“So, where the fuck is she?”

Parker stood after finding no identification on
the body. A reflection caught the corner of his eye as he turned to walk away.
Shifting his feet to the outer perimeter of the corpse, careful not to disturb
the zone, he reached over a mound of debris and lifted the edge of a
waterlogged matchbook with the tip of his pen. He recognized the name
embellished across the silvery cardboard. It belonged to a small neighborhood
bar up the road and across from the park.

“Get some men to search the grounds for evidence,”
Parker said, leaving the matchbook where he found it. “See if you can locate
the missing glove…and a cell phone.”

“Cell phone, sir?” Brooks asked.

“The victim’s cell. Everyone has a cell phone
these days, and it ain’t on the body.”

Parker glanced back at the dead man, a moment
of antipathy passing through his core before turning away, the lasting image
taking its place among countless others extolled in his memory. “Put in another
call for the ME.”

The sergeant ripped off the latex gloves and
stuffed them in the pocket of his coat.

Piedmont Park near where victim found

Blurb:

A
murdered male stripper.

A missing
go-go dancer.

When the
mangled body of a young gay man is discovered in a popular Atlanta park,
advocacy groups converge on City Hall demanding justice. Media are quick to pin
the brutal homicide on a drug-addicted, homeless teen. Atlanta Detective Sgt.
Kendall Parker isn’t so convinced, even after the suspect assaults his homicide
partner with a deadly weapon. But the investigation takes a disastrous
turn, and a suspect in custody ends up dead.

It
becomes a race against time for the veteran detective to solve the apparent
gay-bashing, but when a tenacious reporter threatens to expose a
police cover-up, Parker is forced to make an impossible choice: stand firm for
justice, or betray the brotherhood in blue.

The odds against him, Parker will need to rely on his keen instinct and experience as a streetwise cop to catch a brutal killer. Yet success often comes at a price, and for Parker, it may mean having to reveal his most closely guarded secret.

WIN a FREE e-book or audio copy of PRETTY BOY DEAD – winner’s choice

ENTER drawing by clicking on the Rafflecopter link below. The winner can chose format: Kindle (mobi), e-pub or .pdf. (**some countries/locations may not be able to receive e-mail delivery**).

Drawing Friday, January 11th, 2019 @ 8pm EDT. Good luck!

CLICK HERE TO ENTER- a Rafflecopter giveaway

Author Jon Michaelsen

Jon Michaelsen is a writer of Gay fiction & Speculative fiction,
most with elements of mystery and suspense/thriller.

Born near the banks of the Chattahoochee River in Southwest
Georgia, at ten he moved with his family to Atlanta, where he has remained. With
more time to focus on writing after retiring from a corporate career of twenty-five
years, he began publishing short-fiction for a few years before debuting his
first novel, Pretty Boy Dead, which earned a Lambda Literary Finalist gold seal for Best Gay Mystery.

He continues to publish both short fiction and long fiction,
while drafting his second novel in the Kendall Parker Mystery series, The
Deadwood Murders, which is scheduled for publication in Spring 2019.

He lives with his husband of 32 years, and two monstrous
terriers.

Contact him at: Michaelsen.jon@gmail.com

On the Web:

http://www.jonmichaelsen.com
http://www.facebook/jonmichaelsen

Join him and get the best eBook deals on a daily basis, directly to your email:

https://www.ebookstage.com/welcome/MjE2ODc=/

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Published on January 05, 2019 07:17

December 29, 2018

Exclusive Excerpt: The Same Page (Have Body, Will Guard Book 9) by Neil Plakcy

Excerpt:

The detective led Arseny to a part of the building where the
cells looked like they were for longer-term holding, with two bunk beds and a
pot in the corner. He unlocked a cell where another man sat on one of the
bunks, his head in his hands.

His father had often said that Arseny made decisions based
on his heart, not his brain, and he’d warned Arseny that the world did not look
kindly on a man who did not consider the consequences of his actions.

What would his father say now? I told you so? Would
he be able to contact Slava? Perhaps his father could use his contacts to get
him released—or pay a ransom. How humiliating that would be, to go running to
his papa like a small boy. No, there had to be something he could do himself.

The detective took Arseny’s arm and thrust him roughly into
the cell, then clanged the door shut with a sound that reverberated through
Arseny’s body. He collapsed on the cot across from the other man, who didn’t
look up until the detective had left.

