Darcia Helle's Blog, page 14
April 26, 2022
Book Review — A DISTANT GRAVE: A Maggie D’Arcy Mystery by Sarah Stewart Taylor
Long Island homicide detective Maggie D’arcy and her teenage daughter, Lilly, are still recovering from the events of last fall when a strange new case demands Maggie’s attention. The body of an unidentified Irish national turns up in a wealthy Long Island beach community and with little to go on but the scars on his back, Maggie once again teams up with Garda detectives in Ireland to find out who the man was and what he was doing on Long Island. The strands of the mystery take Maggie to a quiet village in rural County Clare that’s full of secrets and introduce her to the world of humanitarian aid workers half a world away. And as she gets closer to the truth about the murder, what she learns leads her back to her home turf and into range of a dangerous and determined killer who will do anything to keep the victim’s story hidden forever.
With the lyrical prose, deeply drawn characters, and atmospheric setting that put The Mountains Wild on multiple best of the year lists, Sarah Stewart Taylor delivers another gripping mystery novel about family, survival, and the meaning of home.
Published: June 2021
My ThoughtsI received an ARC of this book a while back, and as with too many books, I was behind on reading it. But I did finally read it. Unfortunately, I wasn’t wowed.
This is a police procedural centering around a murder with ties to New York and Ireland. Detective Maggie D’Arcy solves the murder by peeling away layers of the victim’s life, piece by piece.
Pacing is slow, and we’re bogged down with repetitive details as the case is discussed among the various investigators. We also get a lot of angst from Maggie regarding her long-distance relationship and issues with her daughter, which also tended to be repetitive.
We travel with Maggie to Ireland, where we’re immersed in the setting and its history. This part was the most interesting for me.
This is the second Maggie D’Arcy Mystery. While some of the first book’s plot carries over, the author does a good job of referencing and explaining the content, so I think this one will work fine as a stand alone.
I liked the first book better than this one, though overall I’m just not connecting well to the characters.
*Thanks to Minotaur Books for the ARC.*
The post Book Review — A DISTANT GRAVE: A Maggie D’Arcy Mystery by Sarah Stewart Taylor appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
April 25, 2022
New Release Spotlight — THE WRONG VICTIM by Allison Brennan
A bomb explodes on a sunset charter cruise out of Friday Harbor at the height of tourist season and kills everyone on board. Now this fishing and boating community is in shock and asking who would commit such a heinous crime—the largest act of mass murder in the history of the San Juan Islands.
Was the explosion an act of domestic terrorism, or was one of the dead the primary target? That is the first question Special Agent Matt Costa, Detective Kara Quinn, and the rest of the FBI team need to answer, but they have few clues and no witnesses.
Accused of putting profits before people after leaking fuel endangered an environmentally sensitive preserve, the West End Charter company may itself have been the target. As Matt and his team get closer to answers, they find one of their own caught in the crosshairs of a determined killer.
The Wrong Victim : A Novel
Allison Brennan
On Sale Date: April 26, 2022
9780778312307
Hardcover
$26.99 USD
464 pages
Book Links:
Bookshop.org
Indie Bound
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Books-a-Million
Kobo
Google Play
iBooks
CHAPTER ONE
A killer walked among the peaceful community of Friday Harbor and retired FBI Agent Neil Devereaux couldn’t do one damn thing about it because he had no evidence.
Most cops had at least one case that haunted them long after the day they turned in their badge and retired. For Neil, that obsession was a cold case that his former law enforcement colleagues believed was closed. Not only closed, but not a double homicide at all—simply a tragic accident.
Neil knew they’d got it wrong; he just couldn’t prove it. He hadn’t been able to prove it thirteen years ago, and he couldn’t prove it now.
But he was close.
He knew that the two college boys didn’t drown “by accident;” they were murdered. He had a suspect and he’d even figured out why the boys had been targeted.
Knowing who and why meant nothing. He needed hard evidence. Hell, he’d settle for any evidence. All his theory got him was the FBI file on the deaths sent by an old friend, and the ear of a detective on the mainland who would be willing to investigate if Neil found more.
“I can’t open a closed death investigation without evidence, buddy.”
He would have said the same thing if he was in the same position.
Confronting the suspected killer would be dangerous, even for an experienced investigator like him. This wasn’t an Agatha Christie novel like his mother used to read, where he could bring the suspect and others into a room and run through the facts—only to have the killer jump up and confess.
Neil couldn’t stand to think that anyone might get away with such a brazen murder spree, sparked by revenge and deep bitterness. It’s why he couldn’t let it go, and why he felt for the first time that he was close…close to hard evidence that would compel a new investigation.
He was tired of being placated by the people he used to work with.
He’d spent so long following dead ends that he’d lost valuable time—and with time, the detailed memories of those who might still remember something about that fateful weekend. It was only the last year that Neil had turned his attention to other students at the university and realized the most likely suspect was living here, on San Juan Island, right under his nose.
All this was on his mind when he boarded the Water Lily, his favorite yacht in the West End Charter fleet. He went through his safety checklist, wondering why Cal McKinnon, the deckhand assigned to this sunset cruise, wasn’t already there.
If he wasn’t preoccupied with murder and irritated at Cal, Neil may have noticed the small hole in the bow of the ship, right above the water line, with fishing line coming out of it, taut in the water.
*
“I’m sorry. It’s last minute, I know,” Cal said to Kyle Richards in the clubhouse of West End Charter. “But I really need to talk to Jamie right away.”
“It’s that serious?” asked his longtime friend Kyle.
“I cannot lose her over this. I just can’t. I love her. We’re getting married.”
At least he hoped they were still getting married. Two months ago Jamie finally set a wedding date for the last Saturday in September—the fifth anniversary of their first date. And now this whole thing was a mess, and if Cal didn’t fix it now, he’d never be able to fix it.
You already blew it. You blew it five years ago. You should have told her the truth then!
“Alright then, go,” Kyle said. “I’ll take the cruise. I need the extra money, anyway. But you owe me—it’s Friday night. I had a date.”
Cal clapped Kyle on the back. “I definitely owe you, I’ll take your next crappy shift.”
“Better, give me your next corporate party boat.” Corporate parties on the largest yacht in their fleet had automatic eighteen percent tips added to the bill, which was split between a typical four-man crew in addition to salary. Plus, high-end parties often paid extra. Drunk rich people could become very generous with their pocket cash.
“You got it—it’s next Saturday night, the Fourth of July—so we good?”
Kyle gave him a high five, then left for the dock.
Cal clocked out and started for home. He passed a group of sign-carrying protesters and rolled his eyes.
West End Charter: Profit Over Protection
Protect Fish Not Profits!
Hey Hey Ho Ho Ted Colfax has to go!
Jeez , when would these people just stop? West End Charter had done nearly everything they wanted over the last two years—and then some—but it was never good enough.
Fortunately, the large crowds of protesters that started after the West End accident had dwindled over the last two years from hundreds to a half dozen. Maybe because they got bored, or maybe because West End fixed the problem with their older fleet, Cal didn’t know. But these few remaining were truly radical, and Cal hoped they didn’t cause any problems for the company over the lucrative Fourth of July holiday weekend.
He drove around them and headed home. He had more important things to deal with than this group of misfits.
Cal lived just outside of Friday Harbor with Jamie and their daughter. It was a small house, but all his, his savings covering the down payment after he left the Coast Guard six years ago. But it was Jamie who made the two-bedroom cottage a real home. She’d made curtains for the windows; put up cheery pictures that brightened even the grayest Washington day; and most recently, she’d framed some of Hazel’s colorful artwork for the kitchen nook he’d added on with Kyle’s help last summer.
He’d wanted to put Jamie on the deed when she moved in with him, but she wanted to go slower than that. He wanted to marry her, but she’d had a bad breakup with her longtime boyfriend before they met and was still struggling with the mind games her ex used to play on her. If that bastard ever set foot back on the island, Cal would beat him senseless.
But the ex was far out of the picture, living down in California, and Cal loved Jamie, so he respected her wishes not to pressure her into marriage. When she found out she was pregnant, he asked her to marry him again—she said yes but wanted to wait.
“There’s no rush. I love you, Cal, but I don’t want to get married just because I’m pregnant.”
He would move heaven and earth for Jamie and Hazel—why didn’t she know that?
That’s why when she finally settled on a date, confirmed it with invitations and an announcement in the San Juan Island newspaper, that he thought it would be smooth sailing.
And then she left.
As soon as he got home, he packed an overnight bag while trying to reach Jamie. She didn’t answer her cell phone. More than likely, there was no reception. Service was sketchy on the west side of the island.
He left another message.
“Jamie, we need to talk. I’m sorry, believe me I’m sorry. I love you. I love Hazel. I just want to talk and work this out. I’m coming to see you tonight, okay? Please call me.”
He was so frustrated. Not at Jamie—well, maybe a little because she’d taken off this morning for her dad’s place without even telling him. Just left him a note on the bathroom mirror.