The Same Page

Arseny was immediately struck by how handsome his cell mate
was. Black hair, a couple of days’ scruff of beard, piercing dark eyes. He got
up and paced back and forth a few times, walking with the cocky, chest-forward
attitude of a short man accustomed to making his presence known among men much
taller than he was. The kind of man Arseny would have gravitated toward
immediately in a gay bar in Moscow.

Watching him, Arseny was flooded with a desire to get down
on his knees, eat out the man’s tight ass, and fuck him until he whimpered and
cried out and ejaculated solely from the pressure of Arseny’s dick against his
prostate.

But instead they were in a prison cell, in a country known
for its opposition to homosexuality. Arseny repressed any urges and simply
said, “You are Russian? Or Chechen?”

The man shrugged. “I speak only a few words of Russian,” he
said, in that language. “Sono Italiano.”

Arseny spoke no Italian beyond hello and goodbye, so he
tried, “English?”

The man smiled and nodded. “Yes, English. I am Giovanni. You
are?”

“Arseny. How do you come here?”

“It is all big mistake,” Giovanni said. “I am archaeologist
by trade. I come here to see ancient sites. I wish to buy some items for
museum, and suddenly I am arrested and accused.” He cocked his head. “You?”

“I don’t know why I’m here.” Arseny had no intention of
revealing his true reason for being in Chechnya, so he stuck to his cover
story. “I want to start an import-export business and I came here to meet with
a man who could supply me with merchandise. But for some reason the police
think he is corrupt, and because of him, me.”

“This is messed-up country,” Giovanni said. “Both of us
innocent and in jail for no reason.”

They talked for a few more minutes, then lapsed into
silence. Arseny’s stomach grumbled, and he realized he hadn’t had anything to
eat since breakfast. Did they feed prisoners? Would it be something edible?

“You live in Russia?” Giovanni asked.

“In Moscow. You?”

“In Rome. But my family, they are from Assisi. You know,
from Saint Francis? The one with the animals?”

Arseny had heard of him. “A small town?”

Giovanni shrugged. “Not so small. But Rome? Rome is big
city, much like Moscow, I think.”

“I have never been to Rome,” Arseny said. “Or anywhere in
Italy. My father lives now in Monaco, so maybe I will visit him some time. Is
not far from where he lives to Italy.”

“Ah, the Riviera ligure,” Giovanni said. “Very beautiful. I have been several times, with a
person I once loved.”

Arseny wondered if
the lack of gender to the “person” was deliberate, or simply because Giovanni’s
English was not perfect.

He pushed a little.
“I have loved like that,” he said. “But eventually it ended. The person and I
wanted different things in life.”

Giovanni nodded,
and Arseny thought he saw something in the Italian’s dark eyes. “You have a
business in Moscow?”

“Not yet.” Arseny
felt a bit ashamed at admitting that his father had transferred some of his
business assets to him and to his sister before fleeing Moscow, and that he
lived on that income rather than anything he did himself. “I am just out of
university for one year.”

He looked at
Giovanni. “You must have a doctorate degree for your job?”

Giovanni shook his
head. “I am a low-level person. The kind they send out to dangerous places. I
think the term from military in English is cannon fodder.”

Arseny didn’t know
that term, and Giovanni explained it. “Do you ever watch the American Star
Trek?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Arseny said with feeling. “Kirk and Spock!”

He was suddenly embarrassed, but Giovanni nodded. “Yes, Kirk
and Spock. Very handsome men, good friends.”

Before Arseny could fully process that comment, Giovanni
continued. “There is idea among fans of show. That on exploration of strange
planet, characters wearing red shirts will be killed by aliens.”

They began to discuss favorite episodes of the show, and the
similar Star Wars movies, and Arseny
felt more and more drawn to the handsome Italian. Though it was foolish to
assume anything, in a jail cell in a strange place where even the idea that a
man could be sexually attracted to another man was grounds for imprisonment or
death.

But Arseny couldn’t help wondering. Maybe that was why
Giovanni had been arrested. Perhaps he had made an advance to another man, been
revealed and taken into custody. Was that why the police had put them in this
cell together?

Were they being watched for signs of romantic activity?
Arseny gulped. All the more reason to watch himself.

Excerpt for Jon Michaelsen from The Same Page