Cal,
I need time to think. Give me a couple days, okay? I love you, but right now I just need a little perspective.
Jamie.
Cal didn’t like the “but” part. What was there to think about? He loved her. They had a life together. Jamie and their little girl Hazel meant everything to him. They were getting married in three months!
He’d given her all day to think and now they needed to talk. Jamie had a bad habit of remaining silent when she was upset, thanks to that prick she’d dated before Cal. Cal much preferred her to get angry, to yell at him, to say exactly how she felt, then they could move on.
He jumped in his old pickup truck and headed west, praying he could salvage his family, the only thing he truly cared about. Failure was not an option.
*
That night Kyle clocked in and told the staff supervisor, Gloria, that Cal was sick, and he was taking the sunset cruise for him.
“Are you lying to me?” Gloria asked, looking over the top of her glasses at him.
“No, well, I mean, he’s not sick sick.” Dammit, Kyle had always been a piss-poor liar. “But he and Jamie had a fight, I guess, and he wants to fix it.”
“Alright, I’ll talk to Cal tomorrow. Don’t you go lying for him.”
“Don’t get him in trouble, Gloria.”
She sighed, took off her large glasses and cleaned them on her cotton shirt. “I like Cal as much as everyone, I’m not going to jam him up, but he should have come to me. I’ll bet he gave you his slot on the Fourth, didn’t he?”
Kyle grinned. Gloria had worked for West End longer than Kyle had been alive. They couldn’t operate without her.
“Eight people total. A party of four and two parties of two.” Gloria handed him the clipboard with the information of those who had registered for tonight’s sunset cruise. “Four bottles of champagne, a case of water, and cheese and fruit trays are onboard. You have one minute.”
“Thanks Gloria!” He ran down the dock to the Water Lily. He texted his boyfriend as he ran.
Hey, taking Cal’s shift, docking at 10—want to meet up then?
He sent the message and almost ran into a group who were already standing at the docks. Two men, two women, drinks in hand from the West End Club bar, in to-go cups.
“Can we board?” the tallest of the four asked.
“Give me one minute. What group are you with?”
“Nava Software.”
Kyle looked at his watch. Technically boarding started in five minutes; they’d be pushing off in twenty.
“I need to get approval from the captain.” He smiled and jumped over the gate. He found Neil Devereaux on the bridge, reading weather reports.
“You’re late,” Neil said without looking up.
“Sorry, Skipper. Cal called in sick.”
Neil looked at him. “Oh, Kyle, I didn’t know it was you. I was expecting Cal.”
“He called out. Everything okay?” Neil didn’t look like his usual chipper self.
“I had a rough day.”
Rough day? Neil was a retired federal agent and got to pick any shift he wanted. Everyone liked him. If he didn’t want to work, he didn’t. He had a pension and didn’t even have to work but said once that he’d be bored if he didn’t have something to do. He spent most of his free time fishing or hanging out at the Fish & Brew. Kyle thought he was pretty cool for a Boomer.
“Your kids okay?” he asked.
Neil looked surprised at the question. “Yes, of course. Why?”
“You said you had a rough day—I just remember you talking about how one of your kids was deployed or something.”
He nodded with a half smile. “Good memory. Jill is doing great. She’s on base in Japan, a mechanic. She loves it. And Eric is good, just works too much at the hospital. Thanks for asking.”
“Four guests are waiting to board—is it okay?”
“There’s always someone early, isn’t there?”
“Better early than late,” Kyle said, parroting something that Neil often said to the crew.
Neil laughed, and Kyle was glad he was able to take the skipper’s mind off whatever was bothering him.
“Go ahead, let them on—rear deck only. Check the lines, supplies, and emergency gear, okay? No food or drink until we pass the marker.”
“Got it.”
Kyle slid down the ladder as his phone vibrated. It was Adam.
F&B only place open that late—meet at the club and we’ll walk over, k?
He responded with a thumbs-up emoji and a heart, then smiled at the group of four. “Come aboard!”
*
Madelyn Jeffries sat on the toilet—not because she had to pee, but because she didn’t want to go on this cruise, not even for only three hours. She didn’t want to smile and play nice with Tina Marshall just because Pierce wanted to discuss business with Tina’s husband Vince.
She hated Tina. That woman would do anything to make her miserable. All because Pierce had fallen in love with her, Madelyn Cordell, a smart girl from the wrong side of the tracks in Tacoma.
Pierce didn’t understand. He tried, God bless him, but he didn’t. He was from another generation. He understood sex and chivalry and generosity and respect. He was the sweetest man she’d ever met. But he didn’t understand female interactions.
“I know you and Tina had somewhat of a rivalry when we met. But sweetheart, I fell in love with you. There’s no reason for you to be insecure.”
She wasn’t insecure. She and Pierce had something special, something that no one else could understand. Even she didn’t completely understand how she fell so head over heels for a man older than her deadbeat father. Oh, there was probably some psychologist out there who hadany number of theories, but all Madelyn knew was that she and Pierce were right.
But Tina made her see red.
Tina, on top of this pregnancy—a pregnancy Madelyn had wanted to keep quiet, between her and Pierce, until she was showing. But somehow Pierce’s kids had found out last week, and they went ballistic.
They were the reason she and Pierce decided to get away for a long weekend. Last night had been wonderful and romantic and exactly what she needed. Then at brunch this morning they ran into Tina and Vince who were on a “vacation” after their honeymoon.
Madelyn didn’t doubt that Tina had found out she was here and planned this. There was no doubt in her mind that Tina had come to put a wedge between her and Pierce. After five years, why couldn’t she just leave her alone?
Just seeing Tina brought back the fearful, insecure girl Madelyn used to be, and she didn’t want that. She loved her life, she loved her husband, and above all she loved the baby inside her.
She flushed the toilet and stepped out of the stall.
Tina stood there by the sink, lips freshly coated with bloodred.
Madelyn stepped around her and washed her hands.
“Vince took me to Paris for our honeymoon for two glorious weeks,” said Tina.
Madelyn didn’t respond.
“I heard that you went to Montana.” Tina giggled a fake, frivolous laugh.
It was true. They’d spent a month in the Centennial Valley for their honeymoon, in a beautiful lodge owned by Pierce. They went horseback riding, hiking, had picnics, and she even learned how to fish—Pierce wanted to teach her, and she found that she enjoyed it. Fishing was relaxing and wholesome, something she’d never considered before. It had been the best month of her life.
But she wasn’t sharing that with Madelyn. Her time with Pierce was private. It was sacred.
She dried her hands and said, “Excuse me.”
“You think you’ve changed, but you haven’t. You’re still the little bug-eyed girl who followed me around for years. I taught you how to walk, I taught you how to attract men, I taught you how to dress and talk and act like you were somebody. If it wasn’t for me, you would never have met Pierce Jeffries. And you took him from me.”
“The boat leaves in five minutes.” Madelyn desperately wanted to get away from Tina.
“Vince and Pierce are going into business together. We’ll be spending a lot of time together, you and me. You would do well to drop the holier-than-thou act and accept the fact that I am back in your life and I’m not going anywhere.”
Madelyn stared at Tina. Once she’d been in awe of the girl, a year older than she was, who always seemed to get what she wanted. Tina was bold, she was beautiful, she was driven.
But she would never be satisfied. Did she even love Vince Marshall? Or had she married him because of the money and status he could give her?
Madelyn hated that when she first met Pierce she had thought he was her ticket out of poverty and menial jobs. She hated that she had followed Tina’s advice on how to seduce an older man.
Madelyn had fallen in love with Pierce, not because he was rich or powerful or for what he could give her. She loved him because he was kind and compassionate. She loved him because he saw her as she was and loved her anyway. But when he proposed to her, she’d fallen apart. She’d told him that she loved him, but she could never marry him because everything she was had been built on a lie—how she got her job at the country club, now they first met, how she had targeted him because he was wealthy and single. She would never forgive herself; how could he? His marriage proposal had been romantic and beautiful—he’d taken her to the bench where they first had a conversation, along the water of Puget Sound. But she ran away, ashamed.
He’d found her, she’d told him everything, the entire truth about who she was—a poor girl from a poor neighborhood who pretended to be worldly and sophisticated to attract men.
He said he loved her even more.
“I knew, Madelyn, from the beginning. But more, I see you, inside and out, and that’s the woman I love.”
Madelyn stared at her onetime friend. “Tina, you would do well to mind your p’s and q’s, because if I tell Pierce to back off, he’ll back off.”
She sounded a lot more confident than she felt. When it came to business, Pierce would listen to her, but he deferred to his oldest son, who worked closely with him. And Madelyn had never given him an ultimatum. She’d never told him what to do about business. She’d never have considered it, except for Tina.
Tina scowled.
Madelyn passed by her, then snipped, “By the way, nice boob job.”
She left, the confrontation draining her. She didn’t want to do this cruise. She didn’t want to go head-to-head with Tina for the next three hours.
She didn’t want to use the baby as an excuse…but desperate times and all that.
Pierce was waiting for her on the dock, talking to Vince Marshall.
“Would you excuse us for one moment, Vince?” she said politely.
“Of course, I’ll catch up with Tina and meet you on the boat.”
She smiled and nodded as he walked back to the harbormaster’s building.
“What is it, love?” Concerned, worried, about her.
“I thought morning sickness was only in the morning. I’m sorry—I fear if I get on that boat, I’ll be ill again. I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“Nonsense,” he said. He took her hand, kissed it. “You will never embarrass me.” He put their joined hands on her stomach. The warmth and affection in his eyes made her fall in love with him again. She felt like she loved Pierce a little more every day. “I can meet with Vince tomorrow. I’ll go back to the house with you.”
“This business meeting is important to you, isn’t it?”
“It might be.”
“Then go. Enjoy it. I can get home myself. Isn’t that what Ubers are for?”
“A sunset is not as pretty without the woman I love holding my hand.”
She wanted him home with her, but this was best. They had separate lives, at least in business; she didn’t want to pressure him in any way, just because she detested Tina. “I will wait up for you.”
He leaned over and kissed her. Gently. As if she would break. “Take good care of the woman I love, Bump,” he said to her stomach.
She melted, kissed him again, then turned and walked back down the dock, fighting an overwhelming urge to go back and ask Pierce to come home with her.
But she wouldn’t do it. It was silly and childish. Instead, she would go home, read a good book, and prepare a light meal for when Pierce came home. Then she would make love to her husband and put her past—and that hideous leech Tina Marshall—firmly out of her mind.
*
Jamie already regretted leaving Friday Harbor.
She listened to Cal’s message twice, then deleted it and cleaned up after dinner. Hazel was watching her half hour of PAW Patrol before bath, books, and bed.
Her dad’s remote house near Rogue Harbor was on the opposite side of the island from where they lived. Peaceful, quiet, what she thought she needed, especially since her dad wasn’t here. He was an airline pilot and had a condo in Seattle that he lived in more often than not, coming up here only when he had more than two days off in a row.
She left because she was hurt. She had every right to be hurt, dammit! But now that she was here, she wondered if she’d made a mistake.
Cal hadn’t technically cheated on her. But he also hadn’t told her that his ex-girlfriend was living on the island, not until the woman befriended her. She wouldn’t have thought twice about it except for the fact that Cal had hidden it from her.
She had a bad habit of running away from any hint of approaching drama. She hated conflict and would avoid it at all costs. Her mother was drama personified. How many times had young Jamie run to her dad’s house to get away from her mother’s bullshit? Finally when she was fifteen she permanently moved in with her dad, changed schools, and her mother didn’t say squat.
“You should have stayed and talked it out,” she mumbled to herself as she dried the dishes. The only bad thing about her dad’s place was that there was no dishwasher.
But Cal was coming to see her tonight. He didn’t run away from conflict. She wanted to fix this but didn’t know how because she was hurt. But he hadto work, so she figured she had a few hours to think everything through. To know the right thing to do.
“Just tell him. Tell him how you feel.”
Her phone buzzed and at first she thought it was an Amber Alert, because it was an odd sound.
Instead, it was an emergency alert from the San Juan Island Sheriff’s Office.
19:07 SJSO ALERT! VESSEL EXPLOSION ONE MILE OUT FROM FRIDAY HARBOR, INJURIES UNKNOWN. ALL VESSELS AVOID FRIDAY HARBOR UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
Her stomach flipped and she grabbed the counter when a wave of dizziness washed over her.
She turned on the small television in the kitchen and switched to the local news. She watched in horror as the news anchor reported that a West End Charter yacht had exploded after leaving for a sunset cruise. He confirmed that it was the Water Lily and did not know at this time if there were survivors. Search and rescue crews were already out on the water, and authorities advised all vessels to dock immediately.
Cal had been scheduled to work the Water Lily tonight.
Hazel laughed at something silly on PAW Patrol. Jamie caught her breath, then suddenly tears fell. How could—? No. Not Cal. She loved him and even if they had problems, he loved Hazel more than anything in the world. He was the best father she could have hoped for. Hazel wasn’t planned, but she was loved so much, and Cal had made it clear that he was sticking, from the very beginning. How could she forget that? How could she have forgotten that Cal had never made her feel inadequate, he’d never hurt her, he always told her she could do anything she wanted? He was always there for her…when she was bedridden with Hazel for two months. When she broke her wrist and Hazel was still nursing, he held the baby to her breast every four hours. Changed every diaper. He sang to Hazel, read her books, giggled with her in makeshift blanket forts when thunder scared her.
And now he was gone.
There could be survivors. You have to go.
She couldn’t bring Hazel to the dock. The search, the sirens, the fear that filled the town. It would terrify the three-year-old.
But she couldn’t stay here. Cal needed her—injured or not, he needed her and she loved him. It was as simple as that. Rena would watch Hazel so Jamie could find Cal, make sure he was okay.
“Hazel, we’re going home.”
“I wanna sleep at Grandpa’s!”
“I forgot to feed Tabby.” Tabby was a stray cat who had adopted their carport on cold or rainy nights. He wouldn’t come into the house, and only on rare occasions would let Jamie pet him, but she’d started feeding him. Hazel had of course named him after a cat on her favorite show.
“Oh, Mommy! We gotta go rescue Tabby!”
And just like that, Hazel was ready.
Please, God, please please please please make Cal okay.
*
Ashley Dunlap didn’t like lying to her sister, but Whitney couldn’t keep a secret to save her life, and if Whitney said one word to their dad about Ashley’s involvement with Island Protectors, she’d be grounded until she graduated—and maybe even longer.
“We’re going to be late,” Whitney said.
“Dad will understand,” Ashley said, looking through the long lens of her camera at the West End Charter boat leaving port. She snapped a couple pictures, though they were too far away to see anything.
She was just one of several monitors who were keeping close tabs on West End boats in the hopes that they would catch them breaking the law. West End may have been able to convince most people in town that they had cleaned up their act, and some even believed their claims that the leakage two years ago was an accident, but as the founder of IP Donna Bell said time and time again, companies always put profit over people. And justbecause they hadn’t caught them breaking the law didn’t mean that they weren’t breaking the law. It was IP who documented the faulty fuel tanks two years ago that leaked their nasty fuel all over the coast. Who knows how many fish died because of their crimes? How long it would take the ecosystem to recover?
“Ash, Dad said not a minute past eight, and it’s already seven thirty. It’s going to take us thirty minutes just to dock and secure the boat.”
“It’s a beautiful evening,” Ashley said, turning her camera away from the Water Lily and toward the shore. Another boat was preparing to leave, but the largest yacht in the fleet—The Tempest—was already out with a group of fifty whale watching west of the island in the HaroStrait. Bobby and his brother were out that way, monitoring The Tempest.
Ashley was frustrated. They just didn’t have people who cared enough to take the time to monitor West End. There were only about eight or nine of them who were willing to spend all their free time standing up to West End, tracking their boats, making sure they were obeying the rules.
Everyone else just took West End’s word for it.
Whitney sighed. “I could tell Dad the sail snagged.”
“You can’t lie to save your life, sis,” Ashley said. “We’ll just tell him the truth. It’s a beautiful night and we got distracted by the beauty of the islands.”
Whitney laughed, then smiled. “It is pretty, isn’t it? Think those pictures are going to turn out? It’s getting a little choppy.”
“Some of them might,” she said.
Ashley turned her camera back to the Water Lily. The charter was still going only five knots as they left the harbor. She snapped a few pictures, saw that Neil Devereaux was piloting today. She liked Neil—he spent a lot of time at the Fish & Brew talking to her dad and anyone else who came in. He’d only lived here for a couple years, but he seemed like a native of the small community. She’d talked to him about the pollution problem from West End, and he kept saying that West End fixed the problem with the old tanks and he’d seen nothing to suggest that they had other problems or cut corners on the repairs. He told her he would look around, and if anything was wrong, he’d bring it to the Colfax family’s attention.
But could she believe him? Did he really care or was he just trying to get her to go away and leave West End alone?
Neil looked over at their sailboat, and both she and Whitney waved. He blew the horn and waved back.
A breeze rattled the sail, and Whitney grabbed the beam. “Shit!” she said.
Ashley put her camera back in its case and caught the rope dangling from the mast. “You good, Whit?”
“Yeah, it just slipped. Beautiful scenery is distracting. I got it.”
Whitney bent down to secure the line, and Ashley turned back toward the Water Lily as it passed the one-mile marker and picked up speed.
The bow shook so hard she thought they might have hit something, then a fireball erupted, shot into the air along with wood and—oh, God,people!—bright orange, then black smoke billowed from the Water Lily. The stern kept moving forward, the boat in two pieces—the front destroyed, the back collapsing.
Whitney screamed and Ashley stared. She saw a body in the water among the debris. The flames went out almost immediately, but the smoke filled the area.
“We have to help them,” Ashley said. “Whitney—”
Then a second explosion sent a shock wave toward their sailboat and it was all they could do to keep from going under themselves. Sirens on the shore sounded the alarm, and Ashley and Whitney headed back to the harbor as the sheriff’s rescue boats went toward the disaster.
Taking a final look back, Ashley pulled out her camera and took more pictures. If West End was to blame for this, Ashley would make sure they paid. Neil was a friend, a good man, like a grandfather to her. He…he couldn’t have survived. Could he?
She stared at the smoking boat, split in two.
No. She didn’t see how anyone survived that.
Tears streamed down her face and as soon as she and Whitney were docked, she hugged her sister tight.
I’ll get them, Neil. I promise you, I’ll prove that West End cut corners and killed you and everyone else.
Excerpted from The Wrong Victim by Allison Brennan, Copyright © 2022 by Allison Brennan. Published by MIRA Books.
About the Author
ALLISON BRENNAN is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of over thirty novels. She has been nominated for Best Paperback Original Thriller by International Thriller Writers and the Daphne du Maurier Award. A former consultant in the California State Legislature, Allison lives in Arizona with her husband, five kids and assorted pets.
Social Links:
Author website: https://www.allisonbrennan.com/
Facebook: @AllisonBrennan
Twitter: @Allison_Brennan
Instagram: @abwrites
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/52527.Allison_Brennan
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April 24, 2022
New Release Spotlight — HOPE, a History of the Future by G.G. Kellner
One quiet afternoon in 2037, Joyce Denzell hears a thud in her family’s home library and finds a book lying in the middle of the room, seemingly waiting for her―a book whose copyright page says it was published in the year 2200. Over the next twenty-four hours, each of the Denzell family members discovers and reads from this mystical history book from the future, nudged along by their cat, Plato.
As the various family members take turns reading, they gradually uncover the story of Gabe, Mia, and Ruth—a saga of adventure, endurance, romance, mystery, and hope that touches them all deeply. Along the way, the Denzells all begin to believe that this book that has seemingly fallen out of time and space and into their midst might actually be from the future—and that it might have something vitally important to teach them.
Engaging, playful, and thought-provoking, Hope is a seven-generation-spanning vision of the future as it could be—based on scientific projections, as well as historical and legal precedence—that will leave readers grappling with questions of destiny, responsibility, and the possibility for hope in a future world.
Praise for Hope, A History of the Future:
“It is a work of epic imagination, well researched and poetically rendered.” —Forest Kinney, educator, author, pianist, composer, and presenter“G.G. Kellner’s book is a bold and poetic vision of a possible future—our future.” —Sam VanFleet“This tale inspires dreams of the world we all want to live in and nudges us toward their joyous fulfilment.” ––Priscilla Stuckey, author of Kissed by a Fox and Tamed by a BearExcerptGrace reached for her glasses on the bedside table and held up the note: “Back soon. Out for a walk. —Mom.”
Plato watched with one brow lifted above a green eye as she got up to go to the kitchen. Grace could almost but not quite reach the cupboard over the sink. She pushed a stool against the counter and stepped up to get a glass. She filled it with water and took a long drink. The house was quiet. Everyone was gone.
When she returned to her room, Plato was still on her bed, but he was curled on top of a large purple book. That’s weird, she thought; she hadn’t noticed it there on her way to the kitchen. She couldn’t imagine where it had come from.
Maybe Mom left it for me to read. Well, I need something to do anyway , she figured. She wasn’t allowed electronics if she was missing school. She nudged Plato off the book. “The History of the World” was written in large letters across the cover.
Grace liked school—well, mostly. She liked her fourth-grade teacher, and he liked history. And her mom had been a history major in college. As many times as they moved, they always packed the boxes of history books and brought them along.
Maybe this book came from one of those boxes.
When she was younger, before she could read herself, her father had often skipped to the end of the books he was reading to her. So, like him, she frequently started books at the back. Like her father, she figured she wouldn’t miss the ending that way. She opened the big book on her bed toward the end.
Plato touched his cold black nose to Grace’s arm, sending a small shiver down her spine. As she started to read, he settled down on the pillow next to her and began to purr.
In the spring of 2142, the world prepared to celebrate one hundred years of peace. Le stepped off the boat as it silently docked alongside the wharf. Its solar-powered engines shut down. The large white sails that collected energy were already furling automatically into place. The flag of the world, the round image of Earth from space, floated in the breeze. It was the enduring symbol of the oneness of humanity and the shared commitment to stewardship of the earth.
Le had taken a vow of austerity, the same vow all public representatives took. But the basket she was carrying was still heavy. It contained documents and a few personal items, but the most important things Le carried were in her heart and mind. The documents in her basket were light in comparison to her words. As a Speaker, she was practiced in the art of remembering details. Her early work as a Keeper of stories had helped train her already-keen mind. Sometimes she wished she could forget things—it would be easier.
As Le walked down the long wharf, her indigo robe fluttered open, revealing the talking stick tucked into her belt. Stepping to the ground, she knelt alongside the other travelers. She was greeted by volunteers, young and old, who were moving among the new arrivals like honeybees. They were passing out water for the little ceremonies taking place all around her. Copies of the Universal Bill of Rights and Responsibilities were being handed out too, for those not already carrying them. A young volunteer offered Le both. She smiled and gestured her gratitude, but she only accepted the water. She was already carrying a special copy of the Universal Bill of Rights and Responsibilities—the same copy she had carried with her for over thirty years.
Kneeling on the ground, Le placed her talking stick in front of her. She poured a little of the water out onto the earth where she knelt. “To which we all belong,” she said simply.
Then she repeated the words she had said so many times, words that were being echoed around her by the other new arrivals:
Water, water, cleanse my mind,
Make me peaceful, make me kind.
Water, water, cleanse my soul,
Make me peaceful, make me whole.
She drank a little of the water. It tasted fresh and clean and quenched her thirst. Replacing the stopper, she added the bottle to her basket and waited, still kneeling, as was the custom.
An old gentleman wearing a golden armband approached her. He supported himself on a long talking stick of finely decorated wood with elaborately carved symbols. The handle of the staff was shiny from age and use. His eyes were folded in deep pockets beneath his brow, but the centers blazed with light. His broad nose rose like a mountain from the placid plane of his kindly face. His large ears seemed to tune into everything around him. Le had a fleeting thought that she had met him before. There was something familiar about him.
“Welcome,” he gestured.
Still kneeling, Le offered her talking stick to him with both hands. Offering a talking stick in this manner in a new community was a sign of peaceful intent and informed the hosts about the traveler.
The old man looked closely at the symbols as he ran his weathered hands over the talking stick’s engraved surface. A large cat with a tail in the shape of a question mark wound itself around his feet.
As he returned the talking stick to Le, he introduced himself: “My name is Gaylord. May peace and love be with you.” His fingers moved gracefully through the gestures, despite his age.
The cat now rubbed against Le, seemingly echoing the old gentleman’s greeting.
“I am Le,” she said, rising and offering her hand.
Gaylord took her hand gently and placed it on the outside of his robe just over his heart, averting his eyes. In turn, she took his hand and guided it to rest on her cloak, just above her own heart, beating faster at the touch of a stranger.
She noted Gaylord’s pulse remained steady, quietly keeping rhythm inside the cage of his ribs. He wore a look of patient serenity. They stood together waiting for her pulse to slow, in this long important moment of nonaction. Gradually, her heart returned to a normal beat—the universally understood signal to raise their eyes and meet again, but this time no longer as the strangers they were moments earlier.
Gaylord’s long gray hair and beard were neatly trimmed and bound. Had he been standing completely upright, Le would have had to look up to see his face. But age had brought him closer to the earth. He appeared to be in a perpetual motion of bowing with gratitude. Le speculated that he was very old. Perhaps even born sometime during The Great Change.
About the Author
Gayle G. Kellner lives on an island in the Salish Sea in a home that has been in her family for over 100 years. She is a writer, artist, poet, and former educator. Gayle is a weekly guest on the community radio program The Brown Briefly, a humorous look at politics and culture. When she isn’t writing, reading, or painting you can probably find her wondering the beaches and forests of her island home with her dog, Pippi, or swimming in her beloved Salish Sea. Gayle is allergic to cats. Visit her at www.GayleKellner.com
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April 23, 2022
Book Review — NEVER SIMPLE: A Memoir by Liz Scheier
Liz Scheier’s darkly funny and touching memoir—with shades of Jeannette Walls’s The Glass Castle and Mira Bartók’s The Memory Palace—of growing up in ’90s Manhattan with a brilliant, mendacious single mother
Scheier’s mother Judith was a news junkie, a hilarious storyteller, a fast-talking charmer you couldn’t look away from, a single mother whose devotion crossed the line into obsession, and—when in the grips of the mental illness that plagued every day of her life—a violent and abusive liar whose hold on reality was shaky at best. On an uneventful afternoon when Scheier was eighteen, her mother sauntered into the room to tell her two important things: one, she had been married for most of Scheier’s life to a man she’d never heard of, and two, the man she’d told Scheier was her father was entirely fictional. She’d made him up. Those two big lies were the start, but not the end; it took dozens of smaller lies to support them, and by the time she was done she had built a farcical, half-true life for the two of them, from fake social security number to fabricated husband.
One hot July day twenty years later, Scheier receives a voicemail from Adult Protective Services, reporting that Judith has stopped paying rent and is refusing all offers of assistance. That call is the start of a shocking journey that takes the Scheiers, mother and daughter, deep into the cascading effects of decades of lies and deception.
Never Simple is the story of learning to survive—and, finally, trying to save—a complicated parent, as feared as she is loved, and as self-destructive as she is adoring.
Published: March 2022
My ThoughtsNever Simple gives us a glimpse into the life of a woman raised by a mother with mental health issues.
This memoir is both more and less than I expected.
While the maelstrom of Sheier’s life revolves around her issues with her mother, we don’t get a strong sense of her mother as a complex woman. Instead we see only glimpses, snapshots of behavior as a demonstration of the woman’s mental illness. I had so many questions, so much I wanted to know!
We do get a tremendous amount of insight into Sheier’s need for a connection with the father she never knew. She seemed desperate to piece him together and see herself in the man who’d been long dead by the time she was born.
Overall, this memoir is about a woman finding herself within the wreckage of a broken life. And while I would’ve loved answers to my questions, ultimately this wasn’t my story to tell. The author chose the pieces she wanted to put together, and perhaps those pieces are as revealing as the things she chose to keep to herself.
*I received a review copy from Henry Holt.*
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April 22, 2022
New Historical Fiction — CRY OF THE INNOCENT: A Faith Clarke Mystery by Julie Bates
April 1774 – Within the colonial capital of Virginia, Faith Clarke awakes in the middle of the night to discover a man savagely murdered in her tavern. Phineas Bullard was no stranger. Faith’s late husband had borrowed heavily from the man and left Faith to struggle to pay the debt.
With unrest growing in the American Colonies, the British are eager for a quick resolution at the end of a noose, regardless of guilt. Under suspicion for the crime, she must use every resource at her disposal to prove her innocence and protect those she loves. Her allies are Olivia and Titus, slaves left to her by her late husband’s family, individuals she must find a way to free, even as she finds they also have motives for murder.
Faith seeks to uncover the dead man’s secrets even as they draw close to home. Determined to find the truth, she continues headlong into a web of secrets that hides Tories, Patriots, and killers, not stopping even though she fears no one will hear the cry of the innocent.
“An absorbing, fast-paced, and contemplative whodunit.”
Kirkus Reviews
Book Details:Read an excerpt:I1774Genre: Historical Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: June 8th 2021
Number of Pages: 258
ISBN: 1953789773 (ISBN-13:978-1953789778)
Series: A Faith Clarke Mystery, #1
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
Muffled pounding jolted Faith awake. A few coals glowed from the fire but offered little illumination to the pitch-blackness surrounding the bed. Nearby her son, Andrew slept soundly in a trundle bed undisturbed by the excited barks of dogs outside in the streets of Williamsburg. Her heart jumped as she looked over to the door separating her bedroom from the main hall of the tavern and saw light coming in from the cracks between the door and its frame. A voice hissed outside.
“Mistress, you need to wake up.”
Olivia’s voice held the rich cadence of someone who had been born far from the English colonies. Faith suspected she had come from somewhere in the West Indies, but she had never asked. Given how long it had taken to build trust, she trod carefully.
There was no reason for Olivia to be outside the door. Given the hour, she and her husband, Titus, should be stirring the fires and fixing breakfast before their guests rose with the dawn. Faith’s feet hit the floor, and she gasped at the cold. Grabbing a coverlet for decency, she stumbled to the door, where her head hit the top of the doorframe. Pain struck like a hammer.
Opening the door a little, Faith stared at the other woman. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s a dead man in the private room.” Olivia’s breath came out in silvery puffs that peppered the air. Flour lightly dusted her hands and apron which indicated a sudden interruption from work.
“Are you sure?” Together they had dealt with a number of drunks in the year since the tavern had opened. Seven months since her husband Jon had died, leaving Faith in charge.
“I’m sure. Titus found him when he went to stir the fires before breakfast.”
Cold sweat broke out on Faith’s face as her stomach tied itself in knots. Titus was not one to panic. If he was correct, they had to act fast. Such an incident would only cause trouble.
Outside a rooster crowed warning that dawn paused for no one. Soon her guests would come downstairs for breakfast, and the streets would fill with merchants, slaves and others needing to do business in the capitol. Taking a breath, Faith forced an illusion of calm into her voice.
“Our guests will still expect breakfast. Take care of them. Make use of the boys if you need to. Tell Titus not to let anyone near the private room. I am on my way.” She turned back into her room, stopping by Andrew’s bed when she heard him move restlessly.
“What is it?” He began to stir out of his nest of blankets.
“Go back to sleep. It’s early yet.”
Hurriedly, she threw a skirt and bodice over her shift and stuffed her hair into a mob cap. Grabbing a heavy, woolen shawl, she slipped out down the steps to the backyard. The private room was separated from the main tavern by a narrow alley. It had its own front and back entrance, which made it perfect for meetings and extra work to provide meals and drinks. Side doors opened into the alley, which made delivering food and drink convenient although the walls of both buildings kept the narrow aperture cast in shadows.
Olivia watched her from the doorway of the kitchen, which stood apart from the tavern to lessen the risk of fire. Her son, Joshua, slept upstairs. Faith’s gaze circled the long backyard from where it ended at the path that separated it from the tenement next door to the small barn where animals were just beginning to stir. Something about the quiet made her feel jumpy, as if strange and unfriendly eyes watched. Mist rising from the dew added a ghostly air to the scene. Unnerved, she hurried to the door of the private room. She pulled her shawl closer to combat shivers induced by more than the cold.
The breath left Faith’s body as she took in the scene. However, running from trouble was a luxury no worker could afford. A weak fire from the hearth illuminated a man lying on the floor. The fine pewter of an upended tankard nearby glimmered faintly through the shadows. The room reeked of liquor. Perhaps he had simply passed out. In her few months as mistress of Clarke Tavern, she had handled men worse for drink.
Drunk was preferable to dead. Faith cleared her throat, which was suddenly too dry.
“Please be drunk,” she prayed as she came closer hoping for some indication of life. Reflected light gleamed off the brass buttons of his coat and made threads from his silk stockings gleam like ice. Fine lace covered his belly as the drift of his shirt hung out and onto the floor.
“My lord?” Faith inched forward, frowning. She now remembered who had demanded the use of her private room last night. Phineas Bullard acted like an odious bully sober. God only knew how he would behave drunk.
“Master Bullard!” she yelled, not bothering to be gentle.
The reek of wine made her queasy. She glanced about in disgust. It would take hours to make the room decent again. A bottle of port lay on its side, dripping off the table while a
nearly empty wine bottle lay on the floor. The tavern had very little of that in stock, too little to marinate the floor in it. Finally, fury at the man’s sloth overtook her.
Before reason returned, she grabbed his shoulder and shook it “Get up!”
As she aimed her toe to kick him, Faith stepped into something sticky.
Bending over to examine him more closely, her nostrils filled with the sickly scent of blood and other foul bodily substances. She gagged and backed away. The rising sun streaked in the door, allowing her to see what had not been clear before.
Blood soaked his breeches and collar down to the floorboards; his fine linen shirt savagely sliced into rags, revealing the damage beneath. Drying blood caked his throat and belly. Bullard’s wide open eyes and slack jaw implied the spectacle of his demise shocked him as well. Shaking him had rucked up his shirt exposing what she would have given anything not to see.
As the sun’s rays lit the room fully for the first time, horror overwhelmed her. Life had left him long ago.
“God have mercy.” Faith ran out the door, unable to view the nightmare any longer. Stomach revolting, she retched behind the branches of a bush. Her eyes watered as her stomach clenched into knots and set off another round.
“Miss Faith? Miss Faith!”
She shrieked and whirled around. Titus stood a few steps away. She drew in a relieved breath although she could not stop shaking.
Never had she been so glad to see a familiar face.
Wood chips were scattered in his clothes from where he had been chopping wood for the fires. The fresh scent of pine comforted her assaulted nose. His solid presence as well as the axe he carried, comforted her shattered nerves. Titus would be a formidable detriment to any physical threat.
“Are you ill?”
Faith swallowed nausea and pushed tendrils of hair back up into her cap. She gestured at the open doorway. The thought of what lay inside caused her gorge to rise again. Her nose and throat burned as she struggled to speak. “I will be alright. We need a physician, quickly.”
Titus shook his head. “He’s dead ma’am. No doctor can help him now. Let me get you back to the kitchen. The boys can get the sheriff. Best I stay here until I have had time to look around.” His voice roughened, “He has not been dead long, Miss Faith. Body is not all that cold. We had best not to take any chances. I will feed the chickens for the boys today, and they can go on to school. They should be safe enough in the street.”
Titus walked quietly beside her as they passed the smoke house. A breeze stirred the dead leaves from the nearby street. The big man said nothing as they walked past the barn where the horses shifted about in their stalls. Faith jumped but settled when the big man said, “They’re just waiting for breakfast.” His glance seemed to stop briefly at the small barn where the cow and a few horses resided then continued on their circuit.
Her head whirled as she considered the consequences of what she had seen. Bullard could be an insufferable bully, but she did not want him dead in her tavern. Once the sheriff came, news would spread. The authorities would want answers, and she had none. Given the current strife in the colonies, it was all too easy to find oneself unintentionally wearing a noose.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to put that idea out of her head.
The sun ascended the horizon, lighting the sky, as her feet crossed the threshold of the kitchen. Titus left her there and returned outside. Busy with breakfast preparations, Faith was grateful that Olivia did not mention that her mistress looked terrible and smelled worse. She poured herself a small amount of short beer and rinsed out her mouth. Stepping outside, she spat into the grass away from the walkway before returning to speak.
“Someone killed Phineas Bullard last night. The boys need to get the sheriff. Faith paused to gather her spinning thoughts grateful that Olivia was too busy to turn about and see her.
Her breath came too fast and shallow making her dizzy. She needed to gain control of her wits. Sitting at a nearby bench, she leaned over putting her head in her hands.
This was no time to panic. Too much was at stake. She forced herself to inhale and exhale. Gradually, her head cleared. There was no time to panic. Regardless of how she felt, life continued and with it, the work that survival entailed.
From her seat Faith could see inside the open door of the outdoor kitchen, She watched Olivia stirring the huge stewpot hanging over the fire in the kitchen. Nearby lay a stack of knives with rusty stains waiting for scrubbing. Some looked as if they had been used to separate a carcass. The idea made her gorge rise. Faith frowned. If she did not know better, she would swear Olivia was keeping her back to her. It made little sense but then nothing this morning did. Shrugging, she walked out the door back to the tavern.
Outside the door, Titus lingered carrying a plate covered with a napkin. At her glance, he looked nervous.
Faith smiled. “No worries, Titus. I’m sure you worked up quite an appetite this morning.”
“What? Oh sure, mistress. Quite an appetite.”
He was sweating despite the chill of the predawn air. Faith wondered how much would he had chopped. She felt guilty for sitting when he and his wife had been working. Faith touched his sleeve. “It is of no concern to me Titus.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Faith shook her head as she moved past him. Why would he think her worried about a little food? Surely, he knew her better than that. Normally Titus ate in the kitchen with Olivia. Pushing the distracting thought from her mind, she moved onward, determined to ignore the soft whispers behind her.
She managed to catch the door behind her before it slammed. She hurried down the tavern’s hall to the one private space she possessed. Creaking upstairs warned Faith to hurry. Other sounds told her that there would be chamber pots to empty and clean. Pouring water from the pitcher she had filled last night, she washed her face and combed her hair. This time, she took time to coil her hair and pin it in a respectable manner. Her hands shook as she tidied herself. The steel mirror showed a face pale and frightened.
“God help me,” she whispered before turning to where her son slept. “Andrew, it’s time to rise. I need you and Joshua to go get the sheriff.”
***
Excerpt from Cry of the Innocent by Julie Bates. Copyright 2022 by Julie Bates. Reproduced with permission from Julie Bates. All rights reserved.
Interview with Julie BatesTell us about your main character.
Faith Clarke is relatively young. She is 27 when the first story opens. Recently widowed, she is running her late husband’s tavern and raising their 9 year old son on her own. She is trying to find her way in the world and is barely making it when the murder occurs in her tavern.
What is your favorite personality trait of your main character?
I love her curiosity about life. She has a perpetual need to know why. It gets her into trouble but it also allows her to learn about herself and others.
Tell us something funny about one of your characters.
Jeremy Butler is a spy for the Patriots. He is the James Bond of the American Revolution. He is also quite short 5’ 2” which makes him all the more determined to prove himself. He’s terrified of rodents which comes out in the second book (A Taste of Betrayal coming out late Mat 2022).
Were you surprised by the behavior of any of your characters or the direction of your plot at any point while writing?
I did not realize how quietly fierce Olivia was. Underneath a subservient exterior is a tiger. She is highly intelligent and determined to make a better future for her family. I admire her. Sometimes I’m in awe of her. She can also be a little scary. As the cook for Clarke Tavern, she has an enormous number of knives at her disposal. I would hesitate to make her mad.
How long did it take you to write this book?
This book has been a dream for a very long time, partly because I struggled with my own insecurities about being good enough. With the encouragement of my family and friends, I completed my novel and went looking for a publisher. I was very fortunate to meet Verena Rose from Level Best Books who asked to see my story. The rest is history.
How did you come up with the title?
Cry of the Innocent can be interpreted as a cry against injustice, such as slavery, which continued in America for over 400 years. It also relates back to the inequalities in the justice system, then and now where the most vulnerable are not often heard.
Of all the books out there, why should readers choose this one?
First of all, this is a book set in American History, not Great Britain or an exotic locale. It opens just as the Revolutionary War is beginning to stir. Faith Clarke wants to remain neutral and ride the trouble out but that’s not going to be possible. She gets drawn in as her perspective changes based on what is happening around her.
Fiction can often provide powerful life lessons. What message do you hope readers get from your book?
My main character, Faith, has to make a decision regarding slavery. She knows it is wrong, but she has two slaves that were given to her as a wedding present. She is recently widowed and barely getting by as a tavern keeper. Nonetheless, her conscience demands she act. I think the important lesson in Cry of the Innocent is that doing the right thing is hard, it can cost you but that is not an excuse not to do it.
How much research goes into your fiction writing? What is your approach?
A lot of research goes into my writing. I check my facts on what happens in that particular year, where famous persons are and what is happening on a local level. I also research customs, fashion, food, and everyday events. I probably overdo it, but I want to make things real for my readers.
Tell us about your process for naming your characters.
My characters have names long before they hit the page. Some come easily such as Faith (I knew it had to be a biblical type name, it took a while to figure out what) to Olivia and Titus who evolved as I studied accounts of slavery. I hated slavery long before I studied it but I realized early on that not putting it in or prettying it up was an injustice to the thousands who suffered under it. I decided that all people of color would have names that gave them dignity and I would portray them in a manner that made it clear they were people of intelligence and ability and in no way deserved to be enslaved.
What is the biggest challenge for you in writing from the opposite gender’s POV?
I worry about POV. Obviously, I don’t’ think like a man. I do my best and rely on my male readers, such as my husband Bill to let me know if I’ve erred.
How do you decide on your book’s title?
My title relates to the overarching theme of that particular story. Cry of the Innocent relates to slavery and the injustice of so many people being dehumanized and treated as property. It also refers to the difficulties of proving one’s innocent without resources or connections. My second book, A Taste of Betrayal, refers both to the means of death as well as why would someone murder someone else? My third book, which I’m currently writing is titled Rise to Rebellion, and it relates to characters deciding how are they going to handle the ongoing conflict. Will they be Patriots or Loyalists and what will be the cost of that decision?
What inspires you?
The Bible. There are so many flawed individuals in it that still managed to live rich and interesting lives. I think it shows there is hope for everyone.
What is your favorite childhood memory?
When I was little my dad worked for General Motors. Almost every Saturday in the summer, we would pack up the station wagon and go to Point Huron to swim and play in the sand, then we would go to a nearby restaurant and feast on baskets of shrimp and fries. I still love the water.
Are you a morning or night person?
I’m a morning person. I love getting up, letting the dogs out (I have 3 huskies) and enjoying a nice cup of coffee.
If you could change any one thing about yourself, what would it be and why?
I would be a lot thinner. I can gain weight by looking at a cookie, much less eating one. I don’t need to be skinny, just a healthy weight for my size.
If you won a paid vacation anywhere in the world, where would you go?
I would love to visit Hawaii
Are you an introvert or extrovert?
About the AuthorI’m pretty introverted. I love reading and spending time with my pets. I don’t enjoy crowds at all.
Julie Bates grew up reading little bit of everything, but when she discovered Agatha Christie, she knew she what she wanted to write. Along the way, she has written a weekly column for the Asheboro Courier Tribune (her local newspaper) for two years and published a few articles in magazines such as Spin Off and Carolina Country. She has blogged for Killer Nashville and the educational website Read.Learn.Write. She currently works as a public school teacher for special needs students. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Southeastern Writers of America (SEMWA) and her local writing group, Piedmont Authors Network (PAN). When not busy plotting her next story, she enjoy doing crafts and spending time with her husband and son, as well as a number of dogs and cats who have shown up on her doorstep and never left.
JulieBates.weebly.com
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April 21, 2022
Intense and Realistic — NEVER by Ken Follett
The new must-read epic from master storyteller Ken Follett: more than a thriller, it’s an action-packed, globe-spanning drama set in the present day.
“A compelling story, and only too realistic.” —Lawrence H. Summers, former U.S. Treasury Secretary
“Every catastrophe begins with a little problem that doesn’t get fixed.” So says Pauline Green, president of the United States, in Follett’s nerve-racking drama of international tension.
A shrinking oasis in the Sahara Desert; a stolen US Army drone; an uninhabited Japanese island; and one country’s secret stash of deadly chemical poisons: all these play roles in a relentlessly escalating crisis.
Struggling to prevent the outbreak of world war are a young woman intelligence officer; a spy working undercover with jihadists; a brilliant Chinese spymaster; and Pauline herself, beleaguered by a populist rival for the next president election.
Never is an extraordinary novel, full of heroines and villains, false prophets and elite warriors, jaded politicians and opportunistic revolutionaries. It brims with cautionary wisdom for our times, and delivers a visceral, heart-pounding read that transports readers to the brink of the unimaginable.
Published: November 2021
My ThoughtsNever gives us a complex, intense story with realism that nearly broke me in two. After I closed the book, I sat in stunned silence.
This could happen. This is horrifying. This is powerful.
Full disclosure: I’m not a big fan of political fiction, due in part to the fact that it tends to favor plot over characters, and I favor characters over plot. But I’d been wanting to read a Ken Follett book, and this book’s cover demanded my attention.
I’m so glad I didn’t let the genre dissuade me because this is one of the most well plotted, complex, thought-provoking stories I’ve ever read. AND the characters are fully envisioned people. I cared about them, which made this story matter and made my heart break.
I get it now. The rave reviews on anything Ken Follett writes are well deserved. My only complaint here is at my own stupidity for taking so long to jump on the fan bandwagon.
I switched between reading and listening to the audiobook. The narration is truly brilliant. Never features a large cast of characters with a wide span of accents, and the narrator captured their essences and nuances without a hitch. I believed what I was listening to, which made this story even more unnerving.
*Huge thank you to Viking Books for the gorgeous finished copy.*
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Featured New Release — MURDER, SWEET MURDER: A Will Rees Mystery by Eleanor Kuhns
Will Rees accompanies his wife to Boston to help clear her estranged father’s name in this gripping mystery set in the early nineteenth century.
January, 1801. When Lydia’s estranged father is accused of murder, Will Rees escorts her to Boston to uncover the truth. Marcus Farrell is believed to have murdered one of his workers, a boy from Jamaica where he owns a plantation. Marcus swears he’s innocent. However, a scandal has been aroused by his refusal to answer questions and accusations he bribed officials.
As Will and Lydia investigate, Marcus’s brother, Julian, is shot and killed. This time, all fingers point towards James Farrell, Lydia’s brother. Is someone targeting the family? Were the family quarreling over the family businesses and someone lashed out? What’s Marcus hiding and why won’t he accept help?
With the Farrell family falling apart and their reputation in tatters, Will and Lydia must solve the murders soon. But will they succeed before the murderer strikes again?
Genre: Historical Mystery
Published by: Severn House Publishers
Publication Date: February 1st 2022
Number of Pages: 224
ISBN: 0727850091 (ISBN13: 9780727850096)
Series: Will Rees Mysteries #11
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
After regarding Rees for several seconds, Mr Farrell extended his hand. Rees grasped it, painfully conscious of his rough hand, calloused by both farm work and weaving. ‘Please attend me in my office,’ Mr Farrell said. ‘We are expecting a few guests for dinner tonight so we will have little time to talk then.’ Turning, he strode away. Rees started to follow but, realizing that Lydia was not by his side, he turned back. She stood hesitantly by the table, her hands tightly clenched together. Rees glared at Mr Farrell’s back and then, reaching out, he pulled one of her hands through his elbow. Together they followed her father into his office.
As Farrell moved a stack of papers from the center of the desk to one side, Rees looked around. A large globe on a stand stood to the right of Farrell’s desk and one chair had been drawn up to the front. A seating area, with additional chairs, were arranged by the window that looked out upon the front garden. A table in the center held an intricately carved tray with a crystal decanter and several glasses. Shelves of books lined the wall behind and adjacent to the desk, on Rees’s right.
The room was chilly although the fire was burning. Newly laid, it had been lighted, no doubt by some anonymous servant.
Farrell looked up and his eyes rested on Lydia in surprise. Rees felt his wife shrink back, intimidated. He was not going to stand for that. He pulled a chair from the window grouping and placed it in front of the desk. She hesitated for a few seconds and then, lifting her chin defiantly, she sat down. Once she was seated, Rees lowered himself into the opposite chair. After one final dismissive glance at his daughter, Farrell looked at Rees.
‘So, you are a weaver.’
‘That is so,’ Rees said, adding politely, ‘I understand you are a merchant.’
Farrell smiled. ‘I see your wife has told you very little about me or my profession.’ Since responding in the affirmative seemed somehow disloyal to Lydia, Rees said nothing.
Farrell took a box from his desk drawer and opened it to extract a cigar. ‘Would you like a smoke?’
‘No thank you,’ Rees said.
‘Or a glass of rum? Or whiskey if that is your tipple.’ When Rees declined again, Farrell put away the cigars and walked to the fireplace to light a splint. The end of the cigar glowed red and the acrid scent of burning tobacco filled the room. Puffing, Farrell returned to his seat. ‘I suppose one could say I was a merchant. But I do so much more. I own a plantation as well as a fleet of ships that sail between Boston, the West Indies and Africa. In Jamaica they take on sugar and molasses which are returned to Boston. Some of it is transformed into rum in my distillery. I export the liquor overseas, both to England and to Africa where the proceeds are used to purchase slaves.’
Sick to his stomach, Rees glanced at Lydia. She was staring at her hands, her face flaming with shame. Although she had alluded to her father’s profession, she had not told him the half of it. She had not told him of her father’s pride in it. Rees understood why she hadn’t.
‘Most of the slaves are brought to the sugar plantation,’ Farrell continued, seemingly oblivious to his daughter’s distress, ‘but some are sold in the Southern states. And you needn’t look so shocked. Why that upstart Republican with his radical ideas, Mr Jefferson, owns slaves. And he may be the next President. I suppose you voted for him.’
Rees did not respond immediately. Although many of Mr Jefferson’s ideas were appealing, Rees had found in the end that he could not vote for a slave holder. Instead, he had voted for Mr Adams. But that gentleman had not placed; the election was a tie between Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr. Sent to the House for resolution, Jefferson had won by one vote.’ No,’ Rees said carefully, keeping his voice level with an effort, ‘I voted for his opponent.’
‘Well, that makes us kin then. Although you will meet a few slaves here in Boston, in this very house.’ He grinned and Rees thought of Morris and Bridget with their tinted skin. ‘But few, very few. Neither the Africans nor the Spanish Indians adapt well to this northern climate and they quickly die.’ This was said with indifference as though he spoke of a broken chair.
Farrell flicked a glance at his daughter and smiled. With a surge of anger, Rees realized that Farrell fully understood the effect his speech would have on her and was enjoying her misery. Rees gathered himself to rise from his chair. Lydia reached out and grasped his sleeve.
‘This is for Cordy,’ she whispered. Rees sat down again, his body stiff.
‘But you did not come to listen to me natter on about my profession,’ Farrell said, watching the byplay with interest. ‘Shall we discuss that ridiculous murder, the one of which I am accused?’
Rees looked into Lydia’s beseeching eyes and after a few seconds he relaxed into his seat. God forgive him, a part of him hoped Marcus Farrell was guilty.
‘Go on,’ Rees said coldly. Marcus smiled.
‘Permit me to save you both time and effort,’ he said. ‘I did not kill that boy.’
‘Then why do people think you did?’ Rees asked. Puffing furiously, and clearly unwilling to reply, Farrell took a turn around the room.
‘Did you know him?’ Lydia asked, her voice low and clear. ‘This Roark?’
Farrell stood up so abruptly his chair almost tipped over. ‘Yes, I knew him.’ He glanced at Rees. ‘We were seen, Roark and I, arguing down at Long Wharf.’
‘Arguing about what?’ Rees asked.
‘It is not important. He was a nobody.’ Farrell glared at Rees, daring him to persist. Rees waited, never removing his gaze from the other man. Sometimes silence made the best hammer. Finally, Farrell said angrily, ‘He wanted a rise in his wages. I said no. He disagreed. That was all there was to it.’
Rees glanced at Lydia and found her staring at him. He knew, and he suspected she did too, that her father had just lied to them.
***
Excerpt from Murder, Sweet Murder by Eleanor Kuhns. Copyright 2021 by Eleanor Kuhns. Reproduced with permission from Eleanor Kuhns. All rights reserved.
Interview with Eleanor KuhnsWhat was the inspiration behind this story?
When I was researching Death in the Great Dismal, I came across a description of a slave ship. It wasn’t appropriate to that book, or to the one following (Murder on Principle). At the same time, I thought I would address the requests I received from readers who wanted more about Lydia’s background. So I put the two together.
Tell us about your cover art and how it pertains to your story.
The cover art for Murder, Sweet Murder shows a coach and a somewhat more urban setting which is appropriate since the book takes place in Boston.
Of all the books out there, why should readers choose this one?
I write about a period of American History that we do not study in depth and few readers know about. It is after the Revolution. In hindsight, it is easy to see the friction and the conflicts that led to the Civil War.
Is there an underlying theme in your book? If so, tell us about it and why/if it’s important to you.
I include two underlying themes. One is the slave trade, a sad part of our history. I approached it from a different perspective this book, from the perspective of one of the men who imported the slaves.
The second underlying theme was the education of women, as exemplified in Rees’s daughter Jerusha. The education of girls had just recently begun.There were a few schools that taught young women beyond basic reading and writing. To teach, Jerusha has to acquire a better education.
Fiction can often provide powerful life lessons. What message do you hope readers get from your book?
I am particularly interested in family dynamics. Lydia’s family, in modern terms, would be considered dysfunctional. His two eldest children are estranged from Marcus Farrell, and with his intention to marry off his youngest to an older man, Farrell seems ready to push her away as well.
When you first begin writing a new book, is your main focus on the characters or the plot?
Characters, definitely.
Why do you write within your chosen genre?
The history and the technology changes but people stay the same. While it may be improbable for Rees to come across one murder after another, I enjoy showing why the murders happened.
How much research goes into your fiction writing? What is your approach?
I do a quick research first, to make sure my original idea will work, and then I do a deep dive into history, customs, and more.
Is there a time of day or night when you’re most creative?
I write first thing in the morning.
Describe your writing environment.
I always have Weather Channel on. Sadly, I must admit my environment is messy.
Are you a morning or night person?
I am definitely a morning person.
If you won a paid vacation anywhere in the world, where would you go?
Greece. It is on my bucket list.
Would you rather listen to rock or country music?
I love hard rock.
Do you prefer the country or the city?
I prefer the country. I always have a large garden.
Do you play video games?
I love video games. Currently playing the new Horizon, Zero Dawn – Forbidden West.
Do you prefer dogs or cats?
I prefer dogs.
About the Author
Eleanor Kuhns is the 2011 winner of the Mystery Writers of America/Minotaur first mystery novel. Murder, Sweet Murder is the eleventh mystery following the adventures of Rees and his wife. She transitioned to full time writing last year after a successful career spent in library service. Eleanor lives in upstate New York with her husband and dog.
www.Eleanor-Kuhns.com
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April 20, 2022
Spotlight on NOT YOUR CHILD by Lis Angus
When Ottawa psychologist and single mother Susan Koss discovers that a strange man has been following her twelve-year-old daughter Maddy, she fears he’s a predator. But it’s worse than that. The man, Daniel Kazan, believes Maddy is his granddaughter, abducted as a baby, and he’s obsessed with getting her back.
Susan insists on a DNA test to disprove Daniel’s claim, but the result is one she can’t understand or explain: it says she’s not Maddy’s mother.
Then Maddy vanishes. Susan’s convinced Daniel has taken her, but he has an alibi, and two searches of his house turn up nothing. The hunt is on—police are on full mobilization, and Susan fears the worst.
Book Details:Read an excerpt:Genre: Suspense
Published by: The Wild Rose Press
Publication Date: April 18, 2022
Number of Pages: 308
ISBN: 978-1-5092-4118-7
Book Links: Amazon.com (Amazon.ca) | Barnes & Noble | AppleBooks | Goodreads
As I was putting on my coat, the doorbell rang. I looked out the window.
What the hell?
Daniel Kazan stood on my doorstep.
I went cold. How dare he? I flung open the door. “What are you doing here?” I exploded.
Confronting him, I saw that he was a few inches taller than me, and exuded a tense energy that raised my hackles. He raised his hands, palms out, a placating expression on his face. As if he were trying to calm me down or reassure me.
“I just want to talk to Hannah. I came early to catch her, before she leaves for school.”
I squared my shoulders. “Get out of here! You’ve been told to stay away from us!”
His face was in shadow. “I think it’s fair to want to see Hannah. I’ve waited a long time.”
The guy is nuts. “She’s not Hannah—she’s my daughter. Maddy.”
“You’re keeping her from me.” He was leaning toward me, and I had to keep from falling back. I couldn’t let myself seem weak. If he thought he’d intimidated me, what would be his next move?
My heart pounded. My hands were curled tight, my nails biting into my palms. “Damn right I’m keeping her from you. Now get off my porch before I call the police!”
What if he wouldn’t leave? I should call for help—but my phone was inside, and I didn’t want to leave him on the porch unattended.
***
Excerpt from Not Your Child by Lis Angus. Copyright 2022 by Lis Angus. Reproduced with permission from Lis Angus. All rights reserved.
My ThoughtsNot Your Child gives us an interesting twist on DNA’s use in criminal investigations and familial connections.
This is a quick read that focuses on a mother’s fears and a father’s grief, and what happens when the two collide.
I suggest going into this one blind because the current synopsis gives away a little too much of the plot.
Lis Angus is a Canadian suspense writer. Early in her career, she worked with children and families in crisis; later she worked as a policy advisor, business writer and editor while raising two daughters. She now lives south of Ottawa with her husband.
LisAngus.com
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Instagram – lisangus459
Twitter – @lisangus1
Facebook – @lisangusauthor
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April 19, 2022
Book Review — THE URSULINA by Brian Freeman
In this gripping prequel to his Edgar Award finalist and New York Times bestseller The Deep, Deep Snow, Brian Freeman takes us on Rebecca’s dark journey to reveal the truth about the Ursulina … a journey that ultimately leads to an excruciating choice that will change her life forever.
The mythical beast goes by many names. Bigfoot. Sasquatch. Yeti.
In Black Wolf County, he’s called … the Ursulina.
But to Deputy Rebecca Colder, the beast is no myth. A serial killer has taken on the identity of the monster — and with each body left behind, there’s a chilling message written in blood: I am the Ursulina.
Published: February 2022
My ThoughtsDon’t waste your time here with me. Go read this book IMMEDIATELY!
Still here? Well, fine, then. I’ll tell you some stuff.
Writing: Freaking perfection. Truly. No wasted words. Just enough detail. Plunked me in the story and left me there, where I remained until the end, the story becoming my reality.
Characters: Complex, walk-off-the-page real people. I loved many. I hated a couple. They stirred all my emotions in a huge boiling cauldron.
Plot: Evenly paced, dark, gritty, surprising, twisty, tug-at-your-heartstrings suspense full of layers that flowed perfectly together while tying me in knots.
Convinced? I hope you’ve already clicked the Buy button somewhere.
The Ursulina is listed as the second Shelby Lake novel, but technically it’s the prequel to The Deep, Deep Snow, which I haven’t yet read. In fact, I’d planned to borrow the ebook from Scribd, but no, I NEED these books on my shelves, where I can admire them. So I took my own advice and pressed the BUY button.
*Enormous thank you to Blackstone Publishing for the free copy, and to Brian Freeman for sharing his gift of storytelling.*
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April 18, 2022
Book Review — THE SWEET GOODBYE: A Danny Barrett Thriller by Ron Corbett
In this thrilling new series from Edgar®-nominated author Ron Corbett, the most dangerous predator in the Maine wilderness walks on two feet—and it is Danny Barrett’s job to bring him down.
Something is not right in the North Maine Woods.
A small family-run lumber company should not have more than two hundred million unaccountable dollars on their books. Money like that comes from moving something other than wood across the border.
The first agent the FBI sent undercover was their best man—sure to get the answers that were needed. He was dead within a month.
Release Date: April 19, 2022
My ThoughtsI have mixed feelings about The Sweet Goodbye, which is the first book in the new Danny Barrett series.
Barrett’s character is interesting. He’s a little dark and brooding, a little edgy, a little dangerous. But he also has that inner nice guy thing going on. I enjoyed spending time with him.
The setting is well done, placing us in dense Maine woods that manage to be both claustrophobic and expansive.
The plot felt scattered to me, especially early on. It took me a while to settle into the story.
Pacing is slow. While this is being marketed as a thriller series, it reads more like police procedural/crime fiction.
Overall, The Sweet Goodbye was a good but largely forgettable read for me.
*I received an eARC from Berkley Publishing, via NetGalley.*
